Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 263(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. I did know. Unless you were a powerful industry player, rumors were as bad as the truth. Worse, in some ways. They had a life of their own. They grew roots and spread like weeds. You could mow them down, but they’d always sneak their way back up.
“Are you ready to shut them up?” Noemi asked next.
“I’ve been ready, but I don’t know how.” I tried not to sound exasperated, but it was hard. Did Noemi think I wanted these rumors? Didn’t she know that I’d put a stop to them if I could?
“I know how. Have you heard of Garrett Thompson?”
Of course I had heard of her ex-husband, the bestselling author and top crisis manager in town. Not only had I heard of him, I had a vague recollection of him. Noemi and I had shot Sisters when I was twelve and she was twenty-seven. A tall guy with russet brown hair and eyes that were the exact same color as the amber stones in my rock collection walked out of her trailer just as I was approaching. I was in my new age phase then, wearing a rose quartz necklace that was supposed to keep me from getting stressed even when the director was yelling in my face.
“Nice necklace, kid,” the tall guy with amber eyes said, jogging down the aluminum steps.
That was it. That was our one interaction. But over the years, he’d developed a reputation as a fixer. Get caught canoodling with the nanny while your wife is pregnant? Call Garrett. Total your car while blind drunk but don’t want to get dropped from your latest movie? Call Garrett.
“Destiny,” Noemi said impatiently, and I realized she’d said my name more than once.
“Sorry, yes. Garrett Thompson. Your ex-husband. He visited you on set the day we shot the stadium scene in Sisters.”
“The one and only. He’s going to help you.”
I wrinkled my nose. I had no doubt that the nice necklace, kid guy could save my career, but I couldn’t afford him. Not unless we sold the house my mom was living in or the apartment I was currently sitting in. We were already talking about one or the other, but still, a crisis manager wasn’t in the budget. “I’ll be fine, Noemi. Thanks, though.”
“You will not be fine,” she said sternly. Noemi was never one to sugarcoat. “You’ve already put a target on your back by hanging out with The Socialite Squad. The media had something to aim for, and now they have something to throw. You need someone to deflect.”
I had a very bad feeling Noemi was right, but I still couldn’t hire Garrett Thompson. Maybe I could look into a less expensive crisis manager, though. I tried to tell her I’d think about it, but she refused to get off the phone until I agreed to meet her for lunch on Tuesday.
I gave in because I missed her. I’d gotten over being mad at her for giving me the tough love she thought I deserved a while ago, but it’s hard to break through the silence after a while. It gathers weight, force. If nothing else, at least this stupid yacht girl story had made her call me.
And besides, I could use the free lunch.
I took forever to get ready on Tuesday. Noemi was always impossibly glamorous. Chic even in jeans and a t-shirt. She hated fast fashion and only bought from sustainable companies that did things like reclaim plastic and use organic, fairtrade cotton. I found the Sustain shirt she’d bought me for my twenty-second birthday. Apparently, it was hand-dyed using avocado skins. I hoped it would distract her from my jeans that definitely had not been made from anything reclaimed or organic but made me feel cute.
Trivial, but when there was an absolute guarantee that someone would snap your picture and slap it under a headline that questions whether you’re selling your body for money, you at least want the body in question to look good.
Noemi mostly stuck to places on the outskirts of town that had private back rooms or VIP-only rooftop patios. It was a beautiful, cloudless September day. The heat had a lightweight texture, comforting instead of suffocating. I wasn’t surprised when I got to the restaurant and found she’d chosen the rooftop patio.
I was surprised to see she wasn’t alone, though.
Looking exactly as I remembered him, Garrett Thompson stood up from his chair when he saw me emerge from the stairwell. The same russet brown hair, the color of a fox pelt. The same easy grin and amber eyes. The same air of effortless and unquestioning confidence that I supposed came with standing head and shoulders over most people around you.
“Hi, kid,” he said as he pulled out my chair before the host could reach it.