Chase Me If You Can(103)
Lana only laughs and tosses a towel at me. “Tyler, if I had a brick for every client who says that, I’d be building myself a mansion twice the size of this place.”
“That’s not saying much.” I mop sweat off my face and jerk my head toward the rest of the house. It’s up in the Hollywood Hills, which is admittedly sweet real estate. It also means that the house is crammed into a narrow warren of a neighborhood and comes with an eye-watering price per square foot for what would be a normal house just about anywhere else in the country.
Can’t beat the view, though.
“Yeah, yeah. For a bunch of tough guys, y’all whine a lot.” Lana laughs at my predictable scowl and bends to grab a water bottle from the mini fridge tucked into a corner of the tiny gym. “Serena never complains like you boys.”
I let out a snort of laughter but gladly take the water. “Serena has turned complaining into an art, so I’m calling bullshit on that one.”
Then again, if the rumors are to be believed, Lana and my costar aren’t keeping things entirely professional.
“Yeah, maybe,” Lana says. The hint of pink rising into her cheeks is rather suspect given I keep the temperature in here as low as the air-conditioning will go. “I left one of those protein shakes you like in your fridge. Make sure you get at least—”
“Lana.” I shake my head, then cover my annoyance with an easy grin. “We’ve been at this for two years. I know the routine.”
She holds up her palms with an apologetic smile. “Okay, okay. Just doing my job.” Her eyes sweep over me clinically, an artist evaluating her work. “Tomorrow is biceps and back. Drink plenty of water!” she calls back over her shoulder as she heads for the door.
I let out a loud groan as soon as it shuts and force my heavy legs to move. A couple of slow, easy laps in the cold pool will help to stretch the muscles. I just need to drag myself to it.
Scrolling notifications as I move through the house, I flip by most of them. Reminders about meetings, three different questions from my publicist, a handful of texts from the assistant I begrudgingly hired last year, and a link to a social media post from one of my friends with the text Isn’t this that weather girl you pissed off?
Pretty sure that’s just her natural state, I text back before clicking the link. I’d prefer to forget the whole interaction with Haley Morgan, but Gabe finds the situation hilarious in the way only someone who’s known you your entire life can. Despite the whole thing going down two years ago when my casting in On Air was first announced, he’s determined not to let me forget about my awkward run-in with the woman and periodically sends me posts about her. Last time it was a compilation of various poses from a promo shoot with her wearing a hot pink skirt and looking like a smoke show. The time before that was a video of her very patiently explaining an atmosphere (atmospheric?) river, not that I remember much beyond it making sense at the time.
I told Gabe he was welcome to try shooting his shot and see if he fared any better.
The post he sent today is several slides long. Rumors swirl over abrupt departure of Good Morning LA meteorologist reads the first slide, a screenshot of an article from a local news site. The next is a video that starts playing automatically. Haley’s face fills the square, her expression tight and far more like the woman who berated me than the usual perky show she puts on every morning. By the time I get my volume turned up, all I catch is “I quit.”
“Whoa,” I mutter under my breath before restarting the video. Quitting on a live show is ballsy, but when I play the whole thing back, the cold fury in her voice can’t be missed. I want to roll my eyes at her declaration that she’s no one’s weather girl—she took major offense to being called a weather girl when we met too—but there’s that emphasis on no one’s that stops me. Haley Morgan is an ice queen, sure, but she’s never struck me as stupid. I talked to her for less than five minutes. It was clear from that limited interaction that she’s likely one of the smartest women in this town.
Quitting your job live on the air, while under contract, isn’t something anyone does over nothing. Especially not in an industry where everyone knows everyone and pissing off the wrong network can mean never working again.
Wild, I text back to Gabe. Wonder what set her off.
I’m fishing. Gabe and I grew up together in San Diego. When his career took off, he gave me a job running his social media accounts. Not the usual path to acting, but thanks to good ol’-fashioned Hollywood nepotism, his agent convinced a colleague to take me on. All these years later, both of our careers are thriving—but Gabe remains more plugged into whisper networks than I’ll ever be. Probably because he actually likes the networking and socializing that comes with making a living as an artist.
I wait another minute, sipping deliciously cold water in the shade of the house, but Gabe doesn’t reply. Considering he’s supposed to be getting ready for his show in London tonight, that’s probably for the best. I’ll get whatever I can out of him later.
Stripping off my shirt, I toss it onto a lounge chair and drop my phone on top of it. I only make it two steps closer to the pool before the screen lights up again with a call. I frown at the name, not sure why my assistant is calling when none of her texts were urgent, but these are the only ten minutes I have to myself today. Shrugging off Emma’s call, I dive into the pool.