Chase Me If You Can(104)
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I allow myself to linger in the pool for an extra five minutes and then race through a shower. Somehow in the combined twenty minutes, my phone notifications accumulate faster than the paparazzi answering a tip call—and those assholes are fast.
I don’t have time to call Emma back before my first appointment, a strategy session with my manager. That runs long, which means I don’t get to her until after the podcast interview taping.
“Finally,” she says with all the talent of a woman capable of turning a single word into a lecture. In the hierarchy of Hollywood, I vastly outrank my own damn assistant, but Emma is the studio head’s granddaughter, and therefore untouchable. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for hours.”
“I’ve been on calls. What’s up?”
If she’s offended by my brusqueness, she at least manages to hide that. “I found a replacement for Dr. Hunt. You’ll need to go meet her tonight to sign off on it, but she—”
“What replacement?” I stop halfway between my home office and kitchen and resist the urge to add what the fuck. Dr. Hunt is the scientist I handpicked to teach me about storm chasing for my character’s arc next season. I had to fight like hell with the studio to get it approved, between the month out of LA and the insurance liability—the fact that Dr. Hunt is considered one of the foremost experts on tornadoes and the storms that make them happen was a big part of how I got it all green-lit. In fact, it was heavily implied that the only reason it got green-lit was due to Dr. Hunt’s involvement.
I’ve been looking forward to this for months for more reasons than I’m ever going to get into with Emma. My stomach roils at the thought of the whole thing getting called off, but more than that, I’m irritated to only be finding out now that Dr. Hunt is being replaced.
It’s not the first time I’ve been the last to know about something that directly impacts me.
“Oh, no one filled you in? Her kid broke her leg. But one of her previous students is available. I already cleared it with everyone,” Emma says smoothly, a good reminder for my less-than-charitable thoughts. She’s a nepo baby through and through, but she’s also great at what she does. “Anyway, she said if she could have picked anyone, this is who she’d send in her place.”
“High praise.” I run a hand through my hair before yanking open the fridge to grab the protein shake Lana left. “Who is it?”
“I want you to keep an open mind,” Emma says, which isn’t an answer. “She’ll be at Cuppa at eight tonight. We need a decision fast if we need to keep looking.”
“If you tell me who—”
“Cuppa. Eight. Gotta go,” Emma trills into the phone before unceremoniously hanging up.
Scowling at my now-dark phone screen, I don’t bother trying to call her back. I don’t have nearly the power you’d think I would despite being number two on the call sheet for a megahit show—even over my own assistant. If Emma wants me to walk into this meeting cold, that’s what’s going to happen.
So despite not particularly wanting to drag myself out of the house after a long day, I make the short drive down to the coffee shop I’ve frequented since moving into the Hills. It’s far enough out of the way of the usual tourist spots that anyone who recognizes me is likely someone else in the industry. The locals and the staff are used to me by now.
Given my friendship with paparazzi-bait Gabe, it’s little surprise that people like to run their mouths about my big party lifestyle. The truth is that I barely manage to stifle a yawn as I step into the cafe just before eight. The sun hasn’t even been down a full hour, twilight lingering in shades of blue above, but I could easily crash now.
After ordering myself an iced tea and a couple of cookies as a consolation prize for a long-ass day, I slip into a booth tucked into the back and check my phone. There’s another text from Emma wanting to know if I’ve made it here.
Yes, I type back. Now will you tell me who I’m meeting?
Blonde, early 30s. You can’t miss her.
I scowl at the screen. I can begrudgingly admit that despite being cornered into hiring Emma, she’s usually pretty helpful. And yet tonight, for reasons of her own, she’s decided to screw with me.
I’d bail on the whole thing if it wasn’t for the fact that without a meteorologist, the trip doesn’t happen. The insurance company won’t let me try to chase a tornado on my own, and even if they did, I don’t know what I’m doing. People gossip about Gabe and I barely having two brain cells between us, but contrary to public opinion, I do know the difference between satisfying my curiosity and getting myself killed.
Emma, on the other hand, might have lost her mind. She’s right—I can’t miss the blonde woman who walks through the door a few minutes later, her brows slanting down and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen her, dark jeans that show off her ass and a loose sweater that dips in the front. She’s shorter than I remember, but she’s also in sandals instead of the deadly heels she had on the last time I saw her.
My thumbs fly over my phone. You can’t be serious.
She’s got the qualifications, Emma replies instantly. If you really can’t work with her, we can try to find someone else.