The Rom-Commers(37)

“I feel feelings,” Charlie said.

“Great,” I said. “Then this’ll be easy.”

In the end, Charlie agreed to all my demands—except for one. One that seemed like such a no-brainer I threw it in only at the end.

“And we have to change the title,” I said.

But that was where he drew his line.

“No can do,” Charlie said. “The title stays. That’s the mistress’s one requirement.”

I didn’t fight him. For now.

Logan had his lawyer draw up a simple, pretty standard contract—one that just basically said all I had to do was turn in a “finished work.” It didn’t have to be good—it just had to be finished.

“What happens if we don’t finish?” I asked Logan.

“If you don’t finish for any reason—if you leave, or he fires you—then it’s a breach of contract.”

“And I don’t get paid?”

“And you don’t get paid.”

“That seems extreme. Given that he doesn’t even want me here.”

“It’s pretty standard, honestly. What’s extreme is Charlie.”

“So I don’t get paid until we’re finished—and if we don’t finish, I don’t get paid at all.”

Logan nodded. “Pretty simple.”

“Simple?” I asked.

“Not easy, but simple,” Logan said, with a shrug. “Just don’t break the contract.”

I wouldn’t be breaking it, that was for sure.

We had six weeks to write this thing. Could I not get fired for six weeks?

We were about to find out.



* * *



THAT NIGHT, I should have slept peacefully, nestled under Charlie’s ex-wife’s decorator’s million-thread-count bedsheets in his palatial guest quarters, with the new plan negotiated to my satisfaction.

But instead I woke up at two A.M.—shaken awake by my mattress.

Was it an earthquake? That was a thing in LA, wasn’t it? But what did you do in an earthquake? Get away from the windows? Hide in a doorway? Run outside—flapping your arms like a flightless bird?

I had no idea.

I pulled on my cotton printed robe over my T-shirt-and-yoga-pants PJs—stopping for some flip-flops in case we had to dash to safety—and stumbled at top speed toward Charlie’s wing of the house to wake him up and ask him.

But halfway there, in the dining room, there was Charlie. Awake. Working, from the looks of it. Not panicked at all—until he saw me, and then he closed his laptop a little too fast.

Okay. That got my attention.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Charlie said.

“Your vibe is suspicious,” I said.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked then, bringing me back to the earthquake.

What was I doing? “I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Are we—having an earthquake?”

“Having an earthquake?” Charlie echoed.

I looked around. “I woke up, and everything was … shaking.”

But Charlie frowned. “No earthquake,” he said.

“No earthquake at all?” Maybe he was just used to them?

Charlie shook his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

How mortifying. “Got it,” I said, pointing at him like I was in on the joke. Though what that joke might be, I had no idea.

At that moment, I caught my reflection in the dark window—totally disheveled, robe askew, hair untied and undulating wild like some kind of angry jellyfish. My flip-flops, I now realized, were on the wrong feet.

“Maybe you dreamed it?” Charlie asked then.

We could go with that. “Sure,” I said. “Maybe.”

But that’s when I heard a little trilling sound and looked down to notice for the first time a barn-shaped plush object sitting on the table next to Charlie’s laptop.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“What’s what?” Charlie asked.

But I was walking closer now, following the trilling sound. And as I made it around to the barn doors, I saw a creature just inside. Looking out at me. A fuzzy little fluffball.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s a guinea pig,” Charlie said, like Of course.

But I wasn’t sure. “Is it?”

My cousin had a guinea pig when we were growing up. This critter looked … different. And by different, I mean it looked like a dust mop. White and yellow with fur sprouting up and billowing down past its paws. Mostly fur, in fact. With two glossy brown eyes.

I stared at it.

“He’s a Peruvian long-hair,” Charlie said. “His name is Cuthbert.”

“Is he yours?” I asked, in a baffled tone that might also have been saying, What is an adult man doing with a pet guinea pig named Cuthbert?

“Kind of,” Charlie said. “Not really. Not anymore. He’s my wife’s. Ex-wife’s. She rescued him and his brother back when we were still married—kind of without asking me. Then she took them when she moved out. Though we technically have joint custody.”

I looked back and forth between Charlie and the guinea pig. “Has he been here this whole time?”