The Rom-Commers(8)

Our specialty was getting double free birthday desserts at restaurants.

Logan’s family moved away after high school when his dad got an anchor job on the national nightly news—that’s right: Logan’s dad is Malcolm Scott—and Logan went on to graduate from Stanford and then seamlessly transition into a wildly successful career.

He didn’t have to stay in touch with me, is what I’m saying. Me, stuck at home and not transitioning into a wildly successful anything.

But he did.

And, now, having not seen him in person since the night before he left for his freshman year of college—when he broke up with me, claiming, and I quote, “We both need some freedom”—I suddenly felt nervous.

He’d lived a whole lifetime since then—most notably, coming out in college, and calling me proudly to declare that I was the last girl he would ever date.

“I’m honored,” I said.

“Right? Exactly. No woman will ever replace you.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what Logan’s life was like these days, but I assumed it was full of awesome parties and awesome food and awesome people. So I was highly surprised when a decidedly not awesome guy named T.J. called on speaker before we’d even left the airport grounds.

“Lo! Gan!” This guy T.J.’s voice boomed, seeming to rattle the interior of the car. “What’s up? Did you pick up that girl?”

“I have her here.”

“Don’t tell her she’s a career-killer,” T.J. said.

I frowned at Logan.

“T.J.,” Logan said, “you’re on speaker.”

“I am?” A pause. “That’s fine. I’ll own it. The last thing the great Charlie Yates needs to do right now is to siphon off all his testosterone and write lady movies with the girls.”

Logan poked at the controls on his dash and said, “You know what? I’ll call you back.”

But before he could hang up, T.J. added, “And by the way, this job should have gone to someone who’s actually had some work produced.”

“Bad connection!” Logan said, as he hit END.

Then a long silence as the seams in the concrete moved rhythmically under the tires.

Finally, I said, “That felt a little hostile.”

“He’s not even supposed to know about you. But my assistant has a thing for him.”

“A screenwriter, I presume?”

Logan nodded. “He wrote and directed Beer Tower. And Beer Tower II: The Reckoning.”

I’d never heard of either of those movies.

“They were huge on YouTube,” Logan said.

“Were they … good?”

“Hell, no!” Logan said. “But he synthesized a ton of horizontal integration. The sponsorship from Solo Cups alone put it in the black.”

“How have I never heard of this movie?”

“You’re not exactly the target audience.”

“Did he want the Charlie Yates job for himself?” I asked.

“Can you blame him?”

“He just seemed douchey.”

“He’s not used to not getting things.”

“Why is that again?” I asked.

“Because he’s third-generation Hollywood royalty. And he’s ridiculously well-connected. And Beer Tower made ten million dollars—before Beer Tower II made twenty.”

“And he just randomly calls you?”

“He’s just one of those people who’s everywhere.”

Logan was acting cool, but it was a strange welcome to LA. I’d barely left the airport and I already had an enemy.

Another little pause before Logan said, “You’ll never see him. Charlie can’t stand that guy. He’s a total dude-bro.”

“But he’s your client?”

“He’s everything that’s wrong with the world,” Logan said. “But, yes. He’s my client.”



* * *



BIT OF A rocky start there.

But here was the bigger, more important picture: I had a job working for Charlie Yates—whether dude-bro T.J. liked it or not—and I was absolutely, undeniably on my way to Charlie Yates’s house right now.

I’d never thought of Charlie Yates as even having a house before. I assumed he just lived in some kind of ethereal writing-god plane.

“It’s not exactly a house,” Logan said. “More like a mansion. The exterior was featured in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

Why did that make it scarier?

“Maybe we should stop by the hotel first,” I said.

“What hotel?”

“Am I not staying in a hotel?”

“Can you afford to stay in a hotel for six weeks?”

Wow. I clearly hadn’t thought this through. “Am I staying at your place, then?”

Logan burst out laughing at that and then explained his husband, Nico, ran his own knitting-classes-to-the-stars micro-empire called Knit & Bitch out of the guest room in their multimillion-dollar cottage in Santa Monica … and had filled all available space in their home with yarn.

Guess not.

“Where will I be staying, then?”

Logan shrugged. “With Charlie.”

Like a reflex: “Charlie who?”