“But how did he know? How did you get here so fast? This all just happened.”
“I called Chase as soon as I found out about the fire,” Daisy says. “He called Ryder and arranged everything.”
“I’ve never heard Chase so freaked out,” Ryder says to me gently. “He wanted to be here himself, but he’s catching the first flight out.”
Butterflies invade my stomach at the thought of seeing Chase again. And staying at his place, seeing him in a Malibu mansion, in his own glamorous world. I try not to think about what it might mean that Chase is worried about me. I imagine he feels guilty if he thinks the fire could be linked to one of his fans.
Boring reality intrudes. “But what about our jobs? I can’t leave Audrey with no notice. And you’ve got your shop. I also need to be here to sort out my house.” I swallow down a hot lump of what could be tears at the last thought. Rock gods and movie stars aside, how can I leave my house and belongings in this condition?
“I’ve already called Audrey. She can cover your shifts, and she said to take all the time you need. Don’t worry about your house either. Chase is sending his old assistant down to sort everything out. He’ll need a key to your place, and you’ll need to coordinate with the authorities by phone, but you don’t have to be in San Francisco. Chase is worried about you, and so am I. Plus, you deserve a holiday. Ryder—rich, famous, hot Ryder…” She turns to him. “Sorry for objectifying you.” She grins at him.
“Not a problem,” he responds, taking another sip of his questionable water-vodka.
“Anyway, Ryder is offering to whisk us away in his label’s private plane to romp around a Malibu mansion with three famous dudes, including your crush, Chase, who we all know you’re hot for because we’ve got photographic evidence. And you’re arguing about it? Really, Olivia, I didn’t think you were this dumb.”
Daisy has a valid point. Plus, I’m way too tired to argue.
“You’re right.” I shrug. “Thanks, Ryder. I accept your offer to rescue us.”
“About fucking time,” Daisy mutters. Then she hops up and takes my hand. “So, now that we’ve got introductions and explanations out of the way, we’ll pack.”
I head to Daisy’s room to pack my nonexistent wardrobe.
This is turning into the summer of risk, after all. Scandals, fire, and a possible death threat. I’m not sure that’s exactly what Nanna had in mind.
I don’t recognize myself or my life anymore.
I’ve been in Malibu a little over twenty-four hours, and I’m lounging by a turquoise pool in a cute retro swimsuit and glamour-girl cover-up, with my laptop balancing on my lap and editing my fourth novel—for the fortieth time.
I never actually consider a manuscript finished enough to send out to agents or publishers. I just edit them incessantly until I can’t stand to look at them, and then they go into my computer’s folder of death named Old Novels, and then I start work on the next one. It may be why I’m not making headway on my dream career as author. Just a guess.
A team of professionals already came by the house to give Daisy and me a massage, pedicure, and blowout, all courtesy of Sebastian and Chase’s fabulous assistant, Emma, who is a magical fairy godmother in pint-size Southern ballbuster form.
When we arrived yesterday in the early hours of the morning, Emma already knew about the fire and my lack of wardrobe. I inquired about the local Target, but Emma just laughed as if I’d made a hysterical joke, and an array of summer styles in my size arrived at the mansion. When I argued with Emma about accepting what must have cost a fortune, she rolled her eyes at me and said Chase would want to spoil us. In the end, there wasn’t much I could do. All my clothes were back in my charred house. And, apparently, Chase gave strict instructions that we weren’t to leave the estate. He’s that worried about the threatening note and fire.
With time and distance, I begin to feel like we’re overreacting. Surely this is all an awful coincidence. The note, while concerning, is probably an overzealous fan, and the fire could be the result of old wiring and nothing more.
But here I am, feeling like an extra on the set of Mad Men during its LA season. Nanna and I loved Mad Men.
Daisy rolls over. “I’m bored,” she complains.
“Then do something,” I say, reaching to take a sip of iced coffee through a straw, the ice having long since melted in the heat. Condensation pools on the glass, and I have to wipe my hands before I go back to typing on my keyboard.