Elle
As far as break-ups go, it was pretty anti-climactic.
No screaming.
No crying.
No throwing personal belongings out the window.
No shocking confessions.
Well—maybe one, but to tell the truth, it wasn’t all that shocking.
Look, Elle—I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore.
I wish I could say I’m surprised. That I’d been blindsided. That I never saw it coming but the truth is, it’s been brewing for a while, for both of us.
We’ve been playing relationship chicken for months now and Derek finally blinked.
I guess that means I won.
“Are you going to cry?”
I look up from my drink and give my bestie a glare. “What?” I shake my head at her, half amused, half annoyed. “What’s to cry about?”
“I dunno…” Dani swirls the cherry in her glass through a deep puddle of booze before pulling it out and popping it in her mouth. “Maybe the fact that your boyfriend of five years just dumped you.”
“It was mutual.” God knows I love her, but annoyance is winning out over amusement. “It was a mutual dumping.”
“Uh huh.” She rolls the fruit from one cheek to the other, biting into mid-roll. “A week ago, you said he was the perfect guy. Mr. Right.”
She’s right. I did say that and it’s true.
Derek is Mr. Right.
Tall and good-looking.
College educated and intelligent.
Gainfully employed and emotionally stable.
My parents adored him.
My cat tolerated him.
What more could I possibly be looking for?
“He is Mr. Right,” I give my own drink a stir to wake up some of the whiskey resting on the bottom of my glass. “He’s just not Mr. Right for Me.” Lifting my glass, I drain it. “I don’t want to talk about Derek anymore.” I lean out of the booth to signal our waitress. “How’s work?”
“I’m a secondary character on a cheesy soap.” She shrugs. Six months ago, the part was her big break. Demi Moore started out on a soap, you know? Now, the part of a lifetime barely warrants more than a shrug. “I’d rather talk about your big break.”
“It’s a tutoring job,” I remind her. Catching the waitress’s eye, I lift my glass and smile. She pretends she doesn’t see me. Probably because my jeans didn’t cost as much as a used car and my sweater is from Target. “And I haven’t even started yet.” Last week, I was a newly minted college graduate with a plan:
- Move with Derek to New York.
- Get teaching job at uppity private school.
- Patiently wait for Derek to ask me to marry him.
When he said Elle, we need to talk, I was sure the proposal was coming ahead of schedule. Seventy-two hours later I was packing everything I own into the trunk of my car, including my cat, and heading west.
“No.” She sets her glass down and shakes her head at me like I just said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard. “You’re a private tutor for Landon Trask’s daughter.” She leans forward, her perfect dark brows lowering over brilliant blue eyes. “Landon. Trask.” Her voice is raised enough so that more than a few people at nearby tables glance in our direction.
“Can you keep your voice down?” I scowl at her. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement. I could get sued for just telling her I work for him.
“Sorry.” Her tone says she’s not really all that sorry. “But seriously—holy shit, Elle. Landon motherfucking Trask,” she says in a stage whisper. “How does this shit happen to you?”
Objectively, I understand why she’s flipping out. Landon Trask is at the top of Hollywood’s A-list. America’s favorite leading man. He’s juggling three major movie franchises and with over six-billion box office dollars under his belt, he’s the highest-grossing actor in Hollywood. It’s even rumored that he’s in the running to be the next Marvel superhero.
His perfect, boy-next-door good looks and matching Oscars are only rivaled by his very public and very tragic personal life. He fell in love with his wife in high school and when Hollywood came calling, instead of leaving her behind, he took her with him.
Their life was like a fairytale. Insanely in love. Hopelessly devoted. She was eight-months pregnant when she and Landon were in a head-on collision, trying to get away from paparazzi. Landon and the baby survived. She lived just long enough to see their daughter born before dying.
Ever since, Landon’s been obsessed with his daughter’s privacy. Which is why he made me sign a confidentiality agreement the size of a telephone book. If I so much as say her name in public, he can sue me.
And he made it very clear that he will, if I break the rules.
Spotting our waitress again, I try to wave her over, but she turns her head before I can lift my hand. I really, really hate LA. “I went to one of my professors and asked for a letter of recommendation.” I’ve told her this story no less than a hundred times in the past forty-eight hours. “She went to high school with Mr. Trask and kept in touch with him over the years. She knew he was looking for someone to tutor his daughter for the summer and thought I’d be perfect for the job.” I’d told her thanks but no thanks because New York with Derek was the plan. Twelve hours later, my plans changed—as in I didn’t have a plan.
For the first time in my life, I had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. I grabbed onto this job for Landon Trask out of sheer desperation, telling myself it would be perfect. Three months in the California sunshine. Dani and the beach on my days off. Room and board. An obscene amount of money. At the end of it all, I could go anywhere and have enough money to keep me comfortable while I figured out my next move.
“I totally hate you,” Dani sighs, leaning her chin on her hand before propping her elbow on the table. “What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. We Skyped three times, Dan.” I don’t want to tell her that he was cold. Intimidating. Nothing like I thought he’d be. The waitress flounces past me on her way to the bar without so much as a be right back. “Where the hell did you bring me?”
“I dunno.” Dani looks around and shrugs. “A bar. Someone on set mentioned it and I thought we should check it out.”
That’s Dani code for I heard famous people hang out here and I wanted to network.
“And don’t change the subject,” she says, narrowing her gaze at me. “Three Skype sessions with Lan—you know who is exactly three more than I’ve had, so spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I hiss at her before smiling at the waitress as she flounces by again. She doesn’t even look at me. She’s actively avoiding me. “We talked about—” I catch myself before I say her name out loud. “—his daughter. My qualifications. What he expects of me. Normal job interview stuff.”
“You have to fuck him.” Dani shrugs like it’s the only viable solution for what no one sees as a problem by her.
“Uhhh, no.” I shake my head.
“Why?” Now she’s looking at me like she might need a translator.
“I don’t know—” I sit back in my seat and shrug. “Because he’s my boss.”
“Well…” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “You have to fuck someone.”
“Did someone roofie you?” I look at her empty glass, letting out a loud bark of laughter that draws more attention than I’m comfortable with.
“I’m completely serious,” she says with a straight face. “How long has it been since you and Douchewad Derek banged?” She holds up a manicured finger to stop me when I open my mouth to answer her. “I mean really banged,” she qualifies. “Toe-curling, headboard knocking, tectonic plate shifting, oh-my-god-I-think-my-grandma-in-DeMoines-felt-that-orgasm banging.”
“My grandma lives in Decatur.”
“Elle.”
“I don’t know.” I’m suddenly irritable. Derek and I never banged. We had nice, well-mannered intercourse at an appropriate volume. My toes never curled. No headboards were knocked. My grandmother never complained about hot flashes. “Awhile.” It’s been ten months. I chalked it up to last semester stress. We were both busy. Worried about the future. The truth was, we got bored with each other. Easy to do when your sexual partner insists on keeping her shirt on and his idea of setting the mood is muting the television.
God, my life is sad.
“Fine, if not your new boss, then just pick someone.” She waves her hand like we’re in the Dick Department in Target.
I bobble my head. “Pick someone?” I look around the bar and instantly feel intimidated. Everyone in this place is gorgeous. Even our bitchy waitress looks like a supermodel. “Oh, okay, I’ll just pick someone.” Dani crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head at me. Oh, she’s serious. “Do I need to call Poison Control?”
“You’re single.” She holds up a finger like she’s giving closing arguments in a capital murder case. “You’re hot—despite the unfortunate soccer mom get-up.” She holds up another finger and points it at me when I open my mouth to defend my outfit. “You’re twenty-three years old and have an amazing rack that you insist on covering up with a Mr. Rodgers sweater. There’s no excuse for that, Elle—no wonder you’ve been in LA for whole three days and have yet to touch a penis.”
“Maybe I don’t want to touch a penis.” Shit, I said that waaay to loud. Now people are definitely looking at me. “You’re completely out of control.” I give up on the waitress and slide out of our booth. “And possibly drugged.”
“Where are you going?” She looks around, probably hoping to see some poor defenseless man to pounce on.
“To the bar.” I say it loud enough that our negligent waitress hears me a few tables over. “To get a drink.”