CHAPTER TWO
Four days earlier
The clouds, a dull gray swirl, twisted and roiled over Cat’s head as she marched down Broadway. Both the hurricane above and the woman below moved with purpose. The heels of her fawn colored boots clicked out a staccato rhythm on the cement as leaves and the occasional Manhattan debris darted in front of her on the wind.
“I’m not going to be late,” she sighed into her phone and quickened her pace.
“You already are,” her assistant, the very adorable and very British Henry, answered in his clipped accent.
“Five minutes,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes behind her oversized sunglasses. “That’s on time for me.” She was perpetually ten minutes late to everything. It wasn’t because she enjoyed making people wait or even that she liked to make an entrance—though she did—it was that a bit of fame overcomplicated everything. Leaving events and appointments was never as quick as it used to be. TV stars couldn’t just wave good-bye and duck into a car. There was small talk and photos and the occasional autograph.
She was still getting used to it, though she was certainly better suited to it than her twin brother. Gannon couldn’t stand the fuss and hadn’t looked back after leaving the “biz” a year ago. But Cat loved it, thrived on it.
She was officially the highest paid star on the Reno and Realty Network, counting both those with vaginas and penises. Her new show was the network’s version of a blockbuster. The second season was in post-production, and she had her fingers in a few side projects and endorsement deals to keep her busy between filming. Life was pretty freaking perfect.
“How did the branding meeting go?” Henry asked, all efficiency. She could practically hear his fingers hovering over his ever-present iPad keyboard.
“Duluth wants to expand the line. We’re looking at bringing in a few more feminine colors, and they’re considering my idea to rework a few of the favorite men’s pieces with more female friendly tailoring.”
“They’re happy with the sales?”
Cat could hear the smirk in Henry’s voice.
“Yes, they seemed rather pleased with selling out of product in less than two weeks.”
“Are they planning to restock before Christmas?”
“Already done,” Cat laughed. “The new catalog goes out in a week.”
“Good. Text me the drafts of the adverts you’re supposed to be reviewing, and I’ll make sure nothing is grossly misspelled and that you don’t look like a grinning idiot in them.”
“You’re a good man, Henry.” He knew her so well.
“I’d be a better one if I could get you to your appointments on time,” he grumbled.
“I can literally see the restaurant from here,” she lied, hustling around a dog walker. The man’s jaw dropped open with recognition, and he nearly stepped on a Pomeranian.
Cat wiggled her fingers in his direction and hurried on.
“I realize this is just lunch with your agent, but I’m trying to train you to have better habits.”
Cat snorted. “Good luck with that. Now, go fuss over someone else.”
“Don’t forget you’ve got a phone interview at two and mani at four.”
Cat’s nails were usually destroyed during filming. Home renovation, even for the cameras, was a dirty business. In the off-season she treated herself to shiny, pretty nails. “Then you’ve got that cocktail thing—”
“I already know you programmed each and every one of those things into my calendar.”
“It never hurts to remind you. And I can hear you making that face at me right now,” Henry told her.
“Smart ass,” Cat said, unscrewing her face. “Thank you for your obsessive attention to detail. Now, I need you to stop talking my ear off so I can get to my lunch before this hurricane opens up on us and wrecks my hair.”
“By the time you get there it will be high tea, and we’re only supposed to see about three inches of rain. Further north is going to take the brunt.” Henry was a fount of knowledge. “I hope you remembered your umbrella.”
“Bye, Henry,” Cat sang. She disconnected from her snarky assistant and stowed her phone in her bag. She pursed her lips, ran a hand down her artful over-the-shoulder braid, and smoothed her features into an impassive mask.
A handful of photographers milled about—huddling deeper into their jackets and staring at their phones—in front of the very bohemian, very popular Courtyard Restaurant and Lounge. They were always here, capturing the occasional celebrity on their way to a posh lunch or for pricey cocktails on the sunken patio. It would be the former for Cat today as the outer edge of Hurricane Veronica lumbered its way up the coast.
“Cat! Cat!”
Cat’s lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile. It wasn’t that long ago that they had no idea who she was. Sure, they’d snapped a few pictures on her way in because she dressed nicely enough to be “someone.” But now they knew her name. It was a reminder of how far she’d come in the last few years. It was this side of five years ago that she and her brother had been desperate to save the family business, and now strangers with cameras clamored for her picture.
“Who are you meeting, Cat?”
“Where’d you get the boots, gorgeous?”
“Smile pretty for me, baby.”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” she said with an apologetic grin. “Running late!”
Their comments followed her inside as the hostess stood stalwart guardian between the restaurant’s diners and those outside wanting a piece of them.
“Catalina, lovely to have you with us again,” the hostess offered the perfunctory celebrity greeting.
“Thank you. I’ve been dreaming about your kale salad all day.” It was a lie. Cat had been fantasizing about Courtyard’s very thick, very juicy bacon cheeseburger. But there was a price to pay to look the way she looked on camera. The days of eating whatever she wanted and drinking as much as she could were tapering off. Thirty-two meant making more good choices than bad, a sacrifice that she was constantly reminding herself was worth it in the long run.
Her heels clicked on the tile floor as the hostess led her back into the restaurant and heads turned in her direction. She was used to it by now… mostly. Dark bamboo lined the walls and kitschy chandeliers threw off dim pools of light. High backed tufted leather booths offered diners a modicum of privacy. Or, for those who preferred to be seen, there was a selection of high-top tables clustered around the sleek bar.
The hostess led her to a booth under a folksy painting of a rooster.
“Catalina King, you always know how to make an entrance,” her agent Marta sighed. She rose and gave Cat a kiss on each cheek.
“You should talk,” Cat teased, taking in Marta’s curve-hugging white dress and glossy black hair. The former Mexican soap star turned producer’s ex-wife had carved out a very profitable niche as a fierce agent to Broadway stars and TV talent. Her cavernous three-bedroom Upper West Side apartment and Bentley were proof of a never-quit work ethic.
They slid into the booth, and Cat ordered a flat water.
“First thing first,” Marta said, her accent lightly tinging her words. “How’s it working out with Henry?”
Cat leaned back against the booth. “He’s perfect, and you’re a diabolical genius for suggesting I steal him from that bitchsicle.” Meeghan Traxx was an asshole of epic proportions. The woman was a fellow Reno and Realty star but had the personality of a cactus and the soul of a dementor. The woman had trolled Cat’s brother and his wife every chance she got. And Cat took great pleasure in stealing the woman’s abused assistant from her.
“You were a year late on the assistant front,” Marta pointed out. “You keep trying to do it all yourself, and you’ll end up combusting.”
“I should have listened to you a long time ago,” Cat admitted. She was a control freak. But she liked it that way. No one was going to be as invested in her career, in her brand, in her plans as she was—no matter how much she paid them. Though, now that she had Henry handling more mundane matters, she’d really begun to make progress on her pet project.
The server returned with Cat’s drink, and they placed their orders. Cat sighed internally when she ordered the kale salad.
“So, what do you have for me?” Cat asked. Marta and Cat both shared an appreciation for business first, another reason they got on so well.
“Yet another magazine cover offer,” Marta said, booting up her tablet and taking out her stylish reading glasses.
“Topless?”
“Of course.”
“Pass,” Cat said, sipping her water.
“They promised it would be—and I quote—‘most tasteful’,” Marta added.
“These girls are worth more than a magazine cover,” Cat said, pointing at her chest with both index fingers.
“It would be great exposure—no pun intended—leading up to your second season.”
Cat shook her head. “Not happening. I’m not hitting any long-term goals by flashing my tits to twenty-somethings.”
Marta moved on without breaking her stride. “The network wants to offer you a Christmas special.”
“Isn’t it a little late in the game for a Christmas special?” Cat glanced out the window at the worsening October weather. “The other networks probably filmed theirs months ago.”
“They found more money in the budget and want to add a special starring you and Drake Mackenrowe.”
“Drake? Interesting.”
They paused their conversation long enough to thank the waitress for their figure-friendly salads.
“Things ended well with you two, didn’t they?” Marta asked, stabbing her fork into a piece of broiled chicken.
Cat and Drake had shared a very pleasant month-long relationship two years ago. Technically, “relationship” made it sound more serious than it had been. They were never in the same place long enough for more than a series of one-night stands and had parted as friends. They’d managed to stir the pot by showing up to a red-carpet function together, but—try as the suits had—the relationship hadn’t stuck.
It had been a temporary good time, one Cat had no regrets about. She’d never worked with Drake before but couldn’t see a reason why it would be a problem now. He was a nice guy and would have no problems with her calling the shots.
“It ended well,” Cat said, spearing an unsatisfying leaf of kale. As soon as the show’s promo shoot was done this week, she was treating herself to a pizza. A whole one. And an entire bottle of wine. She’d invite Paige, her sister-in-law, and they could get sloppy drunk together. “What kind of special?”
“They’re thinking a neighbor versus neighbor decorating contest,” Marta told her.
Cat wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Not interested.”
“Their offer is reasonably generous,” Marta said, naming a figure that stilled Cat’s fingers on her fork. But her time was valuable, and if she was going to shift focus from the balls she was currently juggling, it needed to interest her.
“Don’t they get that viewers are tired of competition? What about something with actual feelings and Christmas spirit?”
“I don’t think you’re going to get something with generosity and human kindness out of network television,” Marta quipped.
“My plate is full enough already. I’m not interested in adding another project unless they’re open to a show that would actually benefit something besides their bank accounts. It’s the holidays for Christ sake.”
“And that’s exactly what I told them,” Marta announced smugly.
Cat smiled. “You know me so well.”
“That’s what you pay me quite well for.”
Cat contemplated her salad for a quiet moment. “Isn’t Christmas supposed to be about more than advertising and competition?”
“Not in show business.”