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“Don’t take this the wrong way, Kameryn—but I know a great stylist. She’ll be perfect to help you freshen up that wardrobe.”
And strike me dead.
The pinprick to my ego sent me plummeting to the ground.
Don’t take it the wrong way? What other way was there to take it?
But before my burning humiliation could permit me to defy the scientific laws denying the existence of spontaneous human combustion, he gestured toward the seat across from him and bid me to sit down.
“Now,” he leaned forward, tapping the rim of his crystal tumbler, “on a more important note: name your poison.”
I was still reeling from the wardrobe comment. I couldn’t begin to connect the dots in my head fast enough to come up with an intelligent answer. Did I say something fruity? Something classy? The way he was smiling at me, the question felt like a test. I’d been expecting to find the same friendly, supportive guy who’d encouraged me through my disaster of a table read. The fellow actor who had assured me my nerves were only natural, and not to worry, we were all in this together. The man sitting in front of me wasn’t that guy at all.
“Or perhaps,” he continued in my silence, “you’d prefer me to guess what kind of girl you are?” He made no attempt to hide the implication behind his wordplay. There was a shine in his eye that promised he was enjoying my discomfort, aware of my glance toward the empty seat, wondering how soon Grady would arrive. “Let’s see.” He set his elbows on the table. “You’re too cautious for tequila—you’d find it too garish. But you’re notbold enough for whisky. Rum would be too sweet, and gin too… boring?” He spun his tumbler between thumb and forefinger, his smile growing smug. “The hem of that dress says more than wine, and you’re too skinny for beer. So—vodka. Versatile, readily available, and packs a punch when you least expect it.”
I hated that he was right. Vodka was my go-to. Mainly because it was cheap—and yes, it had the fewest calories. And also because tequila and I had broken up after Dani’s 21stbirthday party. But I didn’t appreciate his analysis.
“Wrong,” I said, hoping to regain some of the dignity I’d lost after the dig at my attire. “Vodka might do the trick when you want a cosmopolitan, but personally, I prefer whisky.”
I knew from his smile he could see right through me.
“You know,” he leaned forward, “we’re supposed to be honest with each other. Having a drink together is the second best way to build real chemistry.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m sure you already know the best way.”
And there it was. The quintessential douchebag. Nothing I’d expected from him based on the raving interview I’d read inRolling Stonefrom Saoirse Ronan, who had boasted about her experience working with him. She’d called him sensitive. Praised his thoughtfulness. I believe the wordenlightenedhad been used a time or two.
Apparently, his gallantry was limited to those sharing his same pay grade. I was not Saoirse Ronan and we both knew it. It was obvious he was aware he could push the envelope. What was I going to do? Go rushing to MacArthur?
“So what do you prefer, Kameryn? A drink? A shared drive home?” He flashed me his famous Hollywood smile. “Both?”
It disgusted me that I knew myself well enough to know a few months ago I might have considered taking him up on the offer. Not because he was coercing me. Despite his inappropriate insinuation, I didn’t feel like there would be consequences if Iturned him down. He may have been a slimeball, but he didn’t give off a threatening vibe. Instead, I would have considered it simply because he was Elliott Fleming. I doubted many girls told him no.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how I wanted to look at it—I wasn’t about to degrade myself to two one-night stands in less than a week. I was still incredibly hung up over Dillon. She’d left with no explanation beyond ‘I need a little time to think,’ and promised me she’d call within the week. Well, tomorrow was day six and I’d reached the conclusion she was ghosting me.
At least Elliott had more ethics than to pretend it would be anything more than a fuck.
“Is this little bastard already giving you a hard time?”
Elliott leisurely sat back as we both looked up to find Grady Dunn striding toward the table. He was dressed as sharply as he had been at the read-through and greeted me with the same succinct, courteous manner. “Hello, Miss Kingsbury—whatever he’s said to you, ignore him. He’s honestly just an insecure attention seeker.”
I didn’t risk a laugh, but I did offer him a smile, relieved to have his company.
Elliott did laugh, however. “Says the grown man who brings his pets with him everywhere he goes.” He thrust his chin in the direction of two men in suits waiting a dozen feet away. Grady’s bodyguards.
The day after the casting announcement, I read onTMZthat Grady had already received death threats from outraged fans.
In the books, there was no mention of race. Ethnicity was irrelevant to the storyline. But unshockingly, there were a gross number of readers who were furious the role of Noah had been cast as a Black man. They’d assumed a male protagonist written by a little old Caucasian lady from Iowa in the early eightieswould be white. But Margaret Gilles herself had made it publicly clear she could imagine no actor better suited for the role. Grady was the apogean hero. Handsome. Athletic. Dashing. He exuded charisma. Everything the part demanded.
“The day you wake up to be a Black man in America, call me and we’ll chat. Until then, shut your mouth.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Dunn. We haven’t even had a drink yet. Which reminds me,” he raised two fingers in the air, motioning for a server I hadn’t even realized was waiting for his signal, “I’ve just learned our lovely friend here is a whisky girl. Watch and learn, Kameryn. I’m about to introduce you to the life you’ve just stumbled into.”
The waiter was instantly at the edge of the table. “Another of the usual, Mr. Fleming?”
“Not today. The evening calls for whisky, I think. Glenfiddich 30.”
“My apologies, Mr. Fleming, the thirty is not a bottle we shelve. We do, however, have a very nice twelve.”
“Porter’scarries it.”
