Page 8 of Famous for a Living

“New head of the department,” he says, giving a revolted sniff. “Two rangers from each park had to go. ’Parently interns don’t count, so Zaiah and I made the trek.” His face hardens deeper. “Had I known that, I wouldn’t have hired the lot.”

I raise a brow, having heard my share over the past few months about his interns. “Your unpaid lot?”

“They were. But apparently that’s not the way we do it anymore. Apparently, kids have to get paid for knowing nothing and doing nothing. You know—”

Here we go.

“—back in my day, you had to hike three days over Mount Whitney with nothing but a pocketknife. If you survived, you got the opportunity to work for free. At the bottom of the ladder, where you belonged. Now all these gov heads tell me I have to judge the content of someone’s character by how well they can tap a few buttons on an online application. Calling my methods hazing. Telling me I’m setting the US government up for a lawsuit.”

“But I got a confirmation email,” says a figure coming through a revolving door. He pushes his phone from one ear to the other. “No, I don’t see it right now, but—”

Ah. So this is Zaiah. He’s much taller than Uncle Terry, probably by a good six inches or so. Half his age.

And while I expected as much out of the man I’ve heard of in conversation over the past three years since Terry took this job, what I didn’t expect was his face. Why, it’s the kind of accidental, unself-aware face that makes boyfriends do all kinds of stupid things out of jealousy and women’s necks ache from craning. The kind of rugged, natural charm that stops modeling scouts on the streets of New York and has them say, “Here. Here is my card. Just take it. Please.”

“Exhausting, I’m sure,” I absently chime in, vaguely hearing Uncle Terry shift from grumbling about the conference speakers to the conference food, as my eyes follow Zaiah pacing down the wall of windows.

So many symmetrical, no-nonsense features. Ruddy tan skin, not the kind of skin of boys sunbathing on rooftop decks, but that of a man used to bearing the elements. Shoulders straight. And those eyes, dark and deep green as the oval-cut Montana sapphire Aunt Claire gave me on my twenty-first birthday.

The only thing that isn’t perfectly clean-cut about his features is the beard. But somehow—I tilt my chin despite myself—it seems to suit him even better.

Fascinating.

The first man I’ve ever met to pull off a beard.

On that fair face, however, is the same scowl Terry bestowed on the guard just moments ago. His eyes follow the trail of passing cars on the busy street as he stands before the floor-to-ceiling windows. His phone is pressed to his ear, and from the snippet of conversation I catch, it sounds like he’s talking with someone from a hotel about missing reservations.

It sounds like he’s not making much headway in correcting the accommodation mishap.

His gaze falls on me as he shifts on his heels. Turns.

Our eyes meet.

And then I see it.

A look I’d recognize a mile away.

It’s just for a millisecond, but there’s no question. Him taking me in, from the bob of my auburn hair slanting down toward my chin, to the Take Me Out Tonight red lipstick, to the shimmering crystal heels.

I can practically hear his thoughts.

But of course I can.

I see those words on-screen every day.

What a waste.

What a pathetic, plastic waste.

Me.

My ensemble.

This city.

The phoniness of it all.

He’s not playing any games here. He’s not looking at me that way because of some kind of fantasy playing out in his head. Him, playing it off coolly. Me, attracted to his disinterest. Us, heading off on some jaunt to Paris, where in the process of our whirlwind romance, of course, he gains millions of followers and a record label for his mediocre, never-before-appreciated acoustic skills. Perhaps we marry. More preferable, though, we don’t so he can spread his wings with top models and favorite sitcom actresses who have discovered him through his newfound fortune and fame.