“What?” Quinton asked as Tadd grinned at me and shook his head. He’s always been a big fan of any girl who gets under my skin.
We were three-for-three last night, soothing the annoyance somewhat—at least until this morning. There was a bachelorette party at the bar—nine girls and three guys, and all of them looked hot. Quinton was ready to lead the offensive, but Tadd cautioned that when encountering a group like that, you have to watch out for the Cheerleader Effect: the inexplicable consequence of a few extreme hotties in a group bringing less attractive friends up to par. Possible hazardous situation. As a man of action, Quinton was skeptical.
Tadd glanced at the group surreptitiously. “Okay, look. At first glance, all three of those guys are candidates. But in reality, only one of them is one-nighter material.”
Quinton and I checked them out. “I don’t see it,” Quinton said.
“Easy—it’s the blond guy,” I said.
Tadd sighed. “Reid, you obviously have a blonde predilection—”
My palms turned up, shoulders shrugging. “Blondes are my gold standard.”
“Don’t get distracted by hair color.” He shook his head, hair falling perfectly around his face, and leaned closer. “Dudes. It’s obviously the Hispanic guy. Look again.”
Quinton stared, frowning. “I still don’t see it.”
Tadd rolled his eyes. “That’s because you are disproportionately straight.”
“Excuse me! Unless disproportionately means all—then guilty as charged. And BTW, Reid, dibs on the sister who looks like Halle Berry’s reincarnation.”
Tadd pursed his lips. “Dude, Halle Berry isn’t dead, thus she can’t be reincarnated.”
Quinton emptied his drink and got to his feet. “Whatever, man, I’m going in.”
Tadd and I each grabbed an arm and sat him back down. “Hold up, noob,” Tadd said. “Let’s get Halle and Mr. Tall Dark and Gay to bring their most attractive girlfriend and trot over here.”
Quinton sat, still unconvinced. “We can do that?”
“Watch and learn.” Tadd turned to me. “Reid, you’ve just said something incredibly amusing.” And then he laughed his patented Tadd-Wyler-Sexy-Laugh while I smiled and chuckled along.
A dozen pairs of eyes shifted to us. Tadd made eye contact with his target while Quinton—who’s a remarkably fast learner—did the same with his. I appeared oblivious, staring into my martini, pulling the olive from the tiny plastic sword with my teeth. Tadd broke eye contact, only to glance back a few seconds later. Quinton smirked, straightening and stretching his arms behind his neck in a blatant display of biceps. And then we sat back and waited for recognition to flicker.
A few hours, several dirty martinis and two cigars later, Bob was escorting the bride-to-be from my hotel room to a waiting Town Car. Personal policy—I don’t wake up with them still in my bed. And don’t worry—there was no way she was going to pull off wearing white, long before I came along.
*** *** ***
Emma
My father and Chloe have landed—she texted me to gripe about some lady in a wheelchair at the front of the plane who was “holding everyone up.” They have to collect Chloe’s bags after deplaning (she can’t travel without at least two colossal suitcases and several smaller ones), so I have about an hour before they arrive, which I spend wishing we were filming today, chewing on a hangnail, checking my clothes, changing my clothes, and straightening my hotel room in a state of total anxiety.
She texts me again from the shuttle, annoyed that there wasn’t a limo to pick them up. They booked a room in the same hotel, and she wants me to come down to the lobby to meet them when they arrive. When I exit the elevator, I catch her irate voice at the front desk one second too late to scramble back in. She’s pissed that their room isn’t on the same floor as the cast and crew. The producers left strict instructions for hotel management with a list of approved guests for rooms on our floor. There are no exceptions, for privacy and security reasons. Unfortunately, “no exceptions” isn’t something Chloe accepts.
I do the only thing that makes sense in that moment. I make a beeline across the marble elevator bank and hide behind a column.
“But our minor daughter is on the fourth floor!” Her voice pitches higher, and I picture every head in the room swiveling towards her, just as she likes it. The concierge begins to speak in soothing tones, assuring her that there’s a lovely room reserved for them one floor down from me. He adds that he’ll be sending up a complimentary bottle of champagne shortly, in hopes of making their stay more enjoyable.
As I scoot around the pillar to avoid being spotted, Chloe harrumphs her halfhearted consent and they board the elevator with their overloaded luggage cart. The doors close and the dial shows their assent to the third floor, and I’m stuck inadvertently eavesdropping on the concierge chastising the desk clerk.
“In the future, simply say, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, that floor is fully occupied.’”
I inch around the column. The desk clerk is young, dark-haired and slendar, with classically pretty features. Chloe would hate her on sight. Red-faced, she stares at the marble countertop.
“Relatives of celebrities can be unreasonable, and if the relative becomes offended, we risk losing the celebrity’s patronage.”
“Yes, sir,” the clerk mumbles. Thanks to Chloe’s furor, the “celebrity” being discussed is me. Awesome.
“Um, Emma?”