B009R9RGU2 EBOK (26 page)

Irene, a fortysomething talent agent in a very expensive-looking cream pantsuit and towering heels, offers up lunch with the notoriously germaphobic comedian/host Howie Mandel as a possible prize for the evening’s live auction finale.

“No disrespect but the guy’s most comfortable with fist bumps,” Brian, a fellow publicist, counters. “Any winner wants to feel special, not contagious.”

“Speaking of special,
I’d
be most inclined to bid if it was
more of a fantasy date scenario,” says Tanya, a striking African-American agent from CAA. “Think champagne, strawberries, and dark chocolate with some ridiculous hottie.
That
gets checkbooks out.”

Hmm. I know a certain “hottie” who performs good deeds.

“I can ask Billy Fox,” I say. “He’s a client… and a friend.”

All eyes turn to me.

“Billy Fox?” Irene says incredulously, her wide, cougariffic smile combating with dermal fillers. “Can you guarantee I’ll win?”

“Highest bid and he’s all yours,” I say with a wink.

“Can’t think of any better use of my 401(k),” Brian says dreamily, “although my husband may disagree.”

“Then it’s settled,” I say, retrieving my cell phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a favor to ask.”

I’m preparing for voicemail when Billy picks up. “Greetings from the Apocalypse.”

Huh?

My dramatic pause must have registered. “That’s right, I forgot to tell you,” Billy continues good-humoredly. “I got the part—the zombie movie. You helped me get the gig. Can you believe we’re already in production? These indies move fast. You caught me trying not to get fake blood all over my trailer.”

“That’s great. Congrats!”

He’s not letting me off that easy. “The elusive Sophie Atwater. To what do I owe this pleasure? I always believed the rumors of your disappearance were greatly exaggerated.”

“Well you know… I’m keeping busy, even volunteering my publicity services. In fact there’s an auction coming up
benefitting Tribe of Hope’s commitment to breast cancer awareness and—”

“You need my amazing emcee skills again?”

“Not exactly. I’m calling to see if you’d agree to, um, be a prize. In a ‘bid for a date with Billy Fox’ auction. You know, a shared dinner and some chitchat.” I’m not embarrassed to ask if he’ll support the charity, but I do play down the cheesy fantasy element. “That is, if you’re game. And free. I’ll make sure you’re, you know, chaperoned the whole time of course. If you can’t, I totally get it. I know you’re busy fighting off the undead.”

“Are you pimping me out, Sophie?” Billy says, mock-offended. “What kind of a gentleman do you think I am?”

“One who can help raise a lot of money for a worthy cause.”

“Well if a ‘date’ with me can help cure cancer, I’m all for it. Count me in.”

No arm wrestling necessary. No list of conditions—coy or demanding. Or “let me discuss it with my manager first” runaround. Just a simple and sincere yes.

“Billy Fox, you
really are
a good guy,” I say and mean it.

“I’m just me,” Billy replies, and I can easily picture the twinkle in his eyes that effortlessly manages to charm us all. “But thanks. Your stamp of approval genuinely means a lot. I gotta run. They’re calling me back to set now.” He makes a ghoulish roar.

After promising to relay to Billy all the pertinent details, I return to the committee and take my seat.

“He’s in.” I am grinning, picturing his phone covered in slime or goo or whatever the makeup department uses to create open wounds.

There are actual cheers.

Irene puts down her iPhone. “Well I just checked my bank balance. Looks like I’m going to have to settle for a mere mortal.
Hello
.” Something over my shoulder captivates her complete attention. “Now
that
will do just fine.”

Curious, I turn to see what’s got her all enraptured.

Across the room sits an incredibly sexy man, rolled up sleeves exposing strong arms below broad shoulders, studying what looks like a pile of spreadsheets. A pin-striped suit jacket hangs on the back of his chair. His face is largely turned away, but I’d recognize that fall of soft chestnut-brown hair anywhere.

Jacob.

“Wonder what’s
his
story?” Irene says, joining my stare. “I don’t think I see a wedding band. Surely he can’t be straight
and
available? The truly eligible are as common as unicorns in LA.”

Thankfully Jacob is engrossed in his work, seemingly oblivious to being on display. He must have arrived after I left to call Billy. Maybe with my back turned and across the room he hasn’t even noted my presence. Of course I knew he was still involved with the foundation, but in our very distinct roles we’d yet to cross paths.

Seeing him now
is
like encountering a unicorn. Surprisingly unreal.

And the first coherent thought that comes to mind is:
Hands off my man
.

I thought I’d moved on. Punched it out. Shut it away in a drawer.

Yet here now with Jacob I find myself feeling territorial.

Unlike with Billy, there was never much of a reaffirming epiphany that it wasn’t right. Or real. Jacob and I ended things over disappointment, stubbornness, and hurt. But never from lack of love.

The rest of the planning meeting continues around me. I nod along and lightly participate in the final details, but my mind is elsewhere. I refuse to turn around and see if Jacob ever spots me, shielding myself from his reaction. As soon as the meeting wraps, I dart for the door, nearly holding my breath until I’m seated in my car, gripping the steering wheel. I glance up at the rearview mirror and shake my head. Once again I’ve managed to catch myself off-guard. Why did it take Irene’s appraisal for me to realize I still have feelings for Jacob? When am I gonna let it go?

Travis’s parents have a stunning California Colonial
–style home with twin thick columns flanking a forest-green painted door, and knowing as I do the true gentleman beneath the laid-back, motorcycle-riding image, it’s exactly how I pictured Travis growing up. Arriving a good half hour early to the party could have been really awkward, but Connie Harrison does not allow people to feel uncomfortable in her home. She welcomed me in like a family member, and immediately put me at ease by setting me to work. So now I’m helping organize last-minute party setup with the catering staff in the immense Carrera marble–filled kitchen. Through a half-moon wall of windows leading to the backyard I watch another small crew adding chairs and lighting votive candles as the band sets up to one side of the flagstone terrace.

I’m the first guest to arrive because there was very little traffic on the 405, and while the place is way the hell out in the Pacific Palisades, my GPS got me here with none of my usual “please make the first legal U-turn” foul-ups. Plus I’m making a renewed effort to always be on time, but with traffic’s wild-card factor sometimes I overcompensate and achieve the other extreme.

But mostly I’m uncharacteristically prompt because I’m out-of-my-mind nervous about tonight. I know I will see Jacob this evening, and every possible scenario I’ve played out in my imagination makes me feel a little sicker. Sure, I admitted to myself how I still feel about him, but he made it very clear when we broke up that it was
over
. Period. And his kept distance since doesn’t exactly indicate regret. Just as I was finally feeling confident again, old emotional vulnerability returned.
Great
. At least the simple navy sheath I’m wearing hangs ridiculously well on me—those kickboxing classes are paying off. I even went sleeveless without a second thought. But I suspect Jacob would have the same guarded reaction to me whether I was in Victoria’s Secret or a burka. We’re all adults here; I know he won’t make a scene. But I don’t know which will feel worse… having to make polite social small talk as if what happened between us didn’t mean anything, or if he gives me the “cut direct” as in some fabulously tragic moment from Jane Austen. For him to publicly shut me out completely would be devastating.

So why even show up? Why torture myself? Because it’s Travis’s birthday—and one’s three-o is a big deal.

Well, okay, that’s partially true. I mean, it
is
true that it’s Travis’s milestone birthday. And Travis has always been a good friend, even through this personal and professional debacle. But that’s only half of why I came. I’m here, stabbing toothpicks through prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe balls, because I need to get this inevitable encounter over with. I can’t get on with the rest of my life until I manage to face this hurdle. Otherwise the purgatory of not knowing how it will go with Jacob will haunt me indefinitely.

With nothing left to stab, I carry the elegant silver tray to Travis’s mother. “Where would you like me to put these…” She told me not to call her “Mrs. Harrison,” but my inner twelve-year-old is very close to the surface these days and feels uncomfortable using her first name.

“Just lovely, Sophie dear. Please place them out on the lanai.” And as I walk away, she adds, “On the coffee table, dear, not the antique hutch.” I love Travis’s family. Originally from Greenwich, Connecticut, they are a rare and fascinating mix of gentility and accessibility. His smart and gorgeous twin sisters, Cassie and Bridget, always crack me up. His mother only looks chic and fabulous, air kissing with the best of them, but she unabashedly lights up in the company of her outgoing brood. His father, a notable architect, was once quoted in
Architectural Digest
saying that building his family was the accomplishment of which he was most proud. When Tina—my intended “plus-one”—had to bail last-minute, I knew I’d still have a grand time solo.

As I step outside and try to figure out which thing is the “hutch” so I don’t put the appetizers there by mistake, the mild evening air is just perfect. It would never dare be overcast or cold for a Harrison Family Gala.

The front doorbell rings and the first on-time guests begin to file in. As only truly perfect parties do, it goes from no one to a chatty festive crowd in minutes. Released from service, I drift around, meeting Travis’s family friends, some of whom I know, most of whom I don’t. Cassie and Bridget, in slinky, jewel-toned cocktail dresses, stick close to my side, whispering
the juicy gossip on everyone as we hang out at the inviting bar station set up in the grand foyer opposite the front door.

When Damon walks in, I am embarrassed to admit I cower and turn my back before he can see me. What is it about that guy that, even from twenty feet away, brings out the worst in me? He’s with his now official girlfriend, Juliet, the makeup artist I met and liked a lifetime ago, so he can’t be
all
bad. And, yes, he’s old friends with the Birthday Boy and Jacob.

Jacob
. Pulling myself together is no easy feat knowing that he could walk through that door at any moment.

Okay, Sophie, time to pull up your big-girl pants and grow up. It doesn’t matter how he responds. You have to be mature about this. There’s no alternative
.

The twins luckily don’t seem to notice my inner pep talk, keeping up their witty banter without missing a beat. Though there is absolutely nothing important I’m expecting, out of habit and to cover my nerves, I check my phone. And surprisingly, there is a text. I didn’t even notice the buzz over the crowd.

Well, I don’t know
what
I “deserve.” But I couldn’t ask for a better friend, and I make a mental note to text her back the second I leave tonight.

Looking up from my phone to politely laugh at whatever Bridget said to make Cassie crack up, my eyes land squarely on Jacob’s face in the entry. He clearly spies me too. For a split
second I freeze, but the momentum of my fake laugh actually carries me through the crisis. I instinctively draw breath when Jacob smiles back at me politely and nods in greeting. I nod back, and then he is pulled into the crowd of others arriving, and the moment is over.

It was fine. We smiled, we exchanged head-nods… it’s fine.

“Sophie, just so you know,” Bridget says sotto voce, “Jacob just got here.” Cassie discreetly points toward him with the rim of her champagne glass, but I don’t need to look. Their tone is hesitantly sympathetic. The twins know what went down from Travis, but I love them for not grilling me for details, for just being there with me.

“I saw him. And it’s okay.” It is. I mean, what am I gonna do? I realize now, I’ve built up this moment in my mind like it was going to be some big awakening. And it’s not. I still don’t have a job. I still screwed up a great relationship with a guy I really loved. And I’m still the new me—the one who loves kickboxing, has a fresh appreciation for her mother, and has big plans for the rest of her life. Even if some of the details are hazy…

I take a deep breath, look around, and take in the diverse gathered crowd.

“What a great party. Your mom doesn’t kid around.”

“Please. You should’ve seen their fortieth anniversary party,” Cassie says. “This is nothing!” Seconds later she is deep into a description of the ice sculpture portrait of their parents when the birthday boy himself saves me with his grand entrance.