Licked (L.A. Liaisons Book 1) (27 page)

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I asked. “I have to be on camera tomorrow, and bags under my eyes don’t really go with my outfit.”

“Everyone get a glimpse of this lightweight,” Paige said, standing up and raising her voice as if addressing a full room. “She gets trashed off a boozy shake and a shot, and she
owns
the bar. You can’t trust a non-alcoholic bar owner.”

Rolling my eyes, I laughed and slid off my stool. “Exactly why I
am
the owner. Someone has to be sober enough not to confuse the rum with the bourbon in a Pansy Ass.”
 

As I lined up the shot glasses along the gorgeous custom bar top, I looked over at the crazy group of women I called my family. For those few moments in the bar with my friends, the world felt almost right again, and I’d forgotten all about the heaviness in my heart.

Like I said.
Almost.

THE NEXT DAY I stood outside the entry that joined my two shops, watching the flurry of activity in the After Dark as men set up the lighting and the director went over last-minute checklists with the woman who would be interviewing me. It was beyond surreal, but luckily I had the girls on standby to pinch me whenever I needed it. And I’d needed it several times already.
 

We’d closed Licked for the day, the first time ever on a Saturday, but I had Zoe and a couple of the other staff on hand for the film crew to get footage of them in action. Zoe, bless her, had colored her hair a bright fuchsia to match the Licked logo, and all of them sported vintage ensembles. I couldn’t be prouder.
 

“Are you nervous yet?” Shayne asked as she sidled up to me and linked her arm through mine. She had her fabulous red curls pinned up on the side with a big white flower and, just like my staff, was wearing a retro sundress in solidarity.
 

My friends are awesome.
 

“Terrified,” I said. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because you’re depriving everyone outside of L.A. of your genius idea and mouthwatering desserts if you don’t share. That would be a crime, and you’re not a criminal, so”—she nodded at the cameras—“go kill it.”

“Ryleigh? They need you in makeup,” Quinn said, as she walked up behind us. Though she was petite, she was a fierce sight in her signature black…well, everything. “Better hurry. Paige is over there getting tips on contouring, and they’ll have her looking like a Kardashian soon.”

“Oh, good grief.” I quickly went over to the tables we had pushed together for hair and makeup to see Paige in a pair of striped shorts and wearing a rocker tee, blazer with rolled-up sleeves, and higher heels than mine. She was trying on a deep shade of lipstick under the approving eye of the makeup artist.
 

“What do you think?” she asked, looking at us through the mirror. “Too much?”

I eyed the deep wine shade against her blond hair. “Surprisingly, it suits you. I think I’ll stick to pink, though.”
 

“You must be Ryleigh.” The makeup artist shook my hand. “Let’s see what we can do with you today, shall we?”

We went over the color palette, and I showed her my preferences. Although it should’ve excited me to have someone
else
doing my makeup today, I was more panicked that I’d look nothing like myself when she was done. While she worked, a dark-skinned man in a white suit came over and circled around me, holding his chin in thought. I soon learned he was my hair stylist, and that worried me for a second because the guy was bald. How do you trust a man with
no
hair to do yours? Anyone? Bueller?
 

“What do you think about a bow?” he asked, his French accent pronounced as he ran his fingers through my tresses.
 

“A bow? Uh…I haven’t put bows in my hair since I was five.”

“No, no,” he said, holding my hair on top of my head. “Your hair
is
the bow. Your bow is the hair. You see?”

“I don’t really know how—”

“Just wait. Trust me, I show you,” he said, grabbing a comb and teasing my hair up to high heaven.
 

Please, God, don’t make me look ridiculous today.
 

I squeezed my eyes shut as they worked, not wanting to see the progress they made until it was all done. But I tried to have a little faith. I mean, French people do great updos, right?

There was a tap on my shoulder what felt like an hour later.

“Miss? Ryleigh? Wake up now and see.” The man sounded excited, so I steeled myself for something crazy. Opening my eyes, the first thing I noticed was the gorgeous shade of pink painted on my lips.
Very nice.
A pair of false eyelashes, long and curled, made my eyes pop, and though I still looked like myself, it was the more glamorous, airbrushed version that would be impossible to maintain in real life. My gaze drifted up to my hair, and it took me a second to realize it
was
my hair. A bow. He’d made it into a freakin’ bow sitting on top of my head. It sounded insane when he’d proposed it, but now I was kicking myself for not watching so I could replicate it.
 

“Wow. This is… Thank you. Could you come by and do this every day? Both of you?” I said.
 

The Frenchman laughed. “You could not afford me, but
merci, chéri.”

Mr. Lieberman came over then and went over the final rundown of what would happen. They’d already done the daytime interior and exterior shots, as well as filming my staff in action, so it was almost time for the final part—the interview.

As I greeted my friends with my new look, which they oohed and ahhed over, I casually let my eyes drift over the rest of the shop, looking for the one face I’d been hoping to see but wasn’t surprised not to. I knew he’d been by this morning because I’d found the keys he’d left on the bar counter when I went to let the TV crew in. That should’ve been sign enough, I guess. He hadn’t waited to bring them by when he came tonight; instead he’d snuck in and left them without having to see me.
 

But maybe there was a good reason. He might’ve left a message…

 
Ducking into the kitchen, I took my phone out of my purse and scrolled through the “good luck” messages from friends and family, including Cameron. But there was nothing from Hunter. Not a call, not a text—

My phone pinged with a new message alert. I opened it, and, like he’d known I was thinking about him, it was from the man I’d been wishing was here.
 

Good luck tonight. I know you’ll knock ’em dead.

I quickly typed back a “thank you, wish you were here” message and waited, hoping he’d respond and tell me he was on his way or maybe explain why he wasn’t coming. But my message never went through, “message delivered” never popping up. Out of curiosity, I called his phone, and it went straight to voicemail, like he’d turned off his cell directly after sending the message.
 

He wasn’t coming. He really
really
wasn’t coming. The last bit of hope, the one I’d been clinging to like a lifeline, fell away. Tucking the phone back in my purse, I walked numbly back into Licked, and when my friends caught sight of my face, they ran over.
 

“He’s not coming,” I said, and then gave a limp shrug.
 

“That sonofabitch.”

“I will rearrange his arse with his face.”

“Give me two minutes with that guy and I’ll make him wish he were dead.”

I waved my hand as they continued to curse Hunter on my behalf. “Thanks, guys, but it’s fine. Really. I’ll…you know, hopefully be super busy when I kick this show’s ass, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Paige said, her arm going around my shoulders. “The poor bastard will be sorry he ever let you go.”

No, he’s probably doing a happy dance somewhere out there.
 

“Ryleigh?” Mr. Lieberman called out from the entry. “We’re ready for you.”
 

After a group hug, we went over to the After Dark, and I was instructed to sit in one of the two chairs lit up with what looked like spotlights. The girls all gave me thumbs-up signs from where they were seated in director’s chairs behind the camera crew, and I took a deep breath.
 

Don’t think about him. Think about the shops you’ve worked so hard on for the last few years. Think about making your friends and family proud. Don’t think about the one who doesn’t want to be with you.
 

As one of the crew members attached a small microphone to my outfit, placing it so it would be out of the camera’s view, I let my eyes roam around the space. It was still hard to believe this was mine, and I doubted I’d get used to it anytime soon. There were two new vertical wall hangings on either side of the exit that hadn’t been there yesterday. A couple of the final pieces Hunter had come to put up this morning, I guessed. They were of Grace Kelly and Dorothy Dandridge, both fully decked out in glamorous gowns with cocktails in hand—fantastic additions. I’d meant to look for all the last-minute touches earlier today, but the place had been swarming with people on both sides, and I hadn’t gotten a chance.
 

Tony, the lighting director I’d met two weeks prior, stood to my right, fiddling with a light, and I held my hand up to shield my eyes. When he finished his adjustment and moved out of the way, a picture just above the center booth behind him was revealed, and it had the breath rushing out of me.
 

“Oh my God,” I said, unable to tear my gaze away. Standing up, I walked over to the booth, and the closer I got, the more I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The final piece, the one Hunter had waited until today to install, wasn’t just any picture, and it definitely wasn’t one I’d picked out along with the others. No, this one was personal. An artistic rendering of a photograph taken not long ago, of a couple in happier times, decked out in full fifties flare. The girl was swooped up in her lover’s arms, both laughing. Happy.
The Last First Date
was scrawled across the bottom.
 

My legs were going to give out. I grabbed on to the side of the booth as Quinn dashed over.
 

“Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a—” Quinn stopped and squinted at the picture. “Is that you and—”

“Can you get me my phone?” I said in a breathless rush. “In my purse in the kitchen.”

She didn’t ask any questions, just ran out of the room and was back in less than thirty seconds. “Here,” she said, handing it to me, and with shaky hands, I took it from her.
 

There were no missed calls, no response from Hunter to the text I’d sent, but it didn’t matter as long as he answered the phone now.
 

But again there was no ringing, just the automated recording as the call went straight to voicemail. I hung up and tried again. Same thing. This time I left a quick message.
 

“Hunter, it’s Ryleigh. Please call me when you get this.”

After hanging up, I dialed a different number.
 

“Hey,” Cameron said, answering on the second ring. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

“Sorry, but is Hunter with you? It’s urgent.”

A hand touched my elbow, and I whipped around. I must’ve had a crazy expression on my face, because the assistant backed up.
 

“Sorry, but they’re calling for places now,” she said, her thumb pointing back at the chairs where the host was already seated and getting miked.
 

“Cameron, hang on.” Covering the phone with my hand, I said, “I’m so sorry, can I just have a second, please? It’s an emergency.” Then I turned and put the cell back to my ear. “Hello? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here, but no, he’s not with me. Is everything okay? I thought you were filming.”

“I am, but I…” How was I going to explain that I knew what the picture meant? It wasn’t over. He’d never have put that up if there wasn’t hope of another chance. “I just need to find him. Please.”

“Ryleigh…” he said. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but he’s gone.”

That one four-letter word had me leaning against the booth for support. Gone? What did he mean
gone
? “Well…where did he go? He was just here this morning.”

“He left for the airport a few minutes ago. Back to Chicago.”

“What?” I shouted. I could feel the weight of everyone’s stares on me as they turned in my direction, but in that moment, I couldn’t care less.

“I’m sorry,” Cameron said. “I thought you knew.”

“No…no, no, no, no, no. Why would he do that? He left the picture, that means…” Well, fuck. I thought it meant… Well, maybe it didn’t mean… Oh God, even my thoughts weren’t making any sense.
 

“Ryleigh, we need to get started.” Mr. Lieberman was at my side, a stern expression on his face as he checked his watch.
 

“Right. I’m coming.” As he ushered me back to my chair, I asked Cameron, “Burbank airport?”

“LAX,” was all I heard before Quinn was in front of me.
 

“I need to take this,” she whispered, and I let the phone go without a fight.