As soon as the door closes behind her, Debra makes a sound in her throat. “She lives here now?”
“You know she doesn’t.”
She smirks. “You should give her a key. She looks like she wants a key.”
“Maybe, I will,” I reply, glaring at my assistant. In the seven years since Liz, there have been a few women. Like me, they soon realized there would be no one else for me, and that to me, love, commitment, and all that forever stuff would always be little more than bullshit. Claire is the most recent, and she knows that anything more than sex is off the table.
“That will be the day.”
“It’s none of your business, Deb, but we’re just casual and it’s fine.”
“Does she know?” Debra sings under her breath, then grins and taps the folder she’s holding. “I’ll take care of this…and don’t forget…Celeste Granger.”
I wave her away. “I’ll be there.”
After she’s gone, I leave my desk, walking barefoot across the large space that is both living room, kitchen and office. There’s coffee brewing on the counter, and I pour a large amount into a plain white mug.
Why am I on edge?
Maybe because she is in town. It’s impossible to be unaware when one of the biggest Hollywood stars is in your city. Social media, magazine headlines, even news websites all conspire to feed people information they don’t need, like the fact that Liz McKay has set her dainty little feet in Manhattan.
Her dainty little lying and betraying feet.
I hate that I care. I hate that I pored over the articles speculating about her reasons for being in the city. I hate the longing that gripped me when I saw the pictures of her emerging from the building on Fifth Avenue where her dad, Dennis McKay has lived for years.
What is she doing here?
There are unconfirmed rumors that she pulled out of her latest project, an action blockbuster starring her ex-fiancé. I’ve tried not to care, but I can’t stop wondering why she’s been in town for almost a week now.
“I don’t care.” I say the words out loud, as if that will make them true.
I don’t care.
Except, I do.
“I’m so excited to meet you,” a girl in a tight red dress squeaks at me, thrusting her breasts in my face.
The living room of Celeste Granger’s spacious apartment is buzzing with people and conversation. Soft music flows out from hidden speakers, and servers weave through the guests with trays of champagne. I smile drily at the girl in front of me. “Of course, you are.”
Undeterred by my lack of interest, she tries again. “I love your work!”
“Oh, you do?” I lean close. She smells like anti-perspirant and heavy perfume. “Tell me, which of my plays do you just love the most?”
“All of them,” she breathes. “I’m an actress.” She thrusts out the breasts again, more vehemently this time. “I’ve always wanted to work with you. You’re an icon.”
I am bored. “You’re trying too hard, and yet not hard enough.” I walk away, taking only a few steps before I feel a hand on my arm.
“Aidan!” It’s Celeste, resplendent in a glittery black dress. She looks gorgeous, and she knows it.
With a delighted laugh, she kisses both my cheeks. “I think someone is unhappy with you,” she declares, her eyes on the girl I’ve just abandoned. “You’re not nice to anyone, Aidan. Not the starlets, not the producers, not even the investors. Why?”
“I am nice to you.”
“Not as nice as I’d like.” She winks and raises a finger to stroke my face. “Why don’t you stay after the party? Let’s have a party of our own.”
It’s not the first time she’s propositioned me, and even though she is older by a couple of decades, she’s still one of the sexiest actresses on the stage. I’m not tempted to take her up on her offer though. After Liz, there have been no more actresses.
“Celeste,” I give her a gentle smile. “I’m working tonight.”