I nod. “Right. I didn’t see it. But I know who you’re talking about.” Living in LA for the past seven years, I couldn’t avoid being aware of who all the A-listers were. Ben was more into the gossip than I was, though.
“The rumors were true. She did sleep with her costar. But it wasn’t cheating, according to Blake, because although he’s been married to Jeanette for six years, they’ve been separated for five.” She pours the eggs into the pan.
“Why not divorce, then?”
“They’re a media-darling couple. They’ve been able to use their relationship as fodder over the years to help fuel both of their careers. The rumors of cheating only helped her movie sell more.”
I cringe. “There’s no such thing as bad press.”
She stares down at the eggs in the pan. “In a sense. But it’s about to end. They’re waiting until she wraps up her next film, then they can publicly split, and she can use the tabloid fodder when she has her press tour.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s so calculated.”
She shrugs. “It’s how it is.”
“I guess. There is also the nonfraternization issue you mentioned.”
She opens the container of mixed veggies and shakes some into a measuring cup. “Yes. Technically, I’m not supposed to date clients.”
My brows lift. “Technically, could you lose your job over this?”
She lifts the edges of the omelet, tilting the pan so the uncooked parts roll to the sides. “I don’t think it would come to that, but yes.”
I stare at her profile. “If I didn’t just watch you measure out the exact portion of perfectly sliced vegetables for your omelet, I might think you were a creature from the beyond wearing a skin suit of my sister.”
She swallows, still not meeting my eyes. “I really like him, Piper.”
“Clearly.”
Mindy doesn’t do this. She doesn’t break rules, and she doesn’t talk about sappy feelings. Ever. I didn’t even know she had any.
“We can’t tell Finley or Taylor or anyone. Promise me.”
“Are you serious? Finley?”
Taylor, I understand. With all their weirdness, she and Mindy can’t say hello to each other without it coming to blows, but Finley and Mindy are close, barely a year apart. After Mom took off when we were little, they were like surrogate mothers to the rest of us.
She puts the veggies in the omelet, folds it, and turns to look at me. “It’s not that I don’t trust Finley, but I know she’ll tell Archer, and who knows who he’ll tell. Everyone will promise to keep it a secret but tell someone else, and then that person will tell someone else, and then it’s everywhere. The more people who know about it, the harder it is to contain. Here.” She plates the food and hands it to me before cracking more eggs into the bowl.
“I get it, and I won’t say anything—I promise.” I grab a fork and cut into the food, propping my hip against the counter.
She gives a quick squeeze of my shoulders. “Now we need to talk about what happened last night. I checked the guest list and spoke with security, and I can’t figure out how Ben got in.”
I blow out a breath. “Maybe he has an amazing doppelganger?”
She huffs out a skeptical laugh.
“I know. Wishful thinking. I’m guessing he found someone, a friend or a friend of a friend, to get him a guest pass. He is well connected from selling art to celebrities in LA.”
It was one of the reasons I hired him as my manager. Ben knows a lot of important people, and they all love him. To anyone who hasn’t lived with him, Ben is charming, friendly, and charismatic. He’s one of those people who will focus on you absolutely, making you feel like you’re the center of his attention and the only one who matters. No one can resist being a little dazzled after having a conversation with him.
“Do you think we should be worried?” Mindy asks carefully, her focus on the pan.
We tried to file a police report back in LA. Emotional abuse can be a crime in California. But it was difficult to prove because he never actually threatened to hurt me, and it was his word against mine.
After I left, Ben started a smear campaign, saying I was mentally unstable, doing drugs, and had hired someone to beat him up. It was typical Ben behavior: accuse me of doing the things he was actually doing. Deny, deflect, and play the victim.
Some people might have believed him—he did have a black eye courtesy of Oliver—but I haven’t been back in LA since February, and I haven’t heard of him spreading any more rumors, and it all seems to have blown over.
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe we should file a police report just in case? I don’t think they’ll do much about one package and a potential sighting. It doesn’t seem to be enough to constitute stalking. But it would be nice to have a paper trail if…”
I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to think it. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Ben’s behavior continued to escalate. It always did.
“We can do it after breakfast. We’ll go together.” She plates her food and nudges me toward the dining table. “Come on. First, I want to hear what happened after you and Oliver left.”
We sit, and I recap parts of last night, telling her about the studio Oliver put together in an astoundingly quick time, but I leave out my embarrassing behavior and our conversation about Lamentation. It’s too personal. I listen to another round of “be careful around that guy” and “Oliver might be a megalomaniac” speeches, but I understand they comes from a good place.
As we finish eating, though, a thought sneaks into my mind, a question that I didn’t think to consider until now: Why was Oliver at the event last night?