“Perks?”
“You have concierge service now. I’m your personal attendant and I will attend to everything you need, Miss Kinsella, but tomorrow, if that’s OK?”
“Yeah, sure, but—”
“Great, call me at this number whenever you need anything. Just not—”
“Today, yeah, I get it.”
“Thank you,” he sings back at me. And then I get the disconnect beeps again.
Jesus. Can life get any stranger? These flowers are not mine, this bank concierge is not mine, and this celebrity wedding is not… well, yeah, that one is mine. I smirk at that, but still. Weird.
Well, since Mr. What’s-his-face can’t be bothered today, I will sort that bank stuff out tomorrow. And I still have forty minutes before I need to leave to meet Ms. Blazen, so first thing first.
How much coffee money do I have left?
I press my Starbucks app on my phone and walk over to the flowers as I wait for it to load. There’s a card, and I’m just pulling it out of the little pink envelope when my balance comes up.
I stare at it.
Then at the card in my hand.
You are cared for.
Then my balance. Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven dollars, sixty-three cents.
What? How? I look back at the flowers and see Asher’s little V initial. What the f**k? Who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks account?
And that stuff with the bank?
I pull up my banking app on my phone and log in. It takes a few seconds, which is not good, because the time between that and when it loads only gives my heart time to beat faster, so that when I actually see the balance in my savings, I have to grab a hold of the table to keep from falling over.
I have thirty thousand dollars in my savings account.
Chapter Five
TheGiftThatKeepsOnGiving
MY mind wanders all day. Grace, Grace, Grace. That’s all I think about as I listen to my agent go on about upcoming projects, promotions, and charity functions.
I nod for everything.
“Yes, sure, Larry,” I tell him when he asks if I’ll attend the IM2 premiere.
“You will?” he asks, surprised. He’s holding his phone, glancing down at it every few seconds even as he talks to me. “I mean, you’ve been making such a big deal about it these last few years.”
“Hell the f**k no! I’m messing with you. I can’t stand the paparazzi and the fanfare. I’m sick of it. I’ve lived in the public eye for twenty-seven years, and that’s not including the first five years where the public eye was only Adam. It’s tiring. I’m at the point where this really is a job, ya know? I’d like to go home at the end of the day and just… be with people in a normal way.”
Larry looks at me suspiciously, one brow hitched up on his forehead, one eye squinting. “You’re seeing someone?”
“What? No, hell no. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“You have a girl at your place, don’t you? I’m coming over tonight to check. Are you shacking up?”
“No, Larry. Look, all I mean is that I need space. I need… time off maybe.”
“Time off? Are you kidding me? V, your career is at its height. You’re in your prime. You have roles coming out your ass. IM2 is the beginning. All those stupid roles are behind you and now is the time to take on projects that are meaningful and fulfilling. You can’t quit now.”
“I’m not talking about quitting, I’m just talking about doing… something else. Like relaxing. Enjoying what I have for a year.”
“A year? No, you can’t—” His phone buzzes in his palm and that distracts him away from my conversation just long enough for me to wave a hand at the waitress to get the check. “I have to take this, do you mind?”
“You go, I’ll pay. Talk to you next week.”
He pats me on the back as he answers his call and then walks out.
We’ve had this weekly lunch every Tuesday for ten years. Larry is my best friend as well as my agent and I know he’s just looking out for my career, but the truth is I don’t want to think about my job, or the premiere of IM2, or the appearances I’ll have to do to promote it, or any of the other endless things that come with being a movie star in Hollywood.
I need to get the hell out of Hollywood, actually. I think that might be my problem.
“Here you are, Mr. Asher,” the waitress says as she hands me the check. I pull out my card and hand it over to her and go back to my thoughts, looking out the window onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Grace. That’s all I want to think about today. Tweeting with Grace tonight. And who would’ve thought that this simple thing could make my day?
I wonder if she got my flowers, or realized I’ve padded her bank account with money? Or the Starbucks card?
I’m still smiling at all of that when my phone buzzes and speak of the angel, she’s calling me right now to thank me! I press accept. “Calling me at work, tsk tsk tsk,” I say playfully.
“Asher,” she seethes and I actually sit back in my chair at her tone. “Who the f**k do you think you are going into my private accounts? Just who the f**k?”
“Whoa, Grace, not the thank you I was expecting.”
“Thank you? Are you crazy? I’m writing you a check and giving all that money back. How dare you! I will not be bought. I will not have you giving me money with the presumption that I owe you something, understand? I will write you—”
The waitress discreetly slips the bill back on the table and I hold my hand over the phone and mouth Thank you, bring the car, at her.
“—and you will stop with this. Do you understand?”
“Grace, listen carefully, because you’re missing out on the experience of what just happened to you. OK?”
“How dare you discount my feelings on this—”
“Listen,” I growl at her. “You had your say, now I will have mine.” She huffs out some air and I can almost imagine the eye roll she’s giving me in Denver and that just makes her all the more desirable. But she needs a firm hand right now, because she’s being emotional and reactionary. “It’s a gift. I’d like to help you out. In your pursuits or dreams. Whatever. Use that money any way you want. There are no expectations tied to it at all. If you write me a check I won’t cash it, so don’t waste the time and effort it will take for all your self-righteous indignation. It’s pointless.”
“You have concierge service now. I’m your personal attendant and I will attend to everything you need, Miss Kinsella, but tomorrow, if that’s OK?”
“Yeah, sure, but—”
“Great, call me at this number whenever you need anything. Just not—”
“Today, yeah, I get it.”
“Thank you,” he sings back at me. And then I get the disconnect beeps again.
Jesus. Can life get any stranger? These flowers are not mine, this bank concierge is not mine, and this celebrity wedding is not… well, yeah, that one is mine. I smirk at that, but still. Weird.
Well, since Mr. What’s-his-face can’t be bothered today, I will sort that bank stuff out tomorrow. And I still have forty minutes before I need to leave to meet Ms. Blazen, so first thing first.
How much coffee money do I have left?
I press my Starbucks app on my phone and walk over to the flowers as I wait for it to load. There’s a card, and I’m just pulling it out of the little pink envelope when my balance comes up.
I stare at it.
Then at the card in my hand.
You are cared for.
Then my balance. Four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven dollars, sixty-three cents.
What? How? I look back at the flowers and see Asher’s little V initial. What the f**k? Who the hell puts five thousand dollars on a Starbucks account?
And that stuff with the bank?
I pull up my banking app on my phone and log in. It takes a few seconds, which is not good, because the time between that and when it loads only gives my heart time to beat faster, so that when I actually see the balance in my savings, I have to grab a hold of the table to keep from falling over.
I have thirty thousand dollars in my savings account.
Chapter Five
TheGiftThatKeepsOnGiving
MY mind wanders all day. Grace, Grace, Grace. That’s all I think about as I listen to my agent go on about upcoming projects, promotions, and charity functions.
I nod for everything.
“Yes, sure, Larry,” I tell him when he asks if I’ll attend the IM2 premiere.
“You will?” he asks, surprised. He’s holding his phone, glancing down at it every few seconds even as he talks to me. “I mean, you’ve been making such a big deal about it these last few years.”
“Hell the f**k no! I’m messing with you. I can’t stand the paparazzi and the fanfare. I’m sick of it. I’ve lived in the public eye for twenty-seven years, and that’s not including the first five years where the public eye was only Adam. It’s tiring. I’m at the point where this really is a job, ya know? I’d like to go home at the end of the day and just… be with people in a normal way.”
Larry looks at me suspiciously, one brow hitched up on his forehead, one eye squinting. “You’re seeing someone?”
“What? No, hell no. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“You have a girl at your place, don’t you? I’m coming over tonight to check. Are you shacking up?”
“No, Larry. Look, all I mean is that I need space. I need… time off maybe.”
“Time off? Are you kidding me? V, your career is at its height. You’re in your prime. You have roles coming out your ass. IM2 is the beginning. All those stupid roles are behind you and now is the time to take on projects that are meaningful and fulfilling. You can’t quit now.”
“I’m not talking about quitting, I’m just talking about doing… something else. Like relaxing. Enjoying what I have for a year.”
“A year? No, you can’t—” His phone buzzes in his palm and that distracts him away from my conversation just long enough for me to wave a hand at the waitress to get the check. “I have to take this, do you mind?”
“You go, I’ll pay. Talk to you next week.”
He pats me on the back as he answers his call and then walks out.
We’ve had this weekly lunch every Tuesday for ten years. Larry is my best friend as well as my agent and I know he’s just looking out for my career, but the truth is I don’t want to think about my job, or the premiere of IM2, or the appearances I’ll have to do to promote it, or any of the other endless things that come with being a movie star in Hollywood.
I need to get the hell out of Hollywood, actually. I think that might be my problem.
“Here you are, Mr. Asher,” the waitress says as she hands me the check. I pull out my card and hand it over to her and go back to my thoughts, looking out the window onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Grace. That’s all I want to think about today. Tweeting with Grace tonight. And who would’ve thought that this simple thing could make my day?
I wonder if she got my flowers, or realized I’ve padded her bank account with money? Or the Starbucks card?
I’m still smiling at all of that when my phone buzzes and speak of the angel, she’s calling me right now to thank me! I press accept. “Calling me at work, tsk tsk tsk,” I say playfully.
“Asher,” she seethes and I actually sit back in my chair at her tone. “Who the f**k do you think you are going into my private accounts? Just who the f**k?”
“Whoa, Grace, not the thank you I was expecting.”
“Thank you? Are you crazy? I’m writing you a check and giving all that money back. How dare you! I will not be bought. I will not have you giving me money with the presumption that I owe you something, understand? I will write you—”
The waitress discreetly slips the bill back on the table and I hold my hand over the phone and mouth Thank you, bring the car, at her.
“—and you will stop with this. Do you understand?”
“Grace, listen carefully, because you’re missing out on the experience of what just happened to you. OK?”
“How dare you discount my feelings on this—”
“Listen,” I growl at her. “You had your say, now I will have mine.” She huffs out some air and I can almost imagine the eye roll she’s giving me in Denver and that just makes her all the more desirable. But she needs a firm hand right now, because she’s being emotional and reactionary. “It’s a gift. I’d like to help you out. In your pursuits or dreams. Whatever. Use that money any way you want. There are no expectations tied to it at all. If you write me a check I won’t cash it, so don’t waste the time and effort it will take for all your self-righteous indignation. It’s pointless.”
