style="font-size:15px;"> “Fine.” She smiled. “I’m terrific.”
“I need to go mingle.” He presented his arm. “Care to join me?”
“You go on. I guess I am a little tired. I just want to sit here and watch everyone fawn over you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”
As soon as he moved away, the crowd engulfed him. Yes, Chris was right. In five years, Ken Harper was going to be the uncontested king of the Los Angeles restaurant scene.
She turned back to the bar, then took an idle sip of wine.
“Something wrong?”
She looked into Chris’s concerned face, then realized she was frowning. “No. I’m fine. Just tired.”
He looked dubious, but one of the waitresses came to the service area, and he left to fill her orders. In truth, she wasn’t fine. Ken was firmly on his path to success, but she was on the verge of graduating and still hadn’t found decent work. She’d had offers, of course, but mostly the jobs had involved working long hours as part of the crew for a low-budget film. Not bad for starting out, but Lisa wanted to be a development executive at one of the major studios before she was thirty—and with a goal like that, she needed to land a stellar, high-profile job right out of the gate.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t yet found one.
Determined to pull herself out of her funk, she twisted back around to watch the crowd. She tried to find Ken, but instead found herself sucking in a startled breath when she saw Drake Tyrell—one of the country’s hottest independent producers—heading right toward her.
“Miss Neal.” He slipped onto the empty stool next to her, then signaled to Chris to freshen his drink. Through the whole process, she just sat there gaping, awed that he even remembered who she was. “It’s good to see you again.”
She swallowed. “Thank you. Sir. I mean…it’s good to see you, too.” She fought a cringe, knowing she sounded like a tongue-tied fool. “I’m surprised you remember me.” He’d taught a weekend seminar, and she’d been one of two hundred students crammed into a small auditorium. Hardly the opportunity to stand out.
“Of course I remember.” Chris brought him a fresh drink and he raised the glass in toast. “To successfully getting through film school. Hell of an accomplishment.”
They clinked glasses, and he leaned back, eyeing her speculatively. Her nerves were about to shift into overdrive when he said, “I read your script.”
“Only Angels?”
When he nodded, her stomach twisted. She wondered not only why he’d read the thing, but what he’d thought of it. She’d written it more than a year ago and entered it in a contest at her professor’s urging.
“I’m one of the sponsors of the fellowship program,” he said, answering one of her unasked questions. “You have a flair for comedy. The script was charming.”
Her smile felt as watery as her knees, and she kept a firm hold on the back of the bar stool. “I’m glad you thought so,” she said, thrilled to find her voice was functioning. “It didn’t win,” she added, then immediately kicked herself for sounding petty.
He laughed, and she felt even smaller, at least until he said, “Not the fellowship, no.” He leaned closer, in front of her to grab a napkin off the bar. “But it just may have won you a job.”
At that, she almost lost her balance, and she grabbed onto the solid mahogany of the bar. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve been talking with your professors, looking over your work. I’ve got a job for you, if you want it.”
“A job?” she repeated stupidly. “Working with you?”
His grin was slow—probably he was used to people being in utter awe of him. “Of course. That is, if you think you’re up for it.”
Up for it? Of course she was up for it. The one thing she wanted most in the world had just been dropped in her lap. A job. A real career working with the Drake Tyrell.
“Of course, you’ll have to move to New York.”
She blinked. “Of course,” she murmured, trying not to scowl. How stupid of her to not have realized right off. As did Woody Allen and a handful of other producer/directors, Tyrell worked out of New York, refusing to set foot in Los Angeles unless absolutely necessary.
She didn’t have a clue why he avoided California. Fear of earthquakes, an allergy to smog, an intense hatred of freeways…who knew? Didn’t much matter. The bottom line for her was simple—work for Tyrell, move to New York. Cut, mark it, that’s a wrap.
He watched her, silent, not pressing, but neither did he offer to give her time to make up her mind. People like Tyrell expected action—folks jumped when they said “Boo.” If she wanted the job, she had to let him know before he walked away. Every instinct in her body told her to jump at the chance. This was her career, after all.
And then there was Ken.
Her eyes welled, and she blinked back the tears, annoyed with herself for being so emotional. She made a point of being perfectly sensible where her career was concerned, but that didn’t change the fact that she and Ken had become remarkably close, and it was going to tear her up inside to move so far away.
But she’d worked her tail off for years—all with the goal of one day being a full-fledged player in the Hollywood scene. She had to grab her chance while she could. Opportunity was pounding on her door; she needed to open the dead bolt and let it in.
Surely Ken would understand. After all, just this very night he’d taken the first step toward realizing his own ambition. And it wasn’t as if they were engaged or anything. Besides, she wasn’t breaking up with him, just moving away. She’d come back when she’d made something of a name for herself—hopefully sooner rather than later.
The bottom line was, she had to take the job. If she didn’t, for the rest of her life she’d wonder “What if?”
“Lisa?” At Tyrell’s voice, she sat up straighter, pulling her thoughts together into one cohesive package. “Are you interested?”
A real job, working for Drake Tyrell. Scary, but undeniably enticing. And everything you’ve ever dreamed of wrapped up in one package. There was no way she could say no, no way at all. This was her dream. Her life.
Taking a deep breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she looked Drake in the eyes. “Absolutely.” She held out her hand for him to shake. “I won’t disappoint you.”
1
Five years later…
AS ALWAYS during the lunch rush, every seat at Oxygen was full, and the hostess was issuing pagers to the intrepid souls who hadn’t thought to make reservations and were now faced with a two-hour wait. At least at lunch they had the option of waiting. During the dinner hours those without reservations were politely turned away, and even clients with reservations usually waited at least half an hour.
The
