Curling her delicate fingers around the slim glass partition, the only thing separating her from a forty-foot fall, she lifted her gaze to the sky, trying to locate a single star that wasn’t actually an airplane, but there’s only one kind of star in LA.
While she usually fought to avoid all thoughts of the past, on that night, for that one brief moment, Madison allowed herself to drift back to a place where real stars were abundant.
Back to a place that had better stay buried.
A breeze curled past her cheek, delivering the sound of light footsteps and a strangely familiar scent she couldn’t quite place. Still, she waited a beat before turning, stealing the moment to wish on a shooting star she’d mistaken for a jet, crossing her fingers as it blazed a wide and glittery arc across a black velvet sky.
It would all be okay.
There was no need to worry.
She turned, ready to face it, whatever it was. She was telling herself she could handle it either way—when a cool, sure hand slipped over her mouth and Madison Brooks disappeared.
Layla Harrison could not stop fidgeting. First she sank down low in her beach chair, burying her feet deep into the sand, then she wiggled upright again until the canvas bit into her shoulders, before finally giving up and squinting toward the ocean where her boyfriend, Mateo, waited for the next decent wave. A tedious pursuit that never failed to supply him with an endless stream of happiness she could not understand.
As much as she loved him, and she did (hell, he was so cute and sexy and sweet, she’d be crazy not to), after spending the last three hours dodging the sun under her giant umbrella while struggling to write a decent piece that contained the right dose of humor and snark, she wished Mateo would call it a day and start the long paddle in.
Clearly he had no clue how crazy uncomfortable it was to sit for hours on end in the rickety, ancient beach chair he’d loaned her, and how could he? It wasn’t like he ever used it. He was always out on his board, looking Zen and gorgeous and completely at peace, while Layla did all that she could to blot out the splendors of Malibu. The giant umbrella she hid under was just the beginning.
Beneath the bulky hoodie and the extra towel she’d placed over her knees, she wore a thick layer of sunblock, and of course she’d never venture outside without her oversize sunglasses and the crumpled straw fedora Mateo had brought back from a recent surf trip to Costa Rica.
For Mateo, Layla’s ritual of blocking and shielding was futile at best. You can’t master the environment, he’d say. You have to respect it, honor it, play by its rules. It’s madness to think you’re in charge—nature always gets the last word.
Easy to say when your skin is immune to sunburns and you were practically raised on a surfboard.
She returned to her laptop and frowned. Writing a cheesy celebrity gossip blog was a long way from the New York Times byline she dreamed of, but she had to start somewhere.
Arrested Development
No, I’m not referring to the too-smart-for-network-what-were-they-thinking cult comedy (insert I’m-surrounded-by-idiots sigh), I’m talking about actual arrested development, people. The kind you can read about in your Psych 101 books (for those of you who actually read anything other than gossip blogs and Twitter feeds). The kind yours truly witnessed last night at Le Château, when three of Hollywood’s youngest and hottest, but certainly not brightest, decided olives were for more than just aimlessly lolling at the bottom of a martini glass—
“You still at it?” Mateo stood before her, board tucked under his shoulder, feet sinking into the sand.
“Just doing some last-minute edits,” she mumbled, watching as he dropped his board on the towel, swiped a hand through his sun- and salt-water-streaked hair, and unzipped his wet suit. He peeled it so far down his torso Layla couldn’t help but gulp at the absolute speech-defying wonder of seeing her beautiful boyfriend bared and glistening before her.
In a town teeming with oversize egos, a surplus of vanity, and a cult of body-obsessed green juice devotees, Mateo’s obliviousness to his natural good looks was so rare, most of the time Layla couldn’t imagine what he saw in such a pale and cynical slip of a girl like herself.
“Can I help?” He reached for her water bottle, looking as though he’d like nothing more than to read her take on three martini-fueled A-list celebrities reenacting their former high school cafeteria hijinks by chucking olives at everyone around them.
Typical Mateo. He’d been like that from the first night she’d met him, just a little over two years ago, on her six-teenth birthday. Both of them had been amazed to discover they were born just a year and ten days apart, and yet their birthdays still managed to make them different (and mostly opposing) astrological signs.
Mateo was a Sagittarius, which made him a free-spirited dreamer.
Layla was a Capricorn, which made her ambitious and a wee bit controlling—if you believed in those things, which of course Layla didn’t. It was just some weird coincidence that in their case was true.
She handed over the laptop and sank deeper into her seat. Hearing Mateo read her work aloud was her own personal version of crack.
It was good for her process. Helped her edit and hone. But Layla had enough self-awareness to know that when it came to her writing, she was the world’s biggest praise slut, and Mateo usually found something nice to say, no matter how lame the content.
Water bottle dangling from one hand and Layla’s MacBook Air perched on the other, Mateo started to read. When he reached the end, he looked at her and said, “Is this for real?”
“I kept an olive as a souvenir.”
He narrowed his gaze as though trying to picture the celebrity food fight. “You get a picture?” He returned the laptop.
Layla shook her head, paused to make one small adjustment, then hit Save instead of the usual Send. “The Château is serious about their photo ban.”
Mateo shook his head and drained the water bottle in one steady stream as Layla continued to ogle him, feeling more than a little perverted for reducing her boyfriend to a sweet piece of eye candy. “You going to send that?” he asked. “Seems ready.”
She sank the laptop into her bag. “You know how I’ve been talking about starting my own blog, Beautiful Idols?” Her tentative gaze met his. “I’m thinking this might be the perfect launch piece.”
He shifted his stance, played with the bottle cap. “Layla, it’s a good bit.” He spoke as though he was handpicking each word. “It’s funny, and on point, but …” He shrugged, letting the silence say what he wouldn’t: it was hardly the caliber of work she was capable of.
“I know what you’re thinking.” She rushed to her own defense. “But none of the crap I write about qualifies as world-changing news, and I’m sick of working for crumbs. If I want to go it alone, I’ll have to start somewhere. And while the blog might take a while to really catch on, once it does, I can make a ton of money on the ad revenue alone. Besides, I’ve saved more than enough to hold me between now and then.”
That last part was a hasty addition that might or might not be true. But it sounded good, and it seemed to convince Mateo, since his first response was to pull her out of her chair and into his arms.
“And what exactly will you do with all that ad revenue?”
She ran a finger over his chest, stalling