Chapter 5: Eight Days Left (Again)

Okay, so that brings us back to me dry-heaving in the bathroom of a dumpy bar.

In the two days since my meeting with Mr. Everet, I've racked my brain for ideas of how I'm going to pull this off. And honestly? Against all odds, I've come to the conclusion that my best chance of getting an interview with Luca or any of the Fontaines will be to go with my original spur-of-the-moment (incredibly insane) plan to somehow charm my way in. I have nothing else to offer them - nothing they need, anyway. When you're Hollywood royalty, you're pretty much set in terms of money, fame, and connections. And the Fontaines are more than just royalty - they're a multi-generational dynasty. If you can name a position in the film industry, a Fontaine has been there. And won all the awards. And probably caused a lot of trouble - and broken a few hearts - along the way.

In other words, they are the wet dream of every celebrity news outlet in existence. Except you don't become as big as the Fontaines without learning a few tricks about how to manage the press to your advantage. They're masters of the PR game, which means it can be nearly impossible to pin them down for an interview.

If I weren't already fighting an uphill battle, that's not my only disadvantage here. As I'm sure you've noticed by now, I'm not exactly "smooth" in the charm department. I don't have any experience seducing people. Hell, I can barely flirt. When I dated guys back in school, it was usually because we'd become friends in class first. Since then, I've tried online dating a few times, but for the most part, I've been focused on other things - not making googly eyes at someone next to me at the bar or chatting some guy up across the cantaloupes at the supermarket. I'm not even really sure how men and women interact these days outside of the internet.

Naturally, my first step was to try and learn. Since my meeting with Roman Everet, I've read every "How to Flirt" article I could find. But I knew I needed some real-world experience, which is why I came out here tonight. I thought I was ready to put the tips I'd learned to the test - with the help of some liquid courage, of course.

I was not expecting to have my first practice session crashed by the man who got me into this mess. I'm surprised that after witnessing that display he didn't fire me on the spot. I'm obviously not going to pull this off. He can save Celebrity Spark a week of my pay by canning me right now.

But what do I do at this point? I wonder as I stare at a bit of graffiti on the bathroom wall. Hide in this stall until this place closes? There's no way to get back to my car without walking past him. But while I could try to wait it out, hole up in here until closing time, sitting in this stall for a couple of hours doesn't sound very appealing - especially considering I'm going to have to face him at work on Monday anyway. What do I gain by being a coward now?

With a sigh, I leave the stall and go over to the sink. My initial assessment of my appearance in the mirror isn't all bad, at least. My cheeks are still a little redder than usual, but out in the dim lights of the bar, I'm not sure anyone will notice. My makeup is still mostly in place, though it could use a touch-up. Otherwise, I look just as I did when I walked into this place after an hour of careful preparations in the Celebrity Spark bathrooms: my dark, thick hair still holds its waves, my short skirt still hugs my hips, my black top still shows a healthy amount of cleavage. There's still a big wet spot down my front from my spilled gin, but it's not as obvious as it would have been if I'd been wearing a different color. I grab some paper towels and dab at it.

Still, after a couple of harsh rejections at the bar, my faith in my appearance has wavered significantly. I toss the paper towels in the trash and open my purse. My lips get another layer of plum-colored lipstick. My eyes another swipe of dark brown eyeliner. It's sultry without being vampy - or so I thought when I walked out the door tonight. As I study myself now, I'm not so sure.

But I'm also not going to think any more highly of myself if I cower in here much longer. At this point, I suspect the only thing that will help me is another drink. Something strong.

And so, after one last doleful look in the mirror, I leave the bathroom.

Roman Everet is still here. I spot him the moment I step back into the bar. It's only been a couple of days since I met him, and yet there's something unmistakable about his bearing, something instantly recognizable about him, even across this crowded bar.

He's not looking at me. He's not even looking in the direction of the bathroom. But I know he's waiting for my return. As I watch him, he takes a long sip of his drink - something dark and undoubtedly expensive, or at least as expensive as you can get at this bar - and then says a few words to the bartender. God, I hope they aren't talking about me. I'm sure I've provided plenty of entertainment for both of them tonight.

I shift my gaze to the door. I could leave if I wanted to. Just walk right out. But why delay the inevitable?

I straighten my shoulders and march over to the bar, sliding in right next to the man who is more or less my boss for the next week. I don't look at him. Instead, I smile at the bartender.

"Shot of tequila, please," I say. That'll make me feel better.

Mr. Everet doesn't seem surprised to see me suddenly appear at his side. I sense his eyes moving over me, analyzing me, and I'm thankful it's too dark for him to see me blush. I don't want to think about the opinions he's forming right now.

Unfortunately, he seems more than happy to share them.

"You're trying too hard," he says.

If I had a drink, I'd be choking on it. "What?"

"This." He waves his hand, indicating everything from my head to my toes. "This is too much."

"Excuse me?"

The bartender slides my shot across the bar to me, and he's giving me one of those pitying looks again. I glance away from him quickly, but unfortunately that means that I find myself looking right into Mr. Everet's sharp, penetrating eyes. He seems completely unconcerned that his assessments are making me uncomfortable. And completely oblivious to the fact that I couldn't care less about his opinion of me.

My cheeks are getting hotter. I grab my shot and throw it down, hoping the burn will chase away the humiliation coursing through my veins.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asks me.

I glare at him. "Not nearly enough." I wave at the bartender again. "Long Island Iced Tea, please."

I can tell without him even saying a word that Mr. Everet doesn't think that's a good idea. And maybe it's stupid to keep downing hard alcohol in front of the man who gets to decide whether or not I keep my job. But he already has too much power over my future. I'm not about to let this man dictate my drink choices, too. And there's nothing illegal about having a drink when I'm off the clock. Doesn't a big-shot CEO have better things to do with his time than hang out with his soon-to-be-ex-employee on a Friday night?

Under different circumstances, I might have found his unrelenting gaze flattering, or even arousing - I mean, look at the guy. There's no doubt that the body beneath that designer suit is extremely lickable. Or that those hands, which look so large around his glass of dark liquor, probably know exactly how to tease a woman into exquisite pleasure.

But these aren't circumstances where I can fully appreciate either of those things. He shouldn't be here in this grungy bar. He shouldn't have witnessed my laughable attempt at flirtation. He shouldn't be sitting next to me, studying me, when he has a company to run and fancy, important places to be.

He's silent as the bartender mixes my drink, silent as the glass gets passed into my hand, silent as I take my first sip. In fact, he's silent so long that my anger seeps out of me and I start to get nervous again. He obviously has something he wants to say. Why won't he just spit it out already and put me out of my misery?

Finally, I can't take it anymore.

"What?" I ask, ashamed by how my voice cracks on the word.

"I didn't say anything," he replies.

I really want to leave it there. To sip at my Long Island and pretend none of this ever happened. I don't want to hear about what I'm doing wrong, about all the poor decisions I've already made tonight. I'm already judging myself. I don't need his judgment, too.

But after a moment, he sighs, and I know I'm about to hear it anyway.

"Do you want my advice?" he says. "Or are you just going to get offended?"

Okay, so I guess he did notice that his comments were getting to me. And yeah, it would be easy to tell him that I don't care about his opinion. To put up a wall and ignore his criticisms. But let's be honest - I need the help, and we both know it.

"Fine," I say. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong, Mr. Everet."