Kiss me under the Hollywood sign

Chapter 14

The early morning light was just beginning to spill into the quiet neighborhood as my phone lit up on the coffee table. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and squinted at the screen, seeing a new message from Daniel.

"Leave your car at home. I'll pick you up sharp at 7:30."

OKAY...

My thumbs moved across the screen faster than you can say "covfefe": "Noted Mr. Hunter. Wouldn't miss out on a ride in your fancy set of wheels."

Hit send and stretched my aching muscles. The couch really wasn't meant for sleeping. I turned to check on Sarah passed out next to me, mascara tracks dried on her pale face. Whatever demons haunted her dreams, we'd face them together.

Time for a new day.

At 7:29 I crept outside and sure enough, there sat Daniel's shiny silver Aston Martin, engine purring like a well-fed house cat. He smiled through the open window eyeing my clothes. "Good morning, Ms. Watson. Fashionably late as always, I see." Always one with the wit, that Daniel.

Daniel chuckled as we pulled away. My eyes were drawn to the two other vehicles trailing us - an SUV van bearing the logo of some ritzy cosmetics brand that probably charges $85 for a jar of talcum powder, and a dark sedan with Daniel's stoic bodyguard Ben( I recognized from yesterday) at the wheel, eyes scanning for threats like a TSA agent on the prowl for contraband underpants. Quite the procession! If they were in a parade, they'd win first prize for the most pretentious float.

"Protecting Hollywood royalty, I see. Is there an actual danger or do you just want to feel important... Mr. Hunter?" I smirked.

"All part of the show. Can't have fans mobbing poor defenseless me and giving the paparazzi something scandalous to snap, now can we? Then I wouldn't be worth my exorbitant per diem rates."

The drive passed quickly with Daniel regaling me with set stories, each funnier than the last. By the time we arrived amidst the bustling studio lot, I'd forgotten all about my tired limbs. Except now I had a sore stomach from laughing.

~

We wound our way through the chaotic dressing room, dodging rolling clothing racks and scurrying stylists like squirrels in traffic. Their arms were piled high with garments bearing labels more exotic than ingredients in a five-dollar smoothie - Koché, Raf Simons, Schiaparelli. It seemed a tornado had ripped through Paris, Milan, and New York Fashion Weeks, depositing their finest frocks in this cramped midtown space.

At the center of the mayhem stood Susan, our no-nonsense head stylist. She eyed Daniel's measurements with the precision of a master butcher appraising a side of beef. "Only the choicest cuts for our leading man," she said, licking her lips aggressively enough to make a nearby intern faint.

I shot Daniel a sideways glance, my lips twitching with the effort to maintain a straight face. He replied with a polite smile and nod, but his eyes shone with barely concealed panic. The poor man - thrust into a whirlwind of silk, chiffon, and opinions stronger than Merlot. We'd be peeling him off the plastered walls by day's end if someone didn't throw him a rope.

"Let's start with the event details," I suggested, steering us to safer waters. "It's a black tie gala to benefit charities for children in need, correct?"

Daniel nodded gratefully. I pulled up reference photos and notes on my tablet, suddenly grateful for the mountains of research assigned by Stevo yesterday according to the Notes app. While he drove me to drink more coffee than is strictly healthy, it did come in handy at this moment.

"Given it benefits children, we'll want something eye-catching but tasteful," I said, parroting one of Daniel's favorite phrases I heard in an online press video. Well, I looked it up before coming up here- well prepared!