Red Carpet Kiss - Melissa Brown Page 0,2

had become a tradition over the years. Elle listened to the Beatles’ Revolver album while wallowing in her memories of Troy—the years they’d spent together both as friends and lovers. Over and over again, she replayed the sweet moments as well as the ones that brought nothing but sadness and regret. Despite the pain, it was comforting somehow—as if her memories, and the songs that played in the background, kept them connected. She was listening to the album for a second time when Rob’s call came through.

Elle decided to push the issue, to see how far she could take it. “Um . . . I’m already in my comfies. Any chance we can do this in the morning?”

Rob paused, and then the connection grew muffled. Elle smiled, knowing he’d covered the phone to talk to another conspirator.

“Just get over here,” another voice chimed in, this one feminine, yet snippy . . . and all too familiar. Whitney.

“I knew it,” Elle said, shaking her head, petting Linus as he rubbed up against her leg, and hoping Whitney wouldn’t recognize the album in the background. Revolver, although it was her favorite album, was the album that made her think the most of Troy. “You know I don’t like to make a big deal out of this.”

Whitney sighed. “I know, and it isn’t, I promise. Just get down here.”

“Fine, give me twenty.”

“I’ll do you one better. Take thirty.”

“Wow, feeling generous?” Elle said, placing her pumps, one by one, back onto her tired feet.

“Nah. Waiting on the food delivery.”

“I already ate,” Elle whined.

“Tough.” Whitney snapped, “And run a comb through your hair.”

“I resent that,” Elle responded, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She did look disheveled after a long day at the studio. Her normally curly blonde locks were flat to the sides of her face. She grimaced, gazing at her reflection. “But whatever, fine, I’ll be there in a half hour.”

Elle loved the way her hair felt when it blew through the tranquil California breeze. The crisp scent of the ocean enveloped her in its serenity. Her left elbow rested on the leather interior of her brand-new convertible.

She’d once owned a convertible back in Chicago, where she had spent the majority of her life. In fact, Troy had encouraged her to buy that first convertible. They’d dated for a year in college after meeting and becoming friends in ninth grade. Attached to one another’s sides for most of their teen years, despite the fact that they bickered more than the average friends, they’d spent a few summers driving in Elle’s bright red Sebring, the top down, the Chicago wind destroying Elle’s hair no matter how she tried to avoid it.

When she first moved to Santa Monica, she’d refused to purchase anything that reminded her of him—including a vehicle in which they’d made so many memories. But when Follow the Sun was nominated for its first Emmys, and the producers renewed it for three more seasons, Elle was feeling unstoppable and she managed to forget about him briefly to purchase a brand-new silver Mercedes E-Class convertible.

Each time she slid into the warm leather seat, Elle ran her fingers up and down the cool steering wheel, and a small contented sigh left her lips. She was living the dream.

The twenty-five-minute drive to the studio in Los Angeles was easy and uneventful. When she reached the peach-colored booth at the entrance of the studio, Larry the attendant raised an inquisitive, yet playful, brow.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again tonight.”

“I guess I’m needed.” Elle shrugged.

“Have a piece of cake for me,” Larry replied, giving her a wink. His tan skin, worn and aged like leather, pulled at his cheeks with his smile. In contrast, his silver hair glistened from the top of his head.

“You too?” Elle asked, not completely surprised by the reach of Whitney’s sneaky planning.

“Afraid so.” Larry chuckled.

“I’ll bring you a slice on my way out. How’s that?”

Larry laughed again, raised the gate, and nodded. “Sounds great. Enjoy yourself, Ms. Riley.”

Whitney was waiting for Elle at her designated parking space. Her chocolate-brown curls were pulled up in a loose ponytail. Her nose was scrunched and her arms were crossed in front of her chest.

Elle was confused by her attitude. “What? Am I late?” She glanced at her watch.

“C’mon, let’s go. Everyone’s waiting.” Whitney opened the car door, allowing Elle to step out of the vehicle.

“Seriously, what’s the matter?” Elle was distracted by Whitney’s mood and couldn’t concentrate on the party until she

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