Quickly, I click into the message from Blake and read through its contents. A grin takes over my face.
Blake: Birdie Harris has agreed to a 45-minute lunch with you tomorrow.
Not only did she outright refuse the possibility of a dinner, she put a time limit on our lunch.
Damn, she’s stubborn.
And fuck if I don’t get some kind of sick satisfaction from it.
Me: In LA, right? I’m not going to find out tomorrow that she expects me to meet her somewhere in Guam, am I?
Blake: Per her assistant Samantha, she’s currently getting settled into the rental she’ll be staying at while she’s on location here. She’s supposed to head back to Nashville soon, though, so who knows. Maybe she’s pulling a hologram on you.
Me: A hologram?
Blake: Pretending to be somewhere she’s not.
Am I getting old? Why haven’t I ever heard of this before?
Me: Make arrangements for me to pick her up tomorrow at her rental at noon.
His response comes in seconds later, and it is not the least bit of a surprise.
Blake: Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to go for that. There was some…resistance…just trying to get her to agree to this lunch.
Me: Resistance?
Blake: There may or may not have been some veiled threats about violence. I think she might be the only woman in the world who doesn’t start drooling over the prospect of lunch with Andrew Watson. Honestly, I think I’m in love with her.
Me: First of all, you don’t like pussy. And secondly, the reason why you’re my assistant is because you make shit happen. So make THIS happen. WITHOUT violence.
Blake: You are a serious pain in my ass.
Me: Who pays you very, very well, I might add.
I do, actually. I would bet money that Blake is one of the highest-paid assistants in the business. But he’d probably refute that claim by saying most assistants don’t have to put up with my bullshit. Tomatoes, Tomahtoes.
Blake: Whatever.
Me: Thanks for getting all of that squared away, buddy. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.
His final response. The middle-finger emoji followed by I’m the only assistant who sticks around because I’m the only assistant in the world who can somehow manage to tolerate you.
Touché, Blake. Touché.
I slip my phone into the pocket of my leather jacket, open the driver’s door, hand the keys of my R8 off to the waiting valet, and slide out of the car. Once again, cameras flash and paparazzi toss questions my way as I head toward the entrance door. Questions bounce off me like tiny rubber bullets, and I answer every single one—in my head. No way I’m going to fuel the fire these guys have going by doing it aloud.
“Andrew! Andrew! Over here! Are you still dating Naomi McCoy?”
Nope. I fucked Naomi McCoy. Once. Wait—no, twice. And I’m not the dating type.
“We saw Luca Weaver arrive earlier. Are you meeting him? What do you think about his sister leaving show business?”
Great. Luca’s already here waiting. I love running late. It always makes my life so easy. And I think whatever Raquel Weaver wants to do, she should do.
“Andrew! Are you excited about Birdie Harris being cast as the lead for Grass Roots?”
Oh, man. You have no idea.
I offer a friendly wave and say, “Have a good night, guys,” just before I walk inside the restaurant.
I have no problems being nice to the paparazzi, but civil niceties are where I draw the line. I don’t have the time or the inclination to sit around chitchatting all night.
It takes all of a few seconds for a bubbly hostess with a great rack to greet me with a smile, and immediately, she takes me to my favorite table, the one I always reserve when I eat here. It’s far in the back and away from the crowd and with just enough privacy that not a single camera can sneak creepy shots of me eating.
Luca is already there, a beer sitting in front of him and his phone in his hands.
“Sorry, man,” I say once I reach the table. “Traffic was a bitch.”
He looks up at me, and a knowing smirk curves his lips. “You’re so full of shit, but it’s all good.”
I shrug, sit down, and a waiter with bleached blond hair steps up to the table.
“Good evening, Mr. Watson,” he says and sets a menu down in front of me. “What can I get you to drink this evening?”
“I’ll have what he’s having, and you can put all my shit