Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies #1) - Tawna Fenske Page 0,8
stop myself there, conscious of the fact that non-Hollywood types probably don’t get hate mail on a daily basis. “Things like, ‘with a show concept that stupid, I hope you fail before the first episode airs.’ Or there were a few that made reference to our location—something about asshole Californians swooping in and buying up all the land in Oregon.”
At that, Mari rolls her eyes. “Because an abandoned cult compound is such a hot piece of real estate.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, we didn’t think much about the emails. But then Lana got this flower delivery.”
“Lana’s the youngest.” Vanessa’s eyes hold mine, and it’s clear she’s thinking about the story I told. The one about stabbing myself in the forehead to make my baby sister feel better.
“Yeah. Lana’s in public relations. The kind where it’s her job to make celebrities look less like assholes, so she’s had a lot of admirers.”
“And the opposite of admirers,” Mari adds, deftly avoiding the word enemies. “So it wasn’t completely out of left field that the flowers turned out to be sunflowers.”
“Which she’s allergic to,” I add for Vanessa’s benefit. “It’s one of those quirky personal details they mention sometimes in articles, so anyone could have known that.”
“Or not known it.” Mari rests the tips of her fingers on the table and regards Vanessa with her HR look. “It’s difficult to determine motivation or intent from the card that came with the flowers.”
Vanessa glances from my sister to me. “What did the card say?”
I clear my throat again. “‘Get back to LA soon, Love.’”
“I see.” Vanessa’s wheels are turning as she digests the information. “And was that the end of the threats?”
I take a deep breath. “We’re not sure.”
She glances from me to Mari and back again. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”
My sister is telepathically urging me to play it cool. I can see the frustration in her eyes, in the way she just picked up the pen Vanessa dropped and speared it back through her bun with impressive force. “Last night, there was an attempt to hack the company email.”
“More than an attempt,” I say as gently as possible. “Someone managed to fire off about a dozen messages that appeared—for all intents and purposes—to come from members of the Juniper Ridge team.”
Vanessa cocks her head to one side, curiosity piqued again. “Do you know what the messages said?”
Mari grits her teeth. “One of them originated from my email address and appeared to inform our top candidate for medical director that in order to be considered for the position, he’d need to email me ten photos of his bare feet.”
“Yikes.” Vanessa cringes, then lifts an eyebrow. “Wait. Did you find out before or after he sent the images?”
A flush races up my sister’s throat. “Before, fortunately. He replied seeking clarification about whether they needed to be prints or digital images. Thank God I was able to clear it up.”
“Huh.” Vanessa looks at me. “What else?”
Naturally, she’s guessed that’s only the beginning. I sigh and wish I hadn’t opened this can of worms. “There’s the one sent from Lauren’s email to a local cable station, offering exclusive footage from her private collection of personal sex videos.”
“A collection that does not exist,” Mari adds quickly. “Neither does the offer from Cooper to star in a miniseries about competitive mooing.”
“Competitive mooing?” Vanessa blinks. “That’s a thing?”
Mari presses her lips together. “Apparently it’s quite popular. They hold an annual Moo-la-Palooza in Wisconsin.”
Vanessa looks at me. “I guess the guy gets points for creativity.”
And for knowing way too much about my family, though that’s not a theory I’m ready to share just yet. “Most of the emails were pretty harmless,” I tell her. “But the one from me to our top investor inviting him to a nude tomato fight could have been a disaster if the investor wasn’t a good friend.”
A friend who knows I can’t stand tomatoes, both eating them or being hit in the junk with one.
“Well.” Vanessa presses her palms to the table. “That’s—inconvenient.”
Before I can reply, the café door swings open, and Colleen Carver marches through, a laptop gripped in her hands. Spotting us at our corner table, she moves toward us with a purpose.
“You guys have to see this.” Setting the computer on the table, she flips it open and glances at Mari. “Sorry, are you in the middle of something?”
“A job offer.” I nod at Vanessa. “We’ve already brought Ms. Vincent up to speed on the situation.”