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than the rest of us mere mortals.”
    â€œMm-hm. And you’re basing this on the enormous number of, what is it, three people you’ve met in the business? You’ll get zero argument from me on Billy Glick, but wouldn’t you say Joe is a perfect counterpoint? That man is a total doll and we owe an awful lot to him. You might be lumping Graham in the negative column right now, but I have to tell you, sweetie, from everything I observed of him tonight, I’d pin him as one of the good guys.”
    I wandered over to the window and pretended to be transfixed by the view. Mom continued talking to my back.
    â€œSweetheart, you know what this job means for us, right? Your dad’s, uh, situation, means I really can’t afford to lose this gig.” I felt a twinge of guilt at her groan of frustration. “Plus,” she continued, “I like this job. It’s exactly the kind of distraction I wanted for us when we made the decision to move to LA. And I want it for you too. How else would I ever have the means to share this big adventure with my baby girl? It may have taken me forty-three years to leave home, butI knew from the moment I held you, you were going places much bigger than Shelbyville. I have to steal this time with you while I have it. Look where we are, sweets. We’re in high cotton.”
    Even with my back to her, I could picture her arms stretching wide to cover the city outside our window (or at least the office building and the half block of Madison Avenue visible from our window). Mom may not have gotten the daughter who would giggle over shopping trips and makeovers, but at least this trip was girl time we could share, and I knew Mom was excited for that. Besides, it wasn’t her fault her client was a major jerk. I turned to her and offered a shrug and a tiny smile. She responded with a bigger one of her own and then disappeared into the bathroom to shower before dinner.
    I focused on the street below and watched the sunshine-yellow taxis maneuver across lanes. I was about to turn from the window to scope out potential restaurants online when a bus crossed my line of vision. Plastered across the entire side of it were the words TRITON: SPLASH DOWN THIS SUMMER . And underneath the slogan was a twice-life-size (which I could now vouch for firsthand), but very realistic and very, very shirtless Graham Cabot.
    Grinning wickedly right up at me.
    I yanked the curtains closed so hard the rod shook.
    I skipped the indignity of rehearsing the apology I’d be forced to make in mere minutes. Instead, I yanked on what I hoped would pass as a suitable Assistant to the Makeup Artist uniform. At least the ballet flats Mom insisted I swap my sneakers for, black leggings, andoversize white button-down were comfy enough for what promised to be a very long day. Excluding time for mea culpas, the schedule showed Graham’s interviews starting at eight a.m. and continuing until six p.m., with only thirty minutes for lunch and three ten-minute breaks spaced throughout. Fine, so maybe being a movie star wasn’t all glamour all the time.
    Mom was up and out of the room at six thirty, sneakily setting my phone to sound an alarm at 7:05. Sadly for me, the six pillows I dragged on top of my blaring phone while in a stupor did the job of muffling the buzzing a little too well, which left me scrambling to make it upstairs before Mom sent out a pitchfork-carting search party. At least my work commute only involved an elevator.
    When I reached the third floor, there were people with headsets and walkie-talkies swarming the hallways. A woman in a business suit spotted me stepping off the elevator and grabbed my elbow.
    â€œAre you Annabelle?” she asked.
    â€œUm, yeah. It’s Annie, though.”
    â€œSure, whatever. Okay, listen, we have a code red. We’re piggybacking with Warner’s and the field publicists they flew in ate the oysters at the dive bar around the