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“Jennifer? It’s Cassidy Shaylan, Tyler Montaigne’s manager.”
    She pauses, and while instinct tells me I should fill the space with my adoration, I was asleep until about forty-five seconds ago, and I’m still kind of astonished that it’s not Tyler himself on the phone. Maybe I’ve underestimated his celebrity value.
    â€œHi,” I say. Slick.
    â€œAm I disturbing you?”
    â€œNo, no, of course not,” I say, and it sounds like I’m gargling marbles.
    â€œGood,” she says. “I’ve been up since five, which is what Tyler will expect if you’re going to be his new assistant.”
    I’m not exactly a morning person, but what am I supposed to say? “Right. Good!”
    â€œLet me get to the point. Tyler took quite a liking to you, and he’d like to offer you a month’s trial to see if the two of you are a good fit.”
    â€œThat sounds like a smart way to move forward,” I say, thinking,
I’m working for an Oscar winner whose manager vets his new hires. Suck it, gluten-free croissants!
    â€œHe’ll work out the schedule with you,” Cassidy continues. “He just finished a film and he’s taking a break for a few weeks.”
    â€œThat’s fine, um, sure, that’s good,” I say.
    â€œI’m going to give you the number for Tyler’s business manager. He’s expecting your call. One month. Twenty dollars an hour. I’m sure we’ll be talking soon.”
    She severs the connection while I’m still thanking her. And holy shit, I have a big-girl job. At least for a month. We’ll deal with the fact that Kenner told me he made twenty-five an hour after they’ve fallen in love with me.

    My first day working for Tyler is like a “meet-cute” montage in a romantic comedy. First of all, it turns out he doesn’t want me until the luxuriously sensible hour of 10:30 A.M .
    â€œI’m not a morning person,” he said on the phone the night before.
Hallelujah.
“Come around ten. No, make it ten thirty. Let’s not be too ambitious.”
    Sounds good to me. I’m not sure what Kenner’s problem was, because Tyler is a dreamboat, sweet and casual, adorably rumpled when he greets me at the front door in what looks like the same jeans from the other day and a tattered, vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
    â€œThrow your shit anywhere,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his lit cigarette.
    People smoke in L.A. It trickles down from the celebrities, who smoke so they can fit into their size-00 jeans, and to create a filter between themselves and the rest of the world. It’s every actor’s dilemma—pay attention to me but don’t look at me.
    I stow my backpack on the paisley-covered window seat in the sunroom, hesitating for a moment because the fabric is lush and spotless, unlike any of my belongings, which have been exposed to four miles of beach salt and road dirt as I pedaled over on my bike.
    Every surface in the house is polished and sparkling: the bird’s-eye maple Biedermeier dining table, the Louis XV rolltop desk in the sunroom with its gilt-edged green leather inlay; even the wrought iron of the antique campaign chairs on the deck gleams with a burnished sheen and the striped fabric cushions look crisp and clean, which strikes me as a little odd because it’s been raining for three days and this is the first sunny day we’ve had all week. Yet everything feels comfortable and lived in, like a page from a Ralph Lauren catalogue or
Elle Décor
, not stuffy and formal like
Architectural Digest.
I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and I’m instantly house-smitten.
    â€œI just want to get you used to the lay of the land. You know,
mi casa es su casa
and all that.”
    â€œGreat,” I say, because “I do” would be too forward at this juncture.
    Tyler moves through the house as I trail behind him,