Chapter 7

“How’s the new father doing?” asks Gabriel Lucas. Gabe for short, both my best friend and my partner at IMAGE. Buddies since college, we co-founded the agency together, fed up with the slow-to-embrace importance of social media and influencers at the big agency we worked at previously.

He pats me on the back as we wait for an elevator. Being on the thirtieth floor of a Century City office building comes with its perks, but with a price. One of the perks is the spectacular view of all of LA from my corner office with its wraparound floor-to-ceiling windows. The price I have to pay is waiting for an elevator at 6p.m., when there’s a mass exodus from the building. That’s why I usually don’t leave my office until seven. Patience is definitely not one of my virtues. Tapping a foot, I keep my eyes glued on the bank of elevators.

“Well…?” Gabe nudges.

“Hanging in there,” I tell him. Understatement of the century.

“Can I be honest with you, bro? You look like hell.”

“That bad?”

“No. Worse.”

Nothing like brutal honesty. “Yeah. It’s been rough. I’ve hardly gotten an ounce of sleep since I got home from Cannes on Sunday. Ava’s still pretty weak from the C-section and that damn pelvic thing she has…and she can barely get herself out of bed. So I’m the one who’s had to get up all night long to help her feed the baby. I swear the kid doesn’t stop crying. And guess who’s in charge of changing her diapers?”

“Don’t tell me…”

“Yep, yours truly.”

“Lucky you.”

Unsure if he’s being sarcastic, I grimace. Though I’m trying, I’m not sure if I’m cut out for fatherhood, and it scares me. “Hey, man. Do you want to go for a drink?”

“Don’t you have to get home?”

I glance down at my Rolex. “I have time for one. What about The Peninsula?” It’s around the corner from our office.

“My treat then,” Gabe says with a grin.

“Deal.”

The Club Bar at the nearby five-star hotel is a well-known hangout for Hollywood movers and shakers, as well as the elite from around the world. On any given night, you can find heads of movie studios, A-list actors, princes, and politicians. And beautiful well-dressed young women looking to jump-start their careers or become trophy wives. Hop into bed with a Hollywood powerhouse or some royal. Before I got married, I hung out here a lot.

With its rich dark-wood paneling, plush leather chairs, and intimate low lighting, the bustling bar is reminiscent of a gentleman’s club. Thanks to the ma?tred’ who recognizes us, Gabe and I manage to snag a table by the fireplace. A server comes by, and we both order one of the bar’s signature cocktails—the popular “90210,” made with Haku vodka, cassis, and cranberry juice and served with a lemon wheel and sprig of fresh rosemary. Gabe also orders a platter of beef sliders and some crispy chicken wings.

The drinks come first and Gabe lifts his tumbler.

“Cheers to the new father,” he toasts, clinking his glass against mine. Ping.

“Thanks,” I say half-heartedly. The hum of Hollywood gossip is like a lullaby. There’s no screaming baby anywhere within earshot.

Gabe takes a generous swig of his raspberry-colored drink. “Do you have any photos of Isa?”

I have to stop and think. “Yeah. Just one that Ava sent me when she and Isa were discharged from the hospital.” I slip out my phone and search for it, then pass him my phone.

He studies the picture, his brows furrowing. “Ava looks really worn out.”

“Yeah, she is. You know, her entire pregnancy was challenging, and the emergency cesarean was an ordeal.” A sliver of guilt slices through me. “I feel bad I wasn’t there for her.”

Gabe’s eyes stay transfixed on the photo. He told me I should have hopped on the next plane when I found out the news, but I didn’t listen. I’m relieved he’s not rubbing it in and making me feel worse than I already do.

Gabe hands me back the phone and locks eyes with mine. “Seriously, no more pics of the new addition to the family? You can’t really see her in that photo.”

Mild embarrassment pours over me. “To be honest, I’ve been a zombie, and all she does is cry.”

“I think you’re lucky, dude. Got it all. An enviable career, a beautiful, successful wife, a great house, and now an adorable new baby.”

“Do you want to trade?” I say, half meaning it.

“Honestly, I would. I’m tired of being single.”

I chortle. “Bro, enjoy your wonder years. Or should I say ‘wander years’?”

Gabe, who could be a Hollywood heartthrob with his six-foot-tall athletic build and blue-eyed, sandy-blond good looks, reminiscent of Ryan Reynolds, is two years younger than me. Not quite thirty-nine. I was his “big brother” at USC and my last year there we roomed together. A pang of envy stabs me as his eyes wander around the room. I’m sure diaper duty isn’t on his mind.

He takes another glug of his drink. “I bet Isa’s beautiful.” A beat. “Just like her mom.”

Gabe, who was the best man at our wedding, has had a crush on Ava forever. We met her at the same time, but she fell into my arms, literally speaking. She was in the lobby of our building on a ladder, hanging a painting, when her heel caught in a rung, and she fell off. We both ran for her, but I was the one who caught her and saved her from a nasty fall. A whirlwind romance followed. Gabe has been a good sport and has adhered to our unwritten Bro Code. Rule number one: Hands off your best friend’s woman.

Our appetizers arrive and we both reach for a chicken wing. I dip mine in the spicy chimichurri sauce, and as I’m about to take a bite, my eyes grow wide.

Standing at the bar, her back turned to me, is the gorgeous blonde I met on my run this morning. Now clad in six-inch heels and a body-skimming black minidress, her hair still gathered in a high ponytail. I’d recognize those legs anywhere.

I hate to admit it, but she’s all I’ve thought about all day. Her movie-star face with its dazzling smile. The way sweat glittered on her chest. And I more than liked the way she challenged me with her fearless, competitive spirit.

I fling the half-eaten chicken wing onto my cocktail napkin and leap up from my seat.

“Where are you going?” asks Gabe.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter as I stride her way.

Taking giant steps, I reach her in no time. I feel my heart racing, my body heating. “Hey,” I say, tapping her bare shoulder.

A glass of champagne in her hand, she swivels around.

My jaw goes slack.

Stunning as this woman is, it’s not her. The gorgeous woman I ran with this morning. Embarrassment washes over me; I feel my ears turning pink as her stocky, bald-headed companion gives me a scathing look.

“You know my wife?” He looks rich, sounds Russian.

I’m six inches taller than he is, but I suddenly feel six inches shorter.

“Sorry. I thought she was someone else.” I think about offering to buy them a round of drinks but instead sheepishly slink away and return to my seat.

“You know that woman?” asks Gabe, his drink almost depleted.

“No,” I stammer. “I thought she was one of our new clients.”

Gabe lets it go. He drains his drink. “How about another round?”

I pass. “I need to get home.”

And I’ve lost my appetite.

Gabe reaches for a messy beef slider. “Give my love to Ava. If it’s okay, I’ll come by over the weekend to see her and meet the baby.”

“Sure, be my guest. She’d like that.” I chug the rest of my drink. “And maybe we can get in a game of tennis.”

The drive to my house takes twenty minutes. Luckily, I’ve avoided rush hour traffic. I park my Porsche in our detached six-car garage and heft my briefcase filled with movie scripts and contracts to the front door. The door swings open before I insert my key.

I drop my briefcase and if our housekeeper, Rosita, were around, she’d have to mop my jaw off the ground.