pointing out things that slipped through the cracks after Kennerâs departure. The French doors to the deck are swollen from the uncharacteristically damp weather and need to be planed. The climbing roses have a white fungus that the plant guys need to look at.
I jot notes in a notebook with a leather spine and a brown Kraft paper cover, and Iâm inordinately pleased when I catch Tyler eyeing it approvingly because, seriously, his taste is beyond impeccable.
His cell phone rings nonstop, and after the first couple callers, he tosses it into the silverware drawer in the kitchen.
The kitchen is more amazing than my wettest kitchen dreams. A six-burner Viking range, a double-door SubZero, an oversize Bosch dishwasherâthe works. This whole job thing is so fairy-tale ridiculous that Iâm starting to panic. Fortunately, thereâs a La Marzocco GS/3âa seven-thousand-dollar espresso machine, all stainless steel and dry steam and manual preinfusionâjust waiting there for a chance to show Tyler how awesome I am.
Except he wonât let me fire it up.
âThereâs something weird with it,â he tells me. âI think we need to send it back.â
Which sucks. But I just smile and say, âDo you cook?â
âNot really,â Tyler says. âDo you?â
âI love cooking,â I say. âWhat do you like to eat?â
âIâm easy about food these days. Iâve been living on croissants from Starbucks and burgers and steak sandwiches from 17th Street Café.â
âReally?â I say. âYou donât strike me as a burger guy.â
âIâm totally a burger guy. As a matter of fact, Iâd like to be a burger guy right now. Why donât we take a run up there? Iâll take you to lunch.â
âThat sounds fantastic,â I say.
Free lunch, cute new boss. Better than Maui.
âLet me throw on a clean shirt,â he says, retrieving his phone from the drawer and disappearing into his bedroom.
I peek into the cupboardsâBaccarat rocks glasses, Arte Italica white porcelain coffee mugs with pewter bases, simple Tiffany flatwareâthen hurriedly arrange myself in what I hope is a casual pose against the perfectly worn limestone countertop as he returns, having an animated phone conversation with a shrill voice on the other end that buzzes in the cozy kitchen.
âCassidy, youâre overreacting. I was just . . .â He looks over at me and shrugs apologetically. âYou know what? Jess is here. Let me call you back in two minutes.â He disconnects the call from the button on the Bluetooth in his ear and turns to me. âSorry, that was my manager.â
And I have a weird feeling like maybe he doesnât realize that Cassidy and I already spoke. Thereâs a weird thing that happens in Hollywood sometimes where the talent gets protected by layers of agents and managers and assistants, and Iâm not sure where I fall in this structure right now, so Iâm just going to keep my mouth uncharacteristically shut.
âListen,â he says, before I have time to second-guess myself. âWhy donât you run up and get us lunch at 17th Street Café and Iâll be done by the time you get back?â
âSure,â I say. âBut, uh, Iâm on my bike.â
âRight, your bike.â He scratches the back of his neck. âWell, itâs as good a time as any for you to get familiar with the cars. Do you drive stick?â
âOf course,â I say. âSince I was sixteen.â
âGreat,â he says. âTake the Carrera. The keys are on the hook by the door.â
His phone bleats the opening bars of Wagnerâs âRide of the Valkyries.â
He grimaces. âThatâs my agent. I have to take this.â
âOf course,â I say. âWhat do you want on your burger?â
âThey know me,â he says. âJust make sure you
Tabatha Vargo, Melissa Andrea