Oh! You Pretty Things by Shanna Mahin Read Free Book Online

pointing out things that slipped through the cracks after Kenner’s 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 I’m 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 dishwasher—the works. This whole job thing is so fairy-tale ridiculous that I’m starting to panic. Fortunately, there’s a La Marzocco GS/3—a seven-thousand-dollar espresso machine, all stainless steel and dry steam and manual preinfusion—just waiting there for a chance to show Tyler how awesome I am.
    Except he won’t let me fire it up.
    â€œThere’s something weird with it,” he tells me. “I think we need to send it back.”
    Which sucks. But I just smile and say, “Do you cook?”
    â€œNot really,” Tyler says. “Do you?”
    â€œI love cooking,” I say. “What do you like to eat?”
    â€œI’m easy about food these days. I’ve been living on croissants from Starbucks and burgers and steak sandwiches from 17th Street Café.”
    â€œReally?” I say. “You don’t strike me as a burger guy.”
    â€œI’m totally a burger guy. As a matter of fact, I’d like to be a burger guy right now. Why don’t we take a run up there? I’ll take you to lunch.”
    â€œThat sounds fantastic,” I say.
    Free lunch, cute new boss. Better than Maui.
    â€œLet me throw on a clean shirt,” he says, retrieving his phone from the drawer and disappearing into his bedroom.
    I peek into the cupboards—Baccarat rocks glasses, Arte Italica white porcelain coffee mugs with pewter bases, simple Tiffany flatware—then 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.
    â€œCassidy, you’re overreacting. I was just . . .” He looks over at me and shrugs apologetically. “You know what? Jess is here. Let me call you back in two minutes.” He disconnects the call from the button on the Bluetooth in his ear and turns to me. “Sorry, that was my manager.”
    And I have a weird feeling like maybe he doesn’t realize that Cassidy and I already spoke. There’s a weird thing that happens in Hollywood sometimes where the talent gets protected by layers of agents and managers and assistants, and I’m not sure where I fall in this structure right now, so I’m just going to keep my mouth uncharacteristically shut.
    â€œListen,” he says, before I have time to second-guess myself. “Why don’t you run up and get us lunch at 17th Street Café and I’ll be done by the time you get back?”
    â€œSure,” I say. “But, uh, I’m on my bike.”
    â€œRight, your bike.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it’s as good a time as any for you to get familiar with the cars. Do you drive stick?”
    â€œOf course,” I say. “Since I was sixteen.”
    â€œGreat,” he says. “Take the Carrera. The keys are on the hook by the door.”
    His phone bleats the opening bars of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.”
    He grimaces. “That’s my agent. I have to take this.”
    â€œOf course,” I say. “What do you want on your burger?”
    â€œThey know me,” he says. “Just make sure you