Page 22 of Famous for a Living

“Benny, bring 2B to valet,” the woman is already saying into the walkie-talkie. She pauses, listening to his static voice and jumbled words. Her smile widens as she looks at me while repeating louder, “Bring 2B to valet.”

I fold my hands together while we both listen to more cacophony of jumbled words and wind. “Really. It’s fine—”

But she’s already taking in a sharp breath, giving me a resolute, everything-is-totally-under-control smile and pressing her lips so close to the walkie-talkie they touch. Her words fly so quickly I can hardly make them out. “Benny-you-bring-2B-to-valet-right-now-or-so-help-me.”

She drops her hand from the walkie and smiles as she staples several sheets together and places them in a folder. “It’ll be right out those doors.” She hands the folder to me. “Enjoy your stay in Kannery, Ms. Cranwell.” There’s a gleaming I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening-I’m-absolutely-going-to-be-videoing-you-the-second-you-turn-your-back look in her eye. “Drive safe.”

“Thank you.” I pretend not to see the pictures she’s begun taking of me from the phone peeking out from under her register. It’s a terrible, up-the-nose angle.

After tucking the folder into the front pocket of my carry-on, I move to meet Zaiah a few feet off.

From the frown he’s giving beyond my shoulder, I was right about the woman and the video.

“What kind of truck did they give—?” But Zaiah halts as the doors slide open and a whistle of snow flies past.

And there is the car sitting beneath the concrete cover.

Oh dear.

Its small oval headlights look like they’re flickering in the onslaught of the slashing, horizontal snowfall.

Swiftly I unzip the carry-on and reach for the folder of papers. Sure enough, right above my signature is the name of the car: Mercedes-Benz E350 Cabriolet . . . Convertible.

The small white car purrs as a man steps out, holding the driver’s side door open. It’s stunning, melting like a snowflake into its surroundings, all except for the gaudy strings of chains covering each tire.

“You can’t be serious.”

There’s something in the way Zaiah speaks—as though saying, “Fine. I put up with your childish shenanigans for a while, but now, now it’s time to take over”—that slides like a bow across an out-of-tune violin.

It’s that same look from our first meeting splashed across his face. That hypercritical, disparaging expression as though I, Cat Cranwell, am the most ridiculous person on the planet.

Before this moment, I was going to point out this was a simple mistake. Was going to clarify that my virtual assistant always books me higher-end vehicles for trips—not only for the aesthetic in any photos and videos I take, but also because you can only make the mistake of being not particular and ending up in a junker on the side of a desert highway with one gas station forty-three miles away once—and had simply not taken the unusual location and season of this trip into account. That I just needed to go inside, explain the situation, and get something else.

And yes, maybe I’m hypersensitive and hyperaware given the onslaught of criticism directed my way lately, but I can already see branded across his eyes what he’d think, or say.

“You have somebody else book your trips for you?”

“You didn’t think to double-check when you signed your name on the contract?”

“Have you still not learned your lesson about reading before you sign contracts?!”

I swallow down the humiliating truth of that last one that hits harder than the rest.

I can’t show I’m that stupid.

I can’t show to anyone, even just one person, that I would do that.

Which leaves only one thing to do in such a moment.

Lie boldly.

“Ah. There it is.” Raising my chin, I press past him through the open door as if this is the best plan in the world.

As if everything is going exactly according to plan.

Absolutely. According.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, reaching in my purse and, with a slight struggle, pulling out a bill.