“Listen—” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “You seem like you have little tolerance for bullshit, and you don’t seem overly starry-eyed where Ira’s concerned.”
She nodded. So far they agreed.
“But that’s also what’s going to cause most of your problems.”
She narrowed her gaze, clearly not liking the sudden shift from flattery to problems she probably wasn’t even aware that she had.
“From what I’ve seen, the locals tend to be a little needy. They work hard, putting as much effort into working out and looking good as they do at making money. They live for flattery, praise, and feeling important. They want to claim their place in the spotlight, and top every VIP list.”
“Talk about stereotypes.” Layla frowned. “There’s over four million people living in this city. Clearly not everyone’s the way you describe. . . .”
“Maybe not, but the ones who frequent Ira’s nightclubs—”
She waited a beat before conceding. “Yeah, okay, guilty as charged.”
“And correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t strike me as the group-hug-positive-affirmation-attaboy-go-get-’em-tiger-ass-kisser type.”
She gnawed her lip, then immediately made herself stop.
“So, I’m offering to help you with your social skills, and in return, you’re going to help me brainstorm some ideas. Everyone wins.”
He hadn’t even reached the end when Layla pushed away from the table, looking like she was seriously considering dumping the rest of her lemonade onto his head, but settled for grabbing her bag instead.
“Are you crazy?” She glared, not even attempting to lower her voice, as all the other tables turned briefly to look at them before returning to their own conversations.
He sipped his drink and continued to observe her. “I’m sorry if that seemed insulting. I only meant that I can help you smooth over some of your . . . rougher bits, and in turn—”
“And in turn I can give you all my ideas. Yeah, I’d say that’s a really fair trade, a truly fantastic offer, and not the least bit insulting. Nope, not at all.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and made to leave.
“Layla!” In a flash, he was up and racing behind her. “I like your no-bullshit attitude. Lets me know where I stand, which at the moment is clearly too close for your comfort.”
She was already outside, squinting into the sun as she fumbled for her sunglasses.
“Look—I’m sorry . . .”
Her glasses firmly in place, she turned on her heel, narrowly dodging a yoga mom pushing twin boys in a stroller—one screaming, one placidly observing the world—and made her way down Abbot Kinney with Tommy rushing behind her.
“Layla—”
She whirled on him, nearly crashing into a girl in a bikini cradling a cat in her arms. “What, Tommy? What is it you’re trying to say?”
“I’m assuming you’ve received Ira’s list.” He tried to peer past her lenses, but they were too dark to reveal much of anything. “You seem like the least likely person to fawn over a celebrity, which is pretty much a job requirement.”
She swallowed, but otherwise stood perfectly still.
“And that’s going to make it even harder to score Madison Brooks and Ryan Hawthorne, never mind Heather Rollins and Sugar Mills.”
She was shaking, actually shaking with rage—a reaction that seemed entirely disproportionate to the circumstances. Then again, he had no idea what had inspired her to join the contest in the first place. Clearly she had something at stake. He assumed all of them did. But he was only trying to help. And in helping her, he could help himself.
“Tommy—” Her voice was strained.
He sank his hands into his pockets, adopting a loose, easy stance, ready for whatever she threw at him.
“Do yourself a favor and delete my number.” Her lips thinned, her back stiffened, her hands clenched—even her hair seemed to react. She was the most openly reactive girl Tommy had ever met.
“Guess it’s not a good time to ask you what nickname you gave me?” he called after her, watching as she muttered an insult under her breath and shot a
cross the street. So eager to put some distance between them she risked getting run over by some old dude in a Bentley making an illegal U-turn.