A Hollywood Deal(5)

There’s no expressway to Ryder’s heart. There are roadblocks all over. Countless women are currently stuck, mired in the traffic jam. They’ll all die before they get anywhere near his stomach, much less his heart.

On the other side of the card it says, Don’t forget I am your soul mate, the Cinderella you’ve been looking for all your life.

I shake my head. She never used to say that until Ryder starred in a blockbuster retelling of Cinderella. He played Prince Charming—naturally—and rumor has it that the ushers were scooping melted women off the floor after each viewing.

I look inside the package.

A red, heart-shaped tin of homemade chocolate truffles sits in the center, just waiting to be devoured by the object of Loopy’s loopy desire. What a waste. Nobody touches food items delivered to Ryder. Everything is restuffed into the boxes for storage. Ever since a psycho fan tried to run him over in her Jeep—screaming, “If I can’t have you, nobody can!”—Ryder has everything from his fans tagged and shelved in storage as evidence.

Just in case the police need them. It turned out that the psycho in the Jeep had sent him over two hundred letters in five months’ period.

I dump the box on the floor behind my chair, making a mental note to put it away later. Then I see another piece of mail—a big manila envelope. Thankfully this one doesn’t come with heart stickers. Just the logo and address of one of the most expensive and exclusive hotels in the state.

What is this about? It’s not the place I went to drag Ryder out of the hot tub, and hotels this exclusive do not send junk mail. No, they stick to the old way of doing things—like having humans hand-deliver messages that could’ve just been emailed instead.

I work a letter opener under the flap. A letter and a three-page-long invoice along with colored photos spill out.

I snatch the letter and start reading, toying with the apple-shaped silver pendant around my neck that I never take off. The general manager has addressed it to me directly. I would’ve been impressed if it were his first time. That one, he addressed to “To Whom It May Concern.”

Dear Ms. Paige Johnson, the letter begins. That is the only nice part. The rest is a litany of complaints about the woman Ryder screwed and left behind in the hotel’s presidential suite. I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that the general manager used such polite yet pointed language.

The H&D women can be forces of destruction, fueled by spite and a sense of betrayal. The former is completely understandable, but the latter? I don’t get it.

Ryder never promises anyone anything. When he takes you into his suite, it’s for a night of good fucking. You can’t even call it sex, if what the media reports is even ten percent accurate.

I toss the letter on the desk and pick up the invoice. Then wince. The bill lists over twenty thousand dollars’ worth of damage to the suite.

Twenty thousand dollars? Did Ryder pick up a feral cat?

I scan the enclosed photos.

The minibar is cleaned out. Broken glass everywhere. Numerous green and brown stains of dubious origin cover the pale ivory carpet. The woman also left a message on one of the walls with what looks like bright red lipstick.

F U! assole

I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s either that or cry, and I’d rather not waste any tears on a person who can’t even spell “asshole.” I’ve already shed plenty over my worthless ex, Shaun.

I take a few deep breaths. How did I get on Shaun? I’m better off without him. He only wanted me for my connection to Ryder. I’m not going to let him know about the baby either since he would only use it against me to get me to help his “career transition” into acting.

Can’t you see how you helping me can benefit both of us? I’ll be a star, and you can be a star’s girlfriend. And you’ll have all the time in the world to diet and exercise. You’ll be smokin’ hot, like you always wanted.

Like I always wanted. Right. Not a word about love, commitment or respect. Just his stardom, his career, and how I’d be so thrilled to be his arm candy.

A man like that won’t stick around long anyway. I’m not trophy girlfriend material. My dress size is a double digit, I like food and I’ve come to accept that I’ll never be size zero. In addition, I’d be homicidally bored if all that was on my daily agenda was looking pretty for my successful boyfriend who’s out there doing something. I want to do something too, and mean something to someone. And I won’t lose weight to please anyone, especially not some shallow jerk like Shaun. If I ever decide to do it, it’ll be for me.

My hand covers my belly. Five weeks. My doctor said I probably won’t show for the first few months since it’s my first pregnancy, despite all the internal changes. My hormones will fluctuate, nausea may come and I’ll start to have odd cravings.