“Mona, you’re like a living, breathing Barbie Doll. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to change a thing, not even your Amazonian height,” I tease. She’s not the least bit insecure about her five-foot-eleven frame. In fact, she’d be the first to tell you that it’s her unusual stature and legs that go for miles that helped her get the attention of White, who is the person pretty much responsible for bringing her into the Hollywood world.
I stop in front of my “office” door and turn to face her. Mona leans up against the jamb, her eyes going all dreamy. “I wonder if Rogan likes tall women,” she muses.
Back to Kiefer Rogan, I think with a deflated sigh. I won’t be able to avoid him much longer, so why do we have to talk about him now?
My bitterness surfaces and I let it flow. Maybe it’ll prompt her to stop bringing the conversation back to him.
“From what I’ve read in the tabloids, he likes anything with boobs. But I think he’s into the divas mostly, which would count you out. Thank God!” I, for one, am glad that Mona isn’t conceited about her looks or her position here at the studio. She’s utterly guileless and happily clueless, and I like her just the way she is. With a diva not included.
“I could be a diva,” she says, straightening, her expression turning enthusiastic. “I could totally be a diva. If it meant having those flirty green eyes and that drop-dead gorgeous smile turned on me, I’d be whatever he wanted me to be.”
Her little-girl giggle belies her words. She could never be a diva. “You don’t have a diva bone in your body. Besides, why would you want a guy like that? He dates the most horrible women and he goes through them like water. I mean, look at Victoria,” I say, lowering my voice as I scan the hall left and right to ensure we aren’t being overheard. “What kind of a decent person would date her? She’s awful!” I go on cynically, finding some strange comfort in pigeonholing him, calling a spade a spade. Hoping that maybe if I build up my armor against him, I won’t be swayed by his pretty face. “I bet he’s a conceited jerk, who only cares about what his arm candy looks like.”
“Guys who look like him can be annnything they want, as long as they stay hot.”
“Well, he’s all yours, then. I don’t have room for cocky, obnoxious, selfish sleazeballs in my life.” I glance at my watch. Six fifteen a.m. Mr. Rogan should be here by six thirty, but I won’t be holding my breath. “I bet he doesn’t even show up on time. Jerk!”
Mona sighs, tilting her head, a faraway look in her eyes. “I’d wait all day for a guy like that. He makes my special places shiver.”
“Well, you and your special places are welcome to him. I don’t see what the big deal is,” I reply, turning into my office. “He’s not even that good-looking.”
I take two steps and round the corner, my eyes falling on the chair that should be empty. I stop so suddenly that Mona crashes right into my back, pushing me sharply forward. I brace myself, keeping us both upright as we stare at the man smiling casually from the makeup chair in front of the lighted mirrors.
Settled in with one ankle resting on his other knee, looking highly amused and like he’s been here for a while, is none other than MMA champ and up-and-coming Hollywood sensation, Kiefer Rogan.
The guy I was calling cocky and obnoxious and selfish while standing just a few feet away.