Tyler
I used to like running. Then a redheaded demon named Lana came into my life.
“Don’t you dare.” I’m proud of myself that it’s more words than gasps, but there’s only so much I can do after nearly forty minutes on a treadmill with sweat dripping off every inch of me. Seriously. There’s a dark streak on the treadmill belt from it.
Lana smirks and presses a button to increase the incline of the running belt. Twice. “Anyone can do anything for a minute,” she chirps with her special brand of malice and positivity.
“Your minute was up—shit.” She presses the damn button again. I grit my teeth and force my legs to move, muscles burning, and think of the sweet, sweet relief of throwing myself in the pool when I’m done with today’s workout.
I should get ten whole minutes to myself before I have to get ready for my first meeting. But only if I can satisfy my trainer and get her out of my house on time.
It’s not the life I expected when I was cast as a meteorologist on the latest prestige drama to come out of the streamer-of-the-moment—my job consists of about 70 percent taking off my clothes (the reason the studio hired Lana to torture me) and 30 percent talking about the (fake) weather.
It’s not the most mentally stimulating, but given what they pay me for five months of filming, I’m not about to complain.
At least not outside the privacy of my own head.
“I hate you,” I tell Lana between gasps when she finally puts an end to today’s torture session. It only took another ten minutes on the treadmill and fifteen minutes of the kind of core exercises that will make even breathing hurt tomorrow.
Lana only laughs and tosses a towel at me. “Tyler, if I had a brick for every client who says that, I’d be building myself a mansion twice the size of this place.”
“That’s not saying much.” I mop sweat off my face and jerk my head toward the rest of the house.
It’s up in the Hollywood Hills, which is admittedly sweet real estate.
It also means that the house is crammed into a narrow warren of a neighborhood and comes with an eye-watering price per square foot for what would be a normal house just about anywhere else in the country.
Can’t beat the view, though.
“Yeah, yeah. For a bunch of tough guys, y’all whine a lot.” Lana laughs at my predictable scowl and bends to grab a water bottle from the mini fridge tucked into a corner of the tiny gym. “Serena never complains like you boys.”
I let out a snort of laughter but gladly take the water. “Serena has turned complaining into an art, so I’m calling bullshit on that one.”
Then again, if the rumors are to be believed, Lana and my costar aren’t keeping things entirely professional.
“Yeah, maybe,” Lana says. The hint of pink rising into her cheeks is rather suspect given I keep the temperature in here as low as the air-conditioning will go. “I left one of those protein shakes you like in your fridge. Make sure you get at least—”
“Lana.” I shake my head, then cover my annoyance with an easy grin. “We’ve been at this for two years. I know the routine.”
She holds up her palms with an apologetic smile. “Okay, okay. Just doing my job.” Her eyes sweep over me clinically, an artist evaluating her work. “Tomorrow is biceps and back. Drink plenty of water!” she calls back over her shoulder as she heads for the door.
I let out a loud groan as soon as it shuts and force my heavy legs to move. A couple of slow, easy laps in the cold pool will help to stretch the muscles. I just need to drag myself to it.
Scrolling notifications as I move through the house, I flip by most of them.
Reminders about meetings, three different questions from my publicist, a handful of texts from the assistant I begrudgingly hired last year, and a link to a social media post from one of my friends with the text Isn’t this that weather girl you pissed off?
Pretty sure that’s just her natural state, I text back before clicking the link.
I’d prefer to forget the whole interaction with Haley Morgan, but Gabe finds the situation hilarious in the way only someone who’s known you your entire life can.
Despite the whole thing going down two years ago when my casting in On Air was first announced, he’s determined not to let me forget about my awkward run-in with the woman and periodically sends me posts about her.
Last time it was a compilation of various poses from a promo shoot with her wearing a hot pink skirt and looking like a smoke show.
The time before that was a video of her very patiently explaining an atmosphere (atmospheric?) river, not that I remember much beyond it making sense at the time.
I told Gabe he was welcome to try shooting his shot and see if he fared any better.
The post he sent today is several slides long.
Rumors swirl over abrupt departure of Good Morning LA meteorologist reads the first slide, a screenshot of an article from a local news site.
The next is a video that starts playing automatically.
Haley’s face fills the square, her expression tight and far more like the woman who berated me than the usual perky show she puts on every morning.
By the time I get my volume turned up, all I catch is “I quit.”
“Whoa,” I mutter under my breath before restarting the video.
Quitting on a live show is ballsy, but when I play the whole thing back, the cold fury in her voice can’t be missed.
I want to roll my eyes at her declaration that she’s no one’s weather girl—she took major offense to being called a weather girl when we met too—but there’s that emphasis on no one’s that stops me.
Haley Morgan is an ice queen, sure, but she’s never struck me as stupid.
I talked to her for less than five minutes.
It was clear from that limited interaction that she’s likely one of the smartest women in this town.
Quitting your job live on the air, while under contract, isn’t something anyone does over nothing. Especially not in an industry where everyone knows everyone and pissing off the wrong network can mean never working again.
Wild, I text back to Gabe. Wonder what set her off.
I’m fishing. Gabe and I grew up together in San Diego.
When his career took off, he gave me a job running his social media accounts.
Not the usual path to acting, but thanks to good ol’-fashioned Hollywood nepotism, his agent convinced a colleague to take me on.
All these years later, both of our careers are thriving—but Gabe remains more plugged into whisper networks than I’ll ever be.
Probably because he actually likes the networking and socializing that comes with making a living as an artist.
I wait another minute, sipping deliciously cold water in the shade of the house, but Gabe doesn’t reply. Considering he’s supposed to be getting ready for his show in London tonight, that’s probably for the best. I’ll get whatever I can out of him later.
Stripping off my shirt, I toss it onto a lounge chair and drop my phone on top of it.
I only make it two steps closer to the pool before the screen lights up again with a call.
I frown at the name, not sure why my assistant is calling when none of her texts were urgent, but these are the only ten minutes I have to myself today.
Shrugging off Emma’s call, I dive into the pool.
* * *
I allow myself to linger in the pool for an extra five minutes and then race through a shower. Somehow in the combined twenty minutes, my phone notifications accumulate faster than the paparazzi answering a tip call—and those assholes are fast.
I don’t have time to call Emma back before my first appointment, a strategy session with my manager. That runs long, which means I don’t get to her until after the podcast interview taping.
“Finally,” she says with all the talent of a woman capable of turning a single word into a lecture. In the hierarchy of Hollywood, I vastly outrank my own damn assistant, but Emma is the studio head’s granddaughter, and therefore untouchable. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for hours.”
“I’ve been on calls. What’s up?”
If she’s offended by my brusqueness, she at least manages to hide that. “I found a replacement for Dr. Hunt. You’ll need to go meet her tonight to sign off on it, but she—”
“What replacement?” I stop halfway between my home office and kitchen and resist the urge to add what the fuck.
Dr. Hunt is the scientist I handpicked to teach me about storm chasing for my character’s arc next season.
I had to fight like hell with the studio to get it approved, between the month out of LA and the insurance liability—the fact that Dr. Hunt is considered one of the foremost experts on tornadoes and the storms that make them happen was a big part of how I got it all green-lit.
In fact, it was heavily implied that the only reason it got green-lit was due to Dr. Hunt’s involvement.
I’ve been looking forward to this for months for more reasons than I’m ever going to get into with Emma. My stomach roils at the thought of the whole thing getting called off, but more than that, I’m irritated to only be finding out now that Dr. Hunt is being replaced.
It’s not the first time I’ve been the last to know about something that directly impacts me.
“Oh, no one filled you in? Her kid broke her leg. But one of her previous students is available. I already cleared it with everyone,” Emma says smoothly, a good reminder for my less-than-charitable thoughts.
She’s a nepo baby through and through, but she’s also great at what she does.
“Anyway, she said if she could have picked anyone, this is who she’d send in her place. ”
“High praise.” I run a hand through my hair before yanking open the fridge to grab the protein shake Lana left. “Who is it?”