31. Awa
Chapter thirty-one
Awa
Noah Park
Noah Park: I hope you're not wearing anything under that prim little pencil skirt I know you have on, counselor.
Noah Park: You know what I do to anything that gets between me and that sweet cunt of yours.
I hurriedly close my phone and put it face down on the conference room table. My complexion is dark enough to hide my blush, but the VP of Development taking the chair across from me is bound to notice if I keep squirming in my seat.
This week has been torture. I booked my flight on the way home from Noah's apartment, packed in half an hour, and went straight to JFK for my flight to LAX.
I've been on the phone nonstop since I landed, fielding calls from my West Coast clients and handling a bidding war to option the latest script from Patrick Aimes, a screenwriter on my roster.
Apparently, once I decided to put my entire focus back onto work and not my sexy office mate, there was plenty of work to be done.
I nod politely as the rest of the executives file into the room.
It's not like I was shirking my duties, I tell myself, feeling uneasy at even the suggestion that I was missing a step professionally.
I was just a little more hands-off than usual.
Putting off my monthly trip to LA. Managing negotiations primarily by video call.
Skipping some of the NYC Bar and Columbia Law luncheons.
I frown at the mental list.
Maybe I was slacking a little, but me at seventy-five percent is better than most lawyers at full capacity.
And haven't I earned a break? Double-majoring, three grueling years in law school, and clawing my way up the chain of command at Gehrig we've been here for less than an hour and I feel like I already need another shower. The good feelings from Noah's dirty texts are long gone, too.
"But is he a tool you can use," I reply, referring to Daniel. "Despite their unprofessional demeanor," putting it mildly, I scoff inwardly, "they are in a great position to bring 'The Dark Gate' to life."
"But I hate working with scumbags like these," Patrick grumbles. He picks the poppy seeds off the otherwise untouched bagel on his plate.
Patrick is still new to the industry; this is only his second script to be sold.
He's got a baby face and red, wispy hair, similar to Ed Sheeran.
I don't even think he's hit thirty—the na?ve hopefulness about having a career in Hollywood still shines in his eyes.
I wish I could shelter him from all the ugliness, but that's never been the way things work, especially not in LA.
"They clearly tried to cut you out," he pouts.
I sigh.
"Maybe so, but compared to many people I've worked with, they're basically harmless." I lean back and place a hand on my chest. "They didn't hurt my feelings, if that's what you're worried about. What I'm worried about is who can give you the best deal. I honestly think that's Fossekall."
When he lets out a breath in defeat, my heart hurts a little, but it has to be done. In this business, the learning curve is steep.
"OK. Tell them to come back in."
As soon as I step into the cacophony of sounds that is JFK Airport, I start to relax.
After nearly two decades, America has long felt like my country, but it's New York that feels like home. Los Angeles is too slow. Too fake. I much prefer speed walking and shouting my breakfast order over the vague "let's do lunch" of the West Coast.
And the focus on the perfect body when I'm at least ten sizes beyond that with no intention of changing is tiring. Eat a fucking sandwich, already! You're being rude because you're hungry.
I laugh to myself and pull out my phone to see where to meet my driver, only to discover a text from Camila Sanchez. I'm surprised to hear from her after our disaster lunch. What could she want?
Camila Sanchez (Luxe)
Camila Sanchez (Luxe): Hi Ms. Faye. This is Camila Sanchez from lunch a while back.
Camila Sanchez (Luxe): Would you be open to meeting up for drinks in the near future? I really need to make up for our last meeting.
The texts were sent just before my plane touched down. The sun has set. It's too late to bother heading into the office, but too early to call it a night when I'm still on LA time.
I see Marcus waving from the loading lane a few yards down.
Fuck it. If she can make tonight work, I will happily accept groveling and a stiff Manhattan after the morning I had.
"Thanks so much for meeting me, Ms. Faye," Camila says as I take the seat next to her at the SoHo bar. I don't tell her to address me informally like I did last time, and from the crease in her brow, she notices.
"What can I get for you ladies?" the bartender asks.
He's fit, with muscular shoulders filling out the sleeves of his tight black t-shirt.
He's well over six feet tall, sporting the best tan money can buy and a smile that I'm sure makes him the favorite at the bar.
It still doesn't hold a candle to Noah's.
"Bulleit Manhattan," I choke out, startled by my wayward thoughts. Noah is a pretty face, but I can't go all googly-eyed for him. Not again.
"Gin and ginger for me," Camila answers, angling herself toward me.
The bartender gives us both another grin before starting on our drinks.
"Like I was saying in my text," Camila begins with no preamble, "I wanted to make up for our last meeting. I was way out of line to bring up personal matters, and I apologize. Noah had plenty to say when I explained what happened, and I deserved every bit of it."
I raise an eyebrow at that. Noah talked to her? I assumed that was bullshit when he mentioned it.
"Why are you reaching out now, Ms. Sanchez? I thought I might hear from you after our lunch, but then there was nothing. That was over a month ago."
She looks chagrined, saved briefly from answering by the bartender setting down our drinks. We both take deep sips as we regard each other.
"When we met, it was a few weeks before my wedding. I wanted to apologize in person, but then I got swept up in the festivities and then our honeymoon. We were gone for six weeks in Fiji," she swoons.
"And now?" I prompt. So far, I'm unimpressed with her groveling. These drinks could've been an email.
"And now," she continues, shaking out of her reverie, "I'm finally back in the swing of things and feel like total shit for what happened.
" I sputter at her frankness, but she smiles.
"There's no other way to put it. You have no idea how much I admire you professionally.
I often gravitated toward your cases during law school, and you're a big part of why I wanted to go into entertainment law instead of family law like my…
uh, husband." She stumbles over the last word. "I'm still not used to saying that."
I take another sip and consider her.
I've never even been close to getting married, but I know from clients and relatives that weddings can be stressful; in Senegal, they often last for days instead of mere hours.
And, if I recall, the alcohol was flowing at our last meeting too.
Maybe she can be forgiven a small lapse in decorum… just this once.
"I appreciate your wanting to apologize in person. I also appreciate the flattery," I say with a smile. "How about we pretend the last meeting didn't happen and start fresh? Were there any juicy details from your wedding?"
I hardly need more colleagues; my inbox is already overflowing with invites to this networking event or that working lunch. At our last meeting, she was surprisingly easy to talk to, even if she crossed an unspoken boundary. Maybe when we start over, we can try as friends.
I shake my head. I'm much better at making boundaries than I am at making friends. Between Noah and now Camila, it seems the universe is telling me to take some of them down.
Camila's face lights up at the chance to gush about her wedding.
"The ceremony was small—we had it at a courthouse—but the reception was another story altogether, complete with embarrassing stories about my new brother-in-law and your colleague."
She gives me a wink, and I lean in.