Chapter 13
13.
An hour later, Violet had been fed and given a tour of Belvedere Inn by an energized Birdie and a slightly starstruck Rafi, Liz wordlessly trailing behind them. Liz’s heart was blaring like an alarm. Violet. Is. Early. Violet. Is. Here.
Cat had booked Violet into the Woodstock Way Hotel: a collection of log cabins and studios overlooking a small waterfall, just off the main street. The artsy, boutique rooms were the nicest ones in town, but Birdie insisted Violet at least stay the night—the Marilyn Monroe suite was the smallest on the second floor, but it was already made up. “And right across the hall from Liz Fizz,” Birdie added, gesturing for Violet to go check it out.
Was that a good idea? Liz stared at Birdie, panicked.
Birdie nodded in Violet’s direction and mouthed back, Vibe .
Oh boy. Liz sucked in a breath and followed Violet in.
The bedroom had a hushed, simple beauty. Violet’s bag sat on the canopy bed. Her back was to Liz as she stood admiring the four framed photographs on the far wall. In them, an auburn-haired Marilyn Monroe lounged on a beach in 1940s swimwear, laughing in a way that looked natural, unposed.
Violet was a different woman from the one Liz had first met at an audition back in January. That Violet was raw talent. Emotional and strong but shy and inexperienced. This Violet was more polished, more luxe: her dyed honey-blond hair was swept into an elegant braid, something a stylist taught her. Her luggage was monogrammed, and her jeans were expensive, hugging an ass she worked for with a personal trainer. Her sweater was the color of muted winter sunshine and looked soft. Touchable.
Not that she should be thinking about Violet’s ass or how touchable her clothes were. Liz cleared her throat.
Violet looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “I love these. She looks happy.”
Liz grasped for a response. Typically, she informed houseguests her mother purchased the photographs at an auction, but her friendship with Violet had been forged outside Babs’s shadow. That felt important to maintain.
It used to be so easy to talk to Vi. Why did it feel like the first read-through of an unfamiliar script?
After it became apparent Liz wasn’t going to respond, Violet wandered to the bookshelf, walking a finger over the books’ leather spines. Camus, Proust, Beckett. “Gang’s all here.”
Liz regained the power of speech. “Some of her favorite authors. Marilyn was actually a big reader.”
Violet looked impressed. “Don’t judge a blonde by her cover.”
It took Liz a second too long to parse the wordplay. “Exactly! Sorry, I’m just…”
“Surprised I’m here,” Violet finished. Her gaze was steady, reasonable. “I hope it’s okay I came early.”
“Of course.” How much eye contact was too much? This much? “I’m grateful for the help.”
“I hope I can. Help, I mean. I’ve been doing some reading to prepare.” She indicated a book on the nightstand. Save the Cat!, a screenwriting how-to. “But I’ll take your lead. I’m here to learn.”
Charmed, Liz picked up the book, which was already filled with multicolored stickies and notes in the margin. “I didn’t realize you were interested in this. Writing, producing.”
“I didn’t, either. But I am.” Violet’s smile flickered—she was nervous, Liz realized, trying her best to put on a brave face. “I’m more of a reader than a writer, but I’d like to try.”
“Amazing. Cat booked you a good hotel, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
Violet glanced around the perfectly appointed room. “I wouldn’t want to intrude, but I’m a little bit in love with this room.”
Somehow, this was happening. Violet was here. Sleeping in the bedroom across the hall. Her rose-and-black-pepper shampoo perfumed the air, a little sweet, a little spicy. God, Liz had missed that smell.
Violet smiled at Liz. Liz gazed back. The moment lengthened. The air between them thrummed, like a just-plucked bass line still quivering in the room.
Violet was still just looking at her, her purple-gray eyes the color of moon rocks, arteried with gold. “So…what’s up with you?”
The question was light, but Liz understood the subtext: Why haven’t we spoken? What’s going on? Liz’s neck flushed. “Well, I’ve been stressed about the show,” she began. “The second season, this pitch. That’s all I’ve had time to think about.” Her words sounded more defensive than she intended.
“So, the fact we made out in Rome,” Violet spoke casually, as if it barely mattered. “Have you had time to think about that? Or am I the only one who remembers that we kissed?”
Every inch of Liz’s skin went red-hot. She’d thought they’d never acknowledge the kiss, an assumption that now seemed incredibly naive. If only she could be as relaxed as Birdie around her many lovers. Instead she was a glitchy robot, a total square.
“I remember,” Liz murmured. “Low-key tattooed on my brain for all time.” She met Violet’s gaze with caution. “But I think it’s best if we keep things professional.”
“Why?”
Liz wasn’t prepared for her stance to be questioned. “Because it could ruin things.”
“What could ruin things?”
Liz’s heartbeat was a jackhammer level of subtle. “Breaking up, I guess.”
Violet’s brows flicked down, either amused or thrown. “Breaking up…from a relationship?”
Liz was officially out of her depth and sinking fast. Violet sounded surprised Liz brought up a relationship, and fair enough—they’d kissed once. One time. Liz was the only one worried about a future fictional breakup, and that was so embarrassing and further proof Liz wasn’t equipped for any of this. “I think we should just be friends.” She sounded like a bad actor. “Don’t you?”
Violet lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I want what you want.” She sounded like a good actor. “I want to be on the same page.”
“Great.” And even though a friendship was more than Liz felt she could hope for at this point, she still felt a jab of disappointment. Anger at her own stupid hypocrisy welled up before she forced it away. They’d work together to figure out this idea, then Violet would fly home to L.A., and they’d never bring up the kiss again. “Glad that’s sorted.”
“I brought you something.” Violet unzipped her duffel bag. “Figured we couldn’t have a writing session without these.” She pulled out a giant bag of Liz’s favorite tamari roasted almonds. The ones sold only in Liz’s neighborhood.
Liz gasped in delight.
Maybe this really would work.
Sitting in the velvet love seat by the window, Liz steered the conversation into casual territory while Vi unpacked clothes and toiletries, puttering around. Soon, the pretense at casual stopped feeling like an effort and started feeling closer to something familiar: an ease. They were both giggling as Liz described Birdie’s Winegate, and Liz thought, See? Maybe we really can be friends.
Until Violet unpacked her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt.
The vintage one, gray and soft. The cartoon picture of the four turtles was so faded, it was almost indiscernible. Vi wore it with sweats: her “cozy clothes.” The material had stretch. It molded to her breasts like a second skin. She’d worn it for the first time during a movie night ( Irma Vep, the original), months into their friendship. The sight was so unexpectedly sexy, Liz had blushed. The recurring fantasy that Violet was about to lean over and kiss her tended to happen when Vi was wearing that shirt.
Liz lost her train of thought. “I…I just thought we could…” Nope. Nothing. “Sorry, I forgot what I was talking about.”
Violet’s attention dropped to the shirt in her hands before returning to Liz, curious. “You were wondering if your mom had a printer.”
“Right. We’ll need to print stuff out.” Liz got her phone out, relieved for the distraction. “If Mom doesn’t have one, I think there’s a print shop in town.”
“I could go tomorrow. I rented a car.”
Liz looked up. “Or I can give you a—”
Violet was holding a white lacy thong. The sort of thing sold at high-end lingerie stores decorated with velvet drapes. The sort of thing Liz secretly found unbearably, almost painfully, sexy. First the shirt, now this? Liz stared a second too long at the underwear before wrenching her gaze to Violet’s look of total innocence.
“—a, um, lift.” Liz’s face started to flame again. “In Rafi’s car. Birdie’s is—a disaster.”
“That’d be great.” But Violet wasn’t putting the underwear away like Liz needed her to. “What do you think of this?”
Dear god. She was talking about the thong. “Mm?”
Violet held it up. A delicate scrap of lace the color of fresh snow. So pretty. So easy to slip off. The idea made Liz feel giddy.
“Some company sent them to me.” Her tone was so blasé Liz couldn’t tell if she was being tortured on purpose. “I can’t tell if they’re too much.”
Her mind was held hostage by the image of Violet in the Turtles T-shirt. And the underwear. The white of the lace against her bare skin. The fullness of her breasts underneath the old shirt. Her nipples, sensitive and erect, ready to be touched. What might’ve been waiting for her in Violet’s hotel room in Rome.
Thick waves of heat pulsed between Liz’s legs. She pressed them closed, hoping Violet couldn’t tell how flustered she was. Liz looked back at her phone, mortified. “It’s, um, nice.”
“You think?” Violet’s tone was noncommittal.
“Of course. It’s really…” What word was most innocuous? Cute? Sweet? “…fetching.”
“Fetching?” Vi let out a delighted laugh. “Then I guess I’ll keep it. Must have fetching undies.”
Liz wished for sudden and immediate death. She looked up only when she heard the dresser drawer close.
“Okay, all done,” Vi announced. “Should we see what the others are up to?”
Liz followed Violet into the second-floor hallway. The distant laughter of the group echoed up from downstairs. “Go ahead. Just gonna freshen up.”
“But you already look so fetching. ” Violet grinned back, heading for the staircase.
Liz crossed the hall into her room, locking the Audrey Hepburn suite. Alone, she let her head fall back against the door, trying to catch her breath. Her heart felt like a car yard inflatable. Her blood was gasoline: flammable.
I am in so. Much. Trouble.