Chapter 56
Within a few seconds of knocking, I’m faced with the man, the myth, the legend himself — Quinton Rockwell opens the front door.
He’s dressed in gray board shorts and a glossy white shirt. Three buttons are undone, exposing a single, thick gold chain with a cross around his neck, peeking out through a mound of curly peppered chest hair. In all my years of interviewing and working with extremely successful people at the news station, I’ve noticed that most wealthy people have an expensive air about them no matter where they are, or what they’re wearing.
Quinton is certainly no exception.
Although, if I had to guess, at first glance I’d say he was already drunk.
“ Ma chérie !” he exclaims, shooting out an arm and pulling me inside. Then he kisses the air on each side of my face, like he’s French. Wealthy west coast LA types tend to do this, I’ve noticed. “You must be Olivia!”
“And you must be Quinton.” I pull out my best megawatt smile, then hold my hand out to shake his.
“No formalities here, my dear.” He pulls me in for a hug, foregoing a handshake. “If Dom is bringing you around here to introduce us, we’re family already.”
Just then, Dom pops around the corner — looking handsome, if not a bit nervous.
“What about formalities?” he asks before breaking into a wide smile when he sees me, still tucked under one of Quinton’s long arms. Quinton is the older of the two, and his lifestyle has certainly aged him more than Dom. The crow’s feet beside each eye branch out longer than Dom’s when he smiles. The stubble across his jaw is peppery, like his chest.
“Oh, I bet Dom brings all the ladies by.” I’m still smiling to put Dom at ease, while hoping to break the ice with Quinton. Though he seems to be doing a fine job of that himself with the pet names and air kisses. And now bear hugs.
“Quite the opposite, actually.” He pulls his brother in, so we’re both tucked under one arm, with Quinton in the center.
I can smell the familiar scent of whiskey on Quinton’s breath, and even that smells expensive.
“Dom hasn’t brought a lady around Selma and me since, oh, it had to be that nice little redhead back in college. Tori? Tami? Tara?”
Dom looks faintly annoyed. “Taryn.”
Quinton isn’t listening anymore. He’s studying me closely, mere inches above my face. The whiskey on his breath has a hint of smoky citrus, so I assume his drink of choice must be an Old Fashioned. I vaguely wonder how many he’s had.
“I don’t remember Taryn being this pretty.”
I try not to wince, forcing myself to smile. I never know what to say when men compliment me boldly like that.
“Easy, Quinton.” Dom pats him on the back, then rolls his eyes at me. “Ignore this guy. And go easy on her, Quinton.” There’s an edge to his voice when he addresses Quinton, a slight warning shot I wasn’t expecting.
“Oh gosh” — I wriggle out from under Quinton’s arm — “you’re too kind.” I hold up the most expensive bottle of wine I could find at the ABC Store. “I brought wine!”
“Ah, I’m more of a whiskey man,” Quinton says.
I fight the urge to reply, I can tell.
“Though I appreciate the gesture, love.”
“Ah, you’ve arrived!” Selma — formerly known as Selma Hatfield, the international supermodel — floats around the corner. She’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on in person. At least six feet tall in bare feet, probably weighing in around one hundred and ten pounds, practically gliding on air. When she hands me a glass of white wine, I’m blinded by her diamond ring. It’s the size of a ping-pong ball and looks even bigger than that balancing on her chopstick-sized finger. I peel my eyes off it to study her face as she studies me back. She’s absolutely exquisite.
“Selma!” My voice sounds breathy and awkward. I’m grateful for the full glass of wine she’s just handed me. “Thank you for the drink. And for having me here tonight.”
She holds out her hand to shake mine, then pulls me in for a hug. Her frame feels so thin, as though she might break if I squeezed hard enough. Like a tiny bird with hollow bones.
“A pleasure to have you.” She shows me the infamous smile that’s made her one of the most recognizable people in the world.
“You’re gorgeous,” I stutter, knowing she hears that all the time, but it seems like I can’t be in her presence without acknowledging it out loud. She practically radiates perfection.
“Aw, Dom told me you were sweet.” She presses a hand into Dom’s shoulder. “Come help me in the kitchen.”
I’m relieved to have a job to do so I’m not just awkwardly standing around, though I’m surprised to hear that Selma is cooking. I figured either Dom would cook or they’d have a private chef for the length of their stay.
She hands me a frilly pink apron when we get to the kitchen, then snatches it out of my hand and tosses me a crisp white one. “Goes better with that outfit.” She quickly winks at me. “Don’t want you clashing on my account tonight.”
I smile, feeling like she and I are going to get along just fine.
“I appreciate that. Your place here is incredible, by the way. Dom’s been nice enough to let me write in the garden the last few weeks.” I hope she won’t mind.
“You write?” She visibly stiffens.
I glance at Dom, wondering if he only told Quinton that I write. I hope this isn’t a blind pitch, that they know I’m here tonight to meet them, but also to discuss my film project.
“I do . . .”
“What are you writing?” She grabs a head of broccolini and a wooden cutting board. She starts chopping away at it, throwing the pieces into a hot pan over the stove that sizzles with every toss.
I lick my lips, letting her question sink in while my heart pounds in my ears. This is going to be a blind pitch. They have no idea I’m here to discuss my script.
“Funny enough, I’ve just finished a film script, actually.” I fight the urge to close my eyes and hide. I feel sick as the words leave my mouth, saying a silent prayer that she lights up and begs to hear more.
Selma stops chopping. The long knife hovers over the cutting board for a mere four seconds before she resumes. Hitting the board loudly with each chop. Then she flings a handful of broccolini into the wok from across the counter. Half of the bundle misses the pan and tumbles onto the counter beside it.
“Ah, well, we’re not here to talk shop, tonight, are we Quinton?” She says this almost to no one, and certainly not to Quinton, who is too busy across the room, discussing the next whiskey bottle with Dom to hear her. “Can you put that in the pan, please?” She gestures to the pile of broccolini that landed on the counter.
“Right.” I force a smile. What the hell? My nervous energy starts to drain out of me, slowly replaced with a sinking feeling of disappointment.
“We’re on vacation.” Selma raises her brows at me. She grabs a head of cabbage and starts shredding it with the same butcher knife. “I love cooking, don’t you? We’re too busy back home, but, when we’re on vacation , I have all the time in the world to get my hands dirty in the kitchen.” My mouth goes dry as cabbage flies around the cutting board. “It relaxes me.” She pauses to take a long sip of her wine until the glass is empty. She sure doesn’t look relaxed. “Pour me more?” She’s looking directly at me, holding out her glass. “Please?”
I try not to widen my eyeballs too much. The bottle is sitting right next to her, easily within reach. Why would she want me to pour it for her?
She holds up her hands and laughs like she’s embarrassed. “My hands are a little dirty. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Her hands look perfectly clean to me.
“Of course.” I grab the wine bottle off the counter. Then I fill her glass and hand it back to her very clean hand.
“So, do you cook?” The charming Selma who hugged me at the door has disappeared. I’m left with this very impatient version of Selma who is all but tapping her foot at me.
“You know, I’m more of a takeout girl myself.” I grab a long red pepper from the stack of produce that I assume she’s going to chop her way through. “But I know my way around the kitchen, thanks to my mom and dad insisting we never ate out growing up. Would you like help chopping these up?”
“Yes, please,” she says. “The knives are there, and there’s another cutting board under this shelf.” She pulls a cupboard open next to her with her big toe. “Dom!” she calls out across the room. “Dom, can you put on some music? Jazz, perhaps. Pick something with pep. And Quinton, pull open those doors over there, if you could. I’d like the firepits on to start warming the air outside, to get a cross-breeze going. We’re chopping onions next.”
Selma sets two yellow onions and a bundle of scallions in front of me, watching me get to work chopping them without a word. Every couple of chops, she leans over to grab the veggies off my cutting board, adding them to the enormous wok over the stove. She’s drained her wine glass by the time we’re done.
“More?” she asks, wiping her hands on the spare towel she’s slung over her shoulder like I saw Dom do on our first night here. Then she eyes the bottle that’s clearly within her own reach and holds out her empty glass to me.
“Oh, yes, of course,” I mumble. Then, even though her hands are wiped clean, and I’ve just finished all the chopping for her, I reach across the counter to fill her glass up.