4. Emma
FOUR
Emma
The sun isn’t even out, and I’m already awake. I’m usually not cranky about being out of bed this early, but I don’t appreciate it when it’s not for a morning surf. And thinking about Matt’s smug face? Instant bad mood. Time to channel my inner queen and gear up for a fight.
I pull on one of my go-to outfits: a tailored white button-down tucked into a black mini-skirt. Sheer black tights smooth everything out, and ankle boots give me the few needed inches to face him.
Cross-body bag in hand, I check my arsenal. Notepad, recorder, three different colored pens, and a small secondhand camera borrowed from Julia and never returned. Not as thrilling as pepper spray, but it’ll do.
As I get in my car, I wonder what he’s doing to prepare. Does he even know I’m coming?
Surprisingly, that simple pass Martha sent me last night is enough to get me through the main barrier and into the employee parking lot.
Frank, one of the security guards, insists on following me and giving me a ride to set on his golf cart.
I thought it was weird at first, but in hindsight, I appreciate it.
The less walking I have to do in these boots, the better.
“It’s not far, but you need to know your way around,” he says between turns.
I’d have gotten lost if it weren’t for him. It would have made me late and embarrassed. He drops me off at the door, where I’m supposed to meet Zoe, one of the PAs.
“Hi,” I say to the girl leaning on the door. Her black hair swings back when she looks up at me. “I’m looking for Zoe.”
She nods. “You must be Emma Miller. I’ve been waiting for you.”
I glance at my watch. Then at my phone. I’m early. How long has she been waiting?
“I’m sorry. I was told to be here at eight.”
She waves her hand around and hurries me down the edge of the building toward the trailers. Despite my job revolving around Hollywood, this is the first time I’ve stepped inside an actual studio. I try to take it all in, snapping mental pictures of every detail.
“I’m sorry for being so short with you,” she says, glancing back to make sure I’m still following. “As you’ll soon find out, around here if you’re not early, you’re late. So technically, I’m already behind.”
Explains the power walking. She looks young. Early twenties. If I had to guess, probably an aspiring actress starting out as a helping hand, trying to get her foot in the door. Hollywood’s cutthroat, and I don’t want to be the reason she gets chewed out.
“I had no idea,” I say, catching up beside her. “But hey, I know Matt, so I’ll make sure they understand this was all on me.”
I catch the hint of a smile, though she doesn’t fully let herself relax into it.
A few seconds later we stop in front of the metal pull-out steps of a trailer. On the side, there’s a plaque with black letters that reads: M. Hunt. She knocks twice, then steps back and glances at her watch. I’m about to check mine when the door swings open.
“Hi, you must be Emma. I’m Jennifer, Hunt’s manager,” she chirps. “We’ll be with you in a minute. Zoe, you’re free to go. We can take it from here.”
As the dutiful soul she seems to be, Zoe nods and scurries off without another word.
Jennifer slips back inside, leaving enough of an opening for me to catch the end of the conversation.
“I hope I’ve made it clear how important this is.”
Matt grunts. I’d recognize that sound anywhere. He’s so under my skin I could probably identify him from a mile away.
“Can we stop acting like this isn’t going to be the easiest article I’ve ever had to interview for?” he says. I can practically see the smugness spreading across his features.
I roll my eyes. He definitely doesn’t know it’s me that’s coming. There’s nothing about this that’s going to be a stroll in the park. If anything, I plan on making him hate these three weeks as much as I will. Maybe even more.
“It’s so frustrating that exactly what you’ve told me to do for the past seven years is what might cost me this role,” he continues.
I frown, running through everything I’ve ever read about him and what I know so far. Nothing unusual comes to mind. Since that first action movie he did took off, he’s always been the same ‘Matt Hunt.’
“I said what I said. I’ll do this, but afterward I’m done pretending. I’ll stick to the narrative, no matter the cost.”
Huh.
When is he ever pretending? And… about what? All the media reports is how many parties he attends and how much fun he has. People love to give their two cents, and that keeps fueling the fire. There’s no such thing as bad press.
Could he be involved in something way more serious than this bad boy act? Is he an addict? Does he have a doppelg?nger?
I pull out my notebook and scribble faster than a doctor writing out a prescription. The small page fills up with questions. I flip it and try to jot down as much as I can remember from what he just said.
Before I can finish, the door swings open again, and I’m ushered in.
The inside is more like a compact luxury apartment and less like a trailer.
A plush cream sofa stretches along one of the walls, with a darker brown armchair next to it and polished wood cabinets holding a TV bigger than the one at my place.
A marble countertop separates the kitchenette from the seating area. Everything smells like him.
Matt’s sitting on the couch sprawled out like he owns the place (which, as long as he’s working here, he basically does).
He stands up the moment I walk in. I expect him to be surprised, but whatever thought is running through his mind tells me that’s not the case. His eyes appear relieved, almost… happy? He must have some elaborate ‘make Emma’s life miserable’ plan if he’s looking at me like that.
“Hi, Matthew.” He rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m shocked you agreed to this. I could almost hear you complaining all the way from Golden.”
“Actually—” the woman starts, but Matt raises his hand, bossy as ever, cutting her off.
“I believe it’s me who should be wondering what you’re doing here…” he says, taking a step toward me. The only thing between us is his manager, clearly confused by our reactions. “But then again, I bet you heard my name and begged to be here.”
I scoff. “Oh, Matthew,” I say, my voice low and sharp, “you’ll never hear me beg for anything that involves you.”
“Right, right. Why are you here then, Mills? Last I heard, you told me you were an editor.” He spits out the word like I did a couple of days ago at the wedding. “Are you even qualified to be here?”
“You have no idea what my qualifications are. I have more experience writing than you do act—”
I stop myself, realizing if I go down that same line of thought, I’ll be digging my own grave. He doesn’t know about The Scoop. And it has to stay that way.
He narrows his eyes at me, thoughtful, as if he’s connecting the dots. Did Harrison let it slip? There’s something on the tip of his tongue, and I can see him weighing how far he can push my buttons before I snap.
“You mean all those entries on your blog?” Matt says, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.
“How do you know about that?” I say, momentarily distracted from the relief I should be feeling about my secret being safe. “Are you stalking me?”
“Lucky guess, is all,” he teases.
Shit. He set the trap, and I fell for it.
Matt 1. Emma 0.
I’m about to throw in the towel for this round when I remember what his manager said while I waited outside. He needs this article as much as I want it.
“You know what? It turns out I’m perfectly content with my blog; I don’t need to be doing more writing on top of that,” I bluff.
His eyebrow lifts, not fully believing me. He knows me better than that… but Jennifer doesn’t.
“I’m sorry I wasted your time.” I turn to her and give her an apologetic half-smile.
“No, please. Stay,” she pleads, reaching out to rest her hand on my arm.
“I think it’s better if I send someone else in my place. Matthew doesn’t want me here.”
She must think along the same lines as Martha, because she makes it clear someone else won’t do.
“Oh, he wants you here. Right, Matthew?”
I barely manage to swallow the laugh that threatens to escape the second my nickname for him leaves her lips.
“I do.” He nods, slipping easily into the fake PR persona he wears so well. “I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.”
When his voice comes across as unexpectedly tender, instead of annoyed, I look up and meet his eyes, searching for the lie.
Our stare locks, but I find no trace of insincerity.
He taps into that strange way we’re able to read each other’s thoughts. Usually it’s just insults, but now he’s leveling with me.
I know you hate me and I hate you too, but please don’t go. I can be professional. I need this. I will get down on my knees if I have to, he seems to say.
Yeah, I’ve added a few colorful remarks of my own, but that’s basically the gist of it.
Still, Jennifer must sense my hesitation because she steps in, taking charge of whatever is happening between us.
“Let me explain the details before you make any sort of decision,” she begins. “The shadow assignment will last three weeks, with the article scheduled for publication the week after. You will follow Matt pretty much everywhere. You will have exclusive access to set, interviews, and even his home.”
Home.
That makes me cringe. I always draw the line at private property when it comes to finding the truth. Matt, on the other hand, looks downright pleased, like he’d willingly leave his front door open and roll out a red carpet while he’s at it.
Now she turns to me fully. “All expenses will be paid for while you’re with him. I can tell this could be as important for you as it is for him, and I think you’d make a great team.”
“I won’t sacrifice my journalistic integrity, even if for my own personal gain, if that’s what you’re implying.”
This time, it’s Matt who speaks up.
“You won’t have to. I promise.”
“Fine.”
I nod. Jennifer seems more than satisfied with my answer. She grabs her purse from the armchair and gives Matt another stern look.
“Don’t mess this up,” she says before turning to me and extending her hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”
And with that, she’s off, leaving two sworn enemies alone in a space suddenly too small for the amount of tension in it.
“Do you want to bet?” he asks, shortening the space between us until I have to bend my neck to meet his eyes.
He licks his bottom lip, and I’m momentarily distracted.
“Bet on what?”
Matt leans down and lowers his voice right next to my ear.
“That I can make you beg.”
I push him hard enough he stumbles a step back to find his balance.
“You’re an idiot, Matthew.”
“Just keeping you on your toes,” he replies with his signature smile. His hand comes out to me. “Give me your phone.”
“What? Why?”
“So I can save my number. You’re going to need it if you want to follow me everywhere I go.”
I huff, but I pull it out of my pocket and hand it over. He does the same with his. I save myself as ‘Emma Miller.’
“Strictly professional use.”
“Of course,” he assures with the confidence of someone who absolutely doesn’t mean it.
My journalism professor swore every story could be solved with six questions: the five W’s and one H—who, what, when, where, why, and how. Most of the time writers use them for crime stories or complicated investigations, but I’ve found people are usually the hardest puzzle of all.
Every time I manage to complete all six of them, I know I’ve done my job right.
Except right now, my notebook is already half full of other questions that popped up just from being around him today. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to answer all of them, which means picking the ones that are valuable enough to type into the document.
Six of them have been scratched off when my phone chirps with a text.
I stare at it a second longer than necessary, as if I’m confused.
Which I’m not.
Because it can only be him.
And I’m instantly three degrees more irritated than I was before.
MY MAN
I hope you got juicy material. But try not to drool so much over me tomorrow.
I should’ve never given him my number. This arrogant—
Did you really save yourself as ‘My man’ on my phone?
Also, don’t flatter yourself. The only thing I’m drooling over is the headline I’m going to write about you.
MY MAN
Didn’t think you had any other men in your life. Seemed fitting enough since I am yours for the next three weeks.
What does he know? My relationships not lasting long enough to be wedding material doesn’t mean I have none. I’ve just never met someone who can keep up with me.
But that’s okay. I’d rather stay myself than put on a fake mask and twist into someone easier to date.
Oh, I have plenty. Perks of being the wild child: endless fun.
That is, until I get a little too wild. After they get a sneak peek of the real Emma, it takes them about a week to silently retreat into ghosting mode. But he doesn’t need to know that.
MY MAN
With protection, I would hope.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I can still see. Then, an unwanted thought of Matt in places he shouldn’t be appears. With far less clothing than is appropriate for professional thought. I slap my forehead lightly to get rid of the image.
It’s been months since my last situationship. Even that is not a good enough excuse to think about him that way. He might be hot… but his personality is more than enough to ruin it.
Out of curiosity, how much time do you spend thinking about my sexual life?
MY MAN
More than you’d know.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he spent half his day laughing about me with his colleagues. The girl in the overalls, I’m sure he says.
MY MAN
But don’t worry, I’m not the jealous type.
Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.
Do you always rehearse your lines before speaking to people?
MY MAN
Only when it looks like they bite.
Ugh.
Infuriatingly smooth.
What time tomorrow? I can’t imagine how thrilled you must be to have to see me again.
MY MAN
I don’t mind you.
Sure you don’t.
Time?
MY MAN
See you at eight, honey.
I want to argue I’m not his honey and regardless of the assignment, he’s not mine, nor do I want him to be. But the more I tell him to stop doing something, the more committed he becomes.
So instead, I set my alarm for tomorrow and lock my phone. Then, I turn back to my open document.
I’ve gathered a fairly long list of everything I already know about him, but I still have one more thing to write.
P.S.…