Chapter 1 Planes and Paps #3
“A lawyer?” Theo guesses, glancing at Emerson as she pulls ahead of them. “I could use one of those.”
“She’s in entertainment law.” Sage uses the tone she’s perfected when she, Emerson, and Margot are out on Santa Monica Boulevard and turning down a proffered drink. Theo’s lips part, as if he’s on the verge of saying something, but then he’s shaking his head instead.
“Right,” he says with a breathy laugh. He holds her stare for a long moment, and it’s enough to have Sage slowing her pace before she can even question what she’s doing.
“Look,” he finally murmurs, ducking his head toward hers. His voice is low, so she has to lean in, and something that resembles nervousness flickers in his eyes. “This might be—”
Sage never learns what this might be, because several things happen in rapid succession as they round the corner.
First, Sage trips, the toe of her Dr. Martens catching on the linoleum floor and sending her stumbling forward.
Theo catches her around the waist, pulling her toward him to steady her, his arm firm and secure and so warm that it sends a rush through her veins.
Before she can thank him, there’s a sudden burst of noise that’s so overwhelming Sage’s first instinct is to flinch further into Theo, her hand coming up to grip his shirt as she lets out a startled laugh.
Theo’s eyes widen, and he whips his head toward the noise—is it shouting?—with a soft “Christ.” Sage promptly realizes then that she’s clinging to him like some sort of damsel in distress and jerks away before following his gaze, her mind rapidly placing people and cameras and flashes.
She looks around to see what poor celebrity the fucking paparazzi are here to accost, not that she’d recognize them because she’s notoriously bad at that sort of thing, and …
“Theo! Over here, Theo!”
“Theo! Are you excited for your time in New York?”
“Look over here, Theo!”
It takes Sage a moment to realize Theo has moved a few steps ahead of her. He tosses an apologetic look over his shoulder, says, “See you Friday,” as if it’s a fact, then he’s lifting a hand in a brief wave for the cameras as he walks past them and then he’s just … gone.
Sage can feel the flabbergasted look on her face as Emerson turns back to her, looking smug.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” she says in a way that makes it perfectly clear she knew Sage was making a fool out of herself.
“Yeah, that’s Theo Sharpe. He’s, like, the next big actor on the scene.
He’s here for Comic Con, too. Promoting his movie.
You know, the one I’ve been obsessed with for the last three months.
The one I’ve been begging you to watch.”
For a moment, Sage’s mouth just … moves.
No sound.
Total gaping fish.
Sage is a writer. She’s not naive to the happenings of the world.
But the thing is … she’s not a film buff by any means, and pop culture isn’t really her thing.
Her Instagram feed is mostly bookish posts and fashion trends and latte art (one caffeine addiction replacing another, she supposes).
She’s aces at trivia when it comes to history and literature, but celebrity gossip?
That’s all Emerson.
Sage reads Vogue, Emerson reads People, and that’s how it’s always been.
So, no, Sage didn’t know Theo had just been in some movie—and that it had launched him into the type of fame that has paparazzi wanting to take pictures of him.
Suddenly, the flight attendant is making a lot more sense. As are the passengers who were sneaking glances. Sage thought she’d noticed someone snap a picture with their phone, but she just thought the person was being creepy.
“But … he was in economy,” Sage manages to say.
“Don’t be a snob, S,” Emerson scolds as she hands back Sage’s phone and steers her toward baggage claim.
“He’s, like … newly famous. Besides, remember that time we ran into Nicolas Cage?
He was flying economy.” Emerson is grinning, and Sage is just …
following her toward their carousel, like she didn’t just let her make a complete ass of herself.
“If he’s newly famous, what the hell are the paparazzi doing here?”
Emerson shrugs. “They didn’t follow him out. Probably waiting on one of the other Comic Con guests. I hear Chris Evans is coming.”
“He’s probably flying private,” Sage grumbles.
“As if you’d recognize him if he wasn’t.”
She would, thank you very much. She doesn’t live under a rock. “You’re a fucking nightmare,” she mutters.
Emerson rolls her eyes and buries herself in her phone. Sage follows suit, flicking through the slew of emails she’s been avoiding since this morning. “You know,” Emerson muses, “he really is quite handsome.”
“Who?” Sage mutters distractedly as she opens yet another email from her publicist. She’s already checked in and wants to meet to go over the schedule. She’s added a few things since they last spoke.
“Theo,” Emerson drags out his name, her exasperation with Sage evident.
“You’re not seriously stalking his Instagram right now, are you?” Sage hisses, glancing around baggage claim from beneath her hat, as if Theo is lingering anywhere in the vicinity.
“No, I’m stalking his IMDb. And stop looking around like that, he’s long gone.”
“You don’t have his filmography memorized?”
“I figured I’d brush up on the finer points so I can help you not look like a total dork when we go to his party later this week.”
Sage clicks her phone off. “First of all, rude. Secondly, we’re not going to that.”
“Are you kidding? Why the hell not? When else are we going to be invited to an A-lister party?” Sage opens her mouth, but Emerson cuts her off. “Don’t say when your book gets made into a movie. Obviously that will be glamorous and wonderful but you will be working.”
Sage motions to the city beyond the airport. “I’m working now, you disaster.”
Emerson isn’t swayed. In fact, she looks all the more indignant, her brow furrowing the way it does right before she doubles down. “I’m surprised I even have to point out that attending that party is very much a work outing. Do you know how many connections can be made at an event like that?”
Sage bites back a curse. Arguing with a lawyer is notoriously a bad idea, and arguing with Emerson, specifically, is absolutely pointless.
And if the way she straightens is any indication, she’s just getting warmed up.
“What if someone from a production company is attending the Con and happens to go to this event?”
Someone from a production company is attending the Con.
And not just someone—a production manager from the studio Sage is hoping bites at the option, Jaylen Hammel, will be here in the flesh.
Sage’s agent, Anna, is flying in from London specifically for the dinner she somehow managed to talk him into.
It was just a few weeks ago that Jaylen had let them know they had an actor in mind for the project, and now he’s agreed to dinner. Sage, against Anna’s urging to keep her hopes low, has her hopes sky-high that the meeting is the moment she gets the good news. The thought makes her stomach twist.
Sage wants the film option.
She isn’t sure if it’s the whole Moving Goalpost Conundrum she’s struggled with her entire life where she’s always chasing after the next thing, or if it’s because this is the first time her parents have ever shown this much interest in her author career and she’s preprogrammed to care about that no matter how hard she tries not to.
When she hit the bestseller list, their reaction was distilled into a simple congratulatory text.
It had been clear the accomplishment did nothing to stop their ever-growing concern that she’s made a massive mistake.
But it seems even they can’t argue with the clout of a movie. Or the income it could bring her.
But what about financial security, Sage? Her dad’s voice echoes in her head.
She doesn’t need them to approve, but silencing their constant disapproval would make her life a hell of a lot easier.
So … it’s both, she guesses: the goalpost and the need for them to see she’s not floundering.
All in all, Emerson has a point. She knows she has a point, and Sage does, too.
But her pride is still smarting, and it smothers her reason.
Facing a celebrity that she didn’t recognize—even if he is a newly minted one—feels like a specific kind of torture, especially given she was also sort of an ass to him.
“Fine,” Sage sighs. “You’re right. But can we just … see how this week goes first? There’s a lot going on.”
She can’t afford distractions.
Emerson’s jaw is set, but Sage can see the hint of a smirk threatening to break through. “Fine,” Emerson parrots. “But can you say that first part one more time? About me being right?”
“Nope, I said I hate you and you give me heartburn.”
“That’s the spirit.”