Two years later…
Danny Roland pulled the brim of his wool fedora over his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of New York City traffic as their cab driver weaved through, flipping birds and cursing in a language he didn't recognize. Just ten minutes to rest. That's all he wanted. The melodic whine of his publicist's voice brought that dream to a halt.
“So far the reviews are fantastic. Looks like that independent film was a smart move after all.” Robert Gavel clapped him on the arm.
He mumbled something that sounded like ‘told you so' and hunkered deeper into the leather cushions of the cab. He'd talk if he must, but still, his eyes needed a rest.
“I suppose there'll be an after party tonight.” His bodyguard, Kevon Trammel's, deep, booming voice pulled his eyes grudgingly open.
He looked to the six‐foot‐five‐inch charcoal hulk sitting on his right. “Naw, Rob and I are heading back to San Diego tonight. Can you pick up Mickey?”
A twinge of guilt settled deep in his chest, slowly souring. He hated putting his golden wolfdog in a kennel. But for the last three months, he hadn't found anyone he could trust to take care of him. At least now that he was moving into the penthouse, his dog would have three thousand square feet of space to run around.
Slowly the sour feeling turned to anger. That wouldn't exactly make up for the endless stretch of golden sand he was used to running across in San Diego. The move was shaking up both of their lives.
“Excuse me.” He stretched his arms in front of both men to release the tension in his tired limbs.
“Listen to this,” Robert snapped the newspaper, which promptly folded in half. “‘Danny Roland was dirty, charismatic, and there wasn't one trace of the good Italian boy left in his portrayal of Godric. His cold‐hearted attitude shook me to my core. Fans of Roland better watch out because there is a new heartthrob on the scene.'” He swiped a hand through his close‐cropped rusty‐colored curls and smiled.
Danny returned a wan one. Good. The sweet‐natured heartthrob he'd portrayed in so many other movies was dead. Changing his normal archetype was a risky plan that could've tanked his comeback. Robert had argued against it, but he'd needed that part. He'd needed to play Godric, needed to be a ruthless Mafioso. That was the name of the game. No more Mr. Nice Guy. He didn't have the heart to play the sexy boy‐next‐door anymore. He was covered in grime and as his college acting professor always said, “You make the scene work with the emotions you've got.”
“Hey, sir, can you drop us off at Fifty‐Seventh Street?” he asked the cab driver.
“What are you doing?” Robert's midnight‐blue eyes filled with panic.
“I'm hungry, man. It's time to get some breakfast.”
The plan had been to head back to the penthouse and grab a few things before he went back to San Diego. But since he was only going back for one day, Danny figured he could sacrifice grabbing a bag of overnight clothes. The oceanic rumble of his stomach agreed with him.
Danny stepped out into the warm New York air, paid the cabbie, and walked into a diner accompanied by his publicist and bodyguard.
Gary's was wrapped in a fifties‐style silhouette. The floors were black‐and‐white checkered linoleum and the booths a classic lipstick shade of red, but that's where the similarities ended. Blue walls were decorated with funky New Age art and flat screen TVs hung from the ceilings.
“Table for three,” Robert said to the hostess.
Danny thanked the woman who ushered them to their booth and opened his menu.
“I don't know why you still insist on coming to this franchise,” Robert said. He sprayed his seat with his mini can of aerosol disinfectant before sitting down.
Robert wasn't a germaphobe—just an over‐conscious, red‐blooded American who realized public spaces was literally germ warfare. Sick, and healthy alike, could leave germs for other unsuspecting patrons, and he didn't want to be on the receiving end. It was a quality Danny found amusing.
“We've talked about this before. It's my thing,” Danny replied.
“What? To have breakfast? That's everybody's thing,” Robert retorted.
Danny shut his eyes.
Here we go again.
Robert couldn't understand why Danny needed to leave the confines of his penthouse. According to his publicist, if he wanted breakfast, he could call guest services and an errand boy would pick up an order anywhere—even Gary's.
“To have breakfast at a Gary's. That's my thing,” Danny said.
He didn't need to fill Robert in on all of his reasons for doing what he wanted. Robert was great at his job, but Danny didn't like how nosey he could be sometimes. His publicist constantly looked like a cat who ate the canary; and with good reason—sticking with him was fast turning Robert into a millionaire. Danny bit back the urge to remind the man just how lucky he was.
Robert had a no-nonsense attitude and a face to match it. Frown lines forever etched his forehead. He had deep inset blue eyes and a pointed nose, perfect for sticking it where it didn't belong.
The two were definitely only associates and not friends. He had to hold the old man at arm's length. If he didn't, the germaphobe would try to run his whole life. On one hand, he appreciated the man's eccentricities, but on the other, they could be a pain in the ass. Fortunately, Robert knew when to draw the line with his young, overeager client. As long as he never stepped out of his pen, Danny would keep him on retainer for life.
“I don't know why you even bother looking at the menu. You order the same damn thing every time,” Robert complained.
“You're right. I'll have the Meat Lover,” Danny said.
He smiled at the waitress who came to take their order and handed her his menu. Her face turned an unfortunate shade of beet red as she tried, but failed, to keep the menus tucked under her arm. Danny leaned over, picking his menu off the floor. The waitress' hands shook as she accepted the laminated folder.
“I'll have sourdough toast and some orange juice,” said the girl sitting at the booth behind Robert.
Danny glimpsed a flash of violet eyes and angled to get a better look at her. As another waitress moved from the girl's table, his heart jumped in recognition.
“You did a good job with the Today Show, but the next talk show host will have a larger audience, and because he's a former journalist, he's going to ask the tough questions,” Robert said, getting down to business as usual. “Are you listening to what I'm saying?”
“Probably not,” Danny replied truthfully, staring past Robert at the booth next to them.
“Well, what I was saying…” Robert started again.
But Danny still wasn't paying attention—or couldn't—he didn't know which. He was still staring at the young woman in the next booth. His eyes were locked on her like magnets.
There wasn't anything special about her. She had a curly mess of dirty auburn hair. Her eyes were bloodshot, like she hadn't slept in days. She was wearing a red hoodie. A regular Gary's customer, he mused.
Was she a friend, someone from my past?
Danny quickly dismissed the idea.
No, he reasoned. Despite her disheveled appearance, he would've remembered her. The sun streaming in the windows gave her café-latte skin tone a dark golden hue. She looked like one of those timeless beauties; a rare species compared to the face-lifted, silicone, and collagen Barbies walking around California. He was sure a needle had never kissed her face. He shifted in his seat.
Yes, this isn't a face I would've forgotten.
“Danny, your food is here,” Kevon said.
His bodyguard's voice shook Danny out of his momentary reverie. He smiled at the waitress who placed the omelet in front of him. She whispered I love you in his ear. Without a word, he lifted the pen out of her apron pocket and scribbled his name across it. She clasped a hand to her chest in shock and thanked him again and again. Danny handed her the pen and turned to his food.
He ate the egg, cheese, bacon, and ground beef mixture with gusto, but noticed the young woman didn't touch the toast or juice she'd ordered. Instead she sat there, staring at it as if she were waiting for something—or someone.
“If you stare at her any longer, I suggest you have Kevon take a picture. You can hang it in your room,” Robert said. He leaned over into Danny's line of sight, blocking his view of the girl.
His bodyguard nudged him and raised an eyebrow. His chestnut brown eyes begged to know why he was looking at this girl.
Danny glanced at her again. She looked like a raccoon, with sunken eyes and heavy bags resting under the lids. She didn't have a stitch of makeup on. Even her lips—a full cupid's bow—were bare. Perhaps he didn't know her.
Danny rolled his eyes at Robert, returning to finish his meal. His publicist continued to prep him for the subsequent interview, but Danny tuned him out. The next time he looked up, she was gone, the toast and juice untouched. Two crumpled bills lay on the table.