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  The exotic paradise theme had been Bridgette’s idea—one of her few contributions that hadn’t made him snort water through his nose. More than a few times Josh fantasized about his own exotic paradise—running away from the project and starting something new, somewhere, somehow. God, he didn’t care what or where but something, but every time those thoughts surfaced he reminded himself of the paycheck. The very large paycheck that would be his if he complied with the game plan: launch a popular show and make Bridgette look good.

  Bridgette’s assets to the show were few yet powerful—shockingly blonde and busty, she had a tiny voice and an even tinier waist. Her smile was wide, with ruby red lips that always glistened and her laugh sprinkled like a fresh rain—or so said her professional biography, which Josh had begged her to take a second look at.

  Bridgette sighed and examined her nails as she spouted off about Paige again, about how it was time the show was canned, her job taken, and space made for new talent. He’d heard it a hundred times before, but now it irked him in a new way. Her mouth formed mesmerizing circles and dips, the pristine red outline of her lips suggesting she was perusing the pages of a magazine instead of sitting with a real human being.

  Paige worked for her position. She didn’t get daddy’s brother to catapult her to the top.

  Josh nodded as he sipped his seltzer water, unsure what Bridgette was actually saying anymore.

  “You know what I mean?”

  He murmured his agreement and pushed his napkin around his plate, feigning concentration. Despite her annoying traits, he liked being seen with her. She was a nice tag-along to dinners and galas and a mostly acceptable host for a new show. He’d thought.

  “I think it’s that she’s too confident,” Bridgette mused over a glass of white wine that had arrived. “Too like…full of herself.”

  Josh rolled his eyes. “She has a reason to be.”

  “Whatever,” Bridgette said. “I’m prettier than she is. I’m funnier. I’m cuter.”

  Josh said nothing, biting into a roll that had arrived in a basket.

  “Don’t you think?” She leaned forward and batted her eyelashes at him, inviting his adoration.

  “The audience will love you,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  She looked dissatisfied but was distracted by the arrival of their appetizer. “Oh, look, Joshie. Your food is here.”

  “You don’t want any?” He snatched up a crispy shrimp.

  “No, I don’t eat seafood,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “What a shame,” he said, teeth crunching into the shrimp. “More for me.”

  She smiled at him as he ate, more like a proud mother than a business partner. A small part of him shriveled on the inside, knowing in his gut this dynamic was only bound for hard times. What would it take to get Paige across from him? No matter how angry and terrifying she had been, he was dying to know more about her, could think of a list of at least fifty questions to ask after their brief—and borderline furious—exchanges.

  Paige, please, come rescue me, even if it means you eat me alive.

  Never before had a new project filled him with so much dread and regret. At this point, the only thing keeping him in the game was the promise of an overstuffed wallet.

  ****

  Paige’s smile was ready to fall off. With only five minutes left of the rest of her show, she prayed it would last until the set worker signaled.

  “Well, folks, we’ve had a great three years,” Raymond said, setting aside the selection of cards and emails he’d read to the audience. Vases of flowers littered the sets, and a few posters decrying the termination of the show sat propped against chairs.

  “We would never have gotten this far if it weren’t for faithful viewers like you,” Paige said, choking back tears. “We wouldn’t have been able to fight so hard if it weren’t for you guys either. But what’s done is done. Higher powers have taken this show against our will.”

  “You haven’t seen the last of us.” Raymond’s smile was strained and small. “For the last time, folks…”

  Together, they said, “Goodbye and until next time.”

  “A New York Minute is up,” Paige said.

  The lights fell and credit music rolled. Paige’s lip trembled. No amount of steel-faced, entertainment-industry façade could sheath the emotional tidal wave that had been welling up in her core for the past few days.

  She blinked and a tear escaped. Raymond looked over at her, noticed her probably strained and desperate pre-tears face, which somehow gave her permission to cry openly. Her breath hitched and an unsanctioned sob escaped. It felt so good to let it out, even though a small part of her scalded at the display of vulnerability. An even louder sob hiccupped out of her, sounding more desperate and ugly than the first. It made her want to cry even more. Raymond offered her a hug. She accepted it and crewmembers gathered, forming a circle around them.

  Most of the crew had decided to sign and stay on with IBC, a decision that, at first, had angered her, feeling somehow betrayed by the act. A couple begrudging new-age meditation classes later and she, at least, didn’t blame them for signing, understanding that for them, the world still turned, and a job was a job.

  She wasn’t so sure she was ready to let her own world keep turning yet. “I’ll miss this so much,” she whispered. “Thank you all for being a part of realizing this dream with me. I appreciate you all so much.”

  She was the last to leave the studio, one remaining item on her NYCBC to-do list. The bright screen of her laptop atop her emptied desk reminded her of the pending decision. She’d saved the contract for last, partly out of defiance, and partly out of a very real and gut-wrenching indecision.

  Gary had laid out all of her options, and it came down to a very simple yes or no. Did she want to fling herself into the market, unplanned, unprotected and otherwise clinging to the hope something would show up and help pay her bills that were coming due soon?

  Or did she want to keep the paycheck for now, and do a stint with IBC and see how it panned out?

  The mere thought of signing one contract or the other made her body feel leaden and dull. Gary had assured her that either way, something would work out. Signing with IBC would give her job security while they scoured for the next big opportunity. Going solo would be tense but could have equally big pay-outs. She just might not be able to pay rent for a month. Or two. Or more.

  Despite the bitter taste of legally binding herself to IBC, there was something a bit more unsavory about the idea of flinging herself into the unknown. The black abyss of uncharted territory wasn’t the freeing feeling it had been after college. Now, it felt like a monster ready to swallow her, to suck out all her autonomy and control, snapping vertebrae and ribs along the way.

  Maybe it was the fact she’d been so comfortable and secure for more than three years. Maybe it was because she’d foolishly believed her brain child would be the hallmark of her career. The amount of change facing her, mid-career, was a paralyzing weight on top of a sinking ship.

  The thought of having to hand over her apartment and potentially move in with her parents in upstate New York was a whole different brand of failure. Seeing Mom and Dad was a much-awaited holiday occasion; meeting up with old high-school pals was a delicacy of sorts, precisely because it was so rare and guaranteed to be cut short. But living there again?

  She was so much more than that; she’d fought her whole life to be a self-made industry figure, to pave her golden path to success, to be the polished woman on the screen beaming into the homes of America. It meant that Paige Alexander didn’t hand over her apartment, or move in with parents in her mid-thirties.

  She opened the contract to disengage from IBC and read over it again. The gut-twist that accompanied it made her feel like puking.

  Then she opened the contract to stay with IBC and signed it.

  Paige returned home that night with a heavy heart and an even heavier purse. She’d stuffed all of
her miscellaneous belongings into her oversized purse, loathing the weight on her shoulder as confirmation of failure.

  She had then inserted herself into the chaotic flow of foot traffic. Normally one for quick cabs and personal space, today she might take the opportunity to waste some time. She needed the chance to think about what a big hypocrite she was and analyze exactly what steps had led her to this low point in her life.

  Though she wasn’t one to sit around and mope, tonight would be an exception. She collapsed onto her bed face-down, purse bulky and overflowing at her side. Groaning into the bedspread, the material grew hot beneath her mouth. Was it actual silk? Did she know the thread count? More importantly, what the hell was she supposed to do now?

  Be positive, her inner voice whispered, a habit despite the decision to be sour and mope. Just because it’s IBC doesn’t mean the new show will totally suck. You still have a job. That’s great. Maybe this will be a chance for you to take a break and relax a little.

  But she couldn’t relax, not with the all-too fresh wound of her show cancellation and the fact that she’d signed with the enemy.

  All she could do was lie there and rot.

  Josh Lambert was probably sitting in a spiraling steel tower somewhere, cackling evilly as he beheld her freshly signed contract, waiting to siphon her life source now that she worked for IBC. With lightning strikes and evil minions and all of it.

  Her cell phone rang. She considered not answering it—but what if it was Gary with some good news? Like the whole contract-signing-show-cancellation had been part of a reality TV show playing pranks on entertainment figures. The camera crew might be on their way over right now to film her reaction. She scrambled for her purse. “Yes, Gary?”

  “Paige, I’m so sorry about today.”

  “Well, it had to happen sometime. Why should a hardworking girl get to enjoy her perfectly successful television show?”

  “I saw the show. You did an amazing job. It made me cry.”

  “Probably not as much as me. Where were you today? I thought you’d be there for the last show.”

  “I went to check out the set of the new gig.” He paused. “You’re not gonna believe what I’m about to tell you.”

  Her stomach knotted, and she didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to hear any of it. She tensed, as though anticipating slashes across the back. “Should I be preliminarily happy or upset?”

  He paused again. “Neither, I suppose. Sweet cakes, this replacement show of theirs isn’t in New York. In fact, it’s in Hawaii.”

  The news settled into her like a foreign object floating in a beverage. A mixture of curiosity and horror and she couldn’t decide on either. “Hawaii?”

  “Yeah.” His tone suggested exactly what she was thinking—what sort of idiots uprooted a perfectly functioning set from its home base in New York?

  Even the mention of Hawaii didn’t elicit the internal cheers and celebration standard for anyone else considering a show in an exotic location. In fact, she could barely keep the phone pressed to her face.

  “Are you there already?”

  “I’m on my way. You need to be, too. I’ve got your ticket ready, and you’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

  Paige’s stunned surprise was the first real emotion she’d felt since the sadness had set in a couple days ago. “I-I am?”

  “Yep. Your flight leaves at nine fifteen a.m. Flight 1034 to Hawaii.”

  Her mind started to turn. “Is the gig permanently out there, or are we doing an on-location thing…?”

  Gary sighed. “I’m trying to find that out myself. Though it seems the whole show will be filmed from Hawaii, not just a one-off. We’ll know more when we get there. All I can promise you is you have a job, and it’s waiting for you in Hawaii. I sent the flight details to your phone, so you know where to show up and what not to take onto the plane like, you know, car bombs and all that. I’ll see ya on the island, Paige.”

  He hung up.

  Paige stared at her cell phone, confused, until it vibrated with the arrival of a new email. The preview screen showed “Flight 1034: Confirmation Details and Preparation”.

  Hawaii. She settled into her pillow, trying to imagine what the air might feel like there, what the sounds would be, what sort of view her room would have. It was one of the few places she had never been in the US, and trying to imagine it with the clamor and buzz of New York City beyond her bedroom window was impossible.

  As if on cue, a harmonic swell of car horns drifted from outside.

  Maybe the time was right. Maybe a forced change of pace would be just the thing to help ease the loss of her show and the pain of transition and get her thinking about anything but all the other nasty things she should have said to Josh Lambert.

  Or the way she wanted to grab him by the collar, throw him against a wall, and kiss him until both their eyes popped out.

  ****

  She arrived to Hawaii in the late afternoon greeted with a lei, throngs of gorgeous men who looked like walking gym membership advertisements, and a driver with her name misspelled on cardboard—Page Aleksander.

  The driver took her to a regional airport. “Your final destination is a private island to the southwest. Not a long trip. Mr. Rodriguez has everything arranged for you.”

  She relaxed at the mention of Gary and boarded the plane. If IBC had arranged her hostage situation, it was at least done so in comfort. Settling into the leather seat, she tried to conjure some excitement about the new chapter of her entertainment industry adventures. Who knew what new challenges awaited her, what new, exciting professional development and unforeseen character growth opportunities?

  Despite the forced cheeriness and visualization practices, she couldn’t release a nagging feeling. She was normally a put-together gal, energetic and determined, but her days of late had been tinged with fury and sadness. Creative energy and determination had twisted into snarky chaos. A change of pace was exactly what she needed, and she was the last person to ever admit it.

  Just enjoy it. The worst thing that can happen is Lambert will magically show up.

  The thousand miles or so currently between them made her smile. She stretched out in her seat as the pilot entered the cockpit and the plane rumbled to life.

  And now that she was officially on Hawaiian soil, she would definitely keep Jerk Lambert out of her head. No matter how badly she wanted to start another Josh-centered vibrator session.

  Chapter Three

  Paige awoke an hour later to find a native man, almost the exact dimensions as Gary but with a full head of black hair, waving her out of the airplane.

  “Where are we?” she croaked.

  He said something unintelligible, which she assumed was probably Hawaiian. Then he said, “Follow me.”

  She clambered out of the plane and blinked in the blazing sunlight, immediately soaked to the bone in melting heat. A light sundress would have been the smarter choice for a plane ride ending in Hawaii, genius.

  The Gary doppelganger pilot, or chauffeur, or potential kidnapper led her to a van parked off the runway. Paige struggled to absorb all the plant life around her. She was sure she’d never seen so much greenery in her life. “This will take you to your location.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed a five-dollar bill into his hand and got into the van, mulling over the interminable steps to arrive at this set. She wasn’t even sure they were in Hawaii anymore. With how long she’d been traveling, she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d set foot on Tahiti.

  As the car moved, she caught a glimpse of a sparkling coastline. Childish glee rippled through her—maybe she’d sunbathe today, have a wildly expensive martini with dinner, and spend an embarrassing amount of time arranging flowers in her hair.

  But that was quickly tempered by the slam-bam car ride as the driver careened down a new road. She clutched her seat as the van tore through potholes and leaped over bumps. It was like a safari ride, minus the twenty-dollar entrance fee and the assurance
the wildlife wouldn’t bite.

  What started as dense foliage slowly turned into houses and buildings. It seemed backward to Paige, especially as the buildings grew more ornate and impressive. They passed a sign that said Little Hollywood.

  She couldn’t imagine a place more different from New York. They were probably the only car for miles. In fact, she could breathe easier. What the island lacked in cars, it made up for in bio-diversity.

  The van turned onto a paved driveway, continuing through an open wrought-iron gate. The driveway made sharp twists, offering spectacular glimpses of a sunlit ocean and enough palm-lined vistas that she could barely concentrate.

  So maybe the IBC freaks had been on to something. Filming here for an indeterminate amount of time might not be so bad after all. Palm trees yawned away from her, bearing swollen coconuts that sagged. One knocked to the ground as they drove past, bouncing along the tough trunk of the tree until it disappeared in the shrubbery below. Flashes of yellow and pink dotted the driveway, nameless flowers she’d only seen in magazines and movies.

  The van slowed to a stop in front of what looked like a regal plantation house, fitted with Roman columns and wide, covered porches. Hugged by dense foliage, the hotel seemed to sprawl onward forever. Paige stumbled out of the van, gawking.

  “Here we are, ma’am. Just go inside.” He flicked his fingers toward the front door and then rubbed his belly the same way Gary did before leaving a meeting.

  She picked up her suitcase and stepped tentatively onto the path. The stone walkway crossed a deep azure pond, adorned with lilies and butterflies and all manner of gorgeous things. She scrambled with her cell phone to take a picture of a butterfly the size of her hand before it departed its National Geographic-worthy background.

  Paige entered the building through a gold-gilded front door attended by a smartly dressed doorman. Her steps click-clicked as she made her way across the marble tiles and to the front desk. A chandelier laden with sparkling fringe and neo-Gothic candelabras hung above.