Page 23 of What's in a Kiss?

To the east, landmarks fan out like postcards from the spinner rack: the opulent mansions of Beverly Park, the Hollywood Sign in profile, the grand white dome of Griffith Park Observatory. And to the west, when it’s clear like it is tonight, you can see out across the ocean to Catalina Island and beyond.

The Treehouse legally seats twelve, though if Shonda or Tarantino calls, Werner will cram in thirty-five, fire codes be damned. I’ve never seen it set for a party of four, and I have to admit, it’s never been more enchanting.

I check my list. Incredibly, everything seems in order. Coral ranunculus rest in a dozen scattered vases. Candles on the bar cast shadows on Mendocino seashells carried from the beach where Eli proposed. Sonance speakers softly stream my Rehearsal Dinner playlist—Angel Olsen and Darlene Love for Masha, a spray of MC Yallah and gospel songs for Eli. Here and there I’ve hung photos of the happy couple through the years.

Behind the bar I find the case of wine I selected of rare yetinexpensive Mount Etna-region wines, in honor of Masha and Eli’s imminent honeymoon to Sicily. The whites are chilled, the red’s decanting, the rosato’s blushing like a bride.

Having nothing to fix makes me nervous. Because when I stop moving, stop doing, stop fixing—I see Glasswell in my mind. Sliding into my back seat. Gloating in my rearview. Trying to pet Gram Parsons. Telling me I make him want tocompete.

I hear footsteps on the landing and turn to see Werner hauling in the firepit, his muscles manifest beneath a tight white tee.

“Hey, mama,” he says, carrying the pit toward the rattan sectional where we’ll retire after the meal. Werner’s hair’s a little sweaty, and he smells like sautéed garlic. He has a burly virility that can be alluring, but tonight, I’m finding him and the predictability of our recent history a bit embarrassing.

I definitely don’t want Glasswell sniffing us out tonight.

Werner releases the firepit like a barbell, unfurls his frame, and winks at me.

“Who’s serving us tonight?” I ask, skirting his outstretched hands, realizing the server assignment is the one detail I neglected to secure.

“Alastair.”

I groan. “Someone else, please.”

“He’s the best up here,” Werner says.

“He’s anaspiring actor. He won’t leave Glasswell alone all night.” Not that Glasswell will mind, of course. But I’m in no mood for celebrity worship.

“This is Hollywood,” he says. “Every serverexceptyou is an aspiring actor.”

I’ve never told Werner about my scholarship to Juilliard,about the dreams I used to have. I’m lifetimes away from that girl. Is it weird that Werner doesn’t know this side of me at all?

No. It’s not like we’re together.

“What about Silas?” I say, opening the Contacts on my phone.

“He’s in that new T-Mobile commercial.”

“Fuckingactors!” I give up.

“Fine,” Werner says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I’ll do it myself.”

“You?” I swallow. Werner spends most evenings in the back of the house. Why does the idea of him waiting on Glasswell make me queasy?

“I know how to handle celebs,” Werner says, giving me a wink. “I got this.”

“Thanks,” I say like a volcano after an eruption. “That means a lot.”

Werner steps closer. “Did you do something different to your lips?”

I think about the curls Pierre styled with six different curling irons. It’s hard to say, given my financial position, that this wasworththree hundred dollars, but honestly, it probably comes pretty close.

“I got a blowout,” I tell Werner.

“Hot,” he says. “I’m digging this dress, too. Very flimsy.”

I clamp my hands around my skirt. “Colleagues, Werner. That’s all we are tonight.”

“I love it when you shut me down,” he breathes against the back of my neck.