Page 33 of Levi

CHAPTER9

Jules

“Ihad such high hopes,” I mutter to myself as the elevator descends to the lobby.

Sydney, bless her, mentioned my father’s creation to one of her rich clients. I desperately need an investor, a partner or someone to take over the company. I’m walking a fine line, and time is running out. I was supposed to meet her contact, but when I got to his office, his executive assistant informed me he had to get on a plane to Chicago for a family emergency. I hope whatever his family member is dealing with isn’t life threatening.

When I reach the lobby, I step out of the elevator, pull out my phone and text Sydney. She insisted on an update just after my meeting.

Her response is quick.

She’s as disappointed as I am and just like me, she hopes her client is still interested in meeting with me when he gets back to LA.

Fingers crossed.

With that thought making the nervous butterflies in my belly soar at the reminder of my precarious situation, I heave a sigh and I’m just about to head outside to hail a taxi to drive me back to the office when my phone rings.

So you’re still alive.

In any other circumstance, I would let Hillary’s call go to voice mail, but because I haven’t seen her––or her daughters––since Saturday morning, I’m dying to know why she’s MIA.

“Hillary,” I say, accepting the call.

“Jules.” When she drawls my name, it usually means bad news.

“What do you want, Hillary?” I cut to the chase.

“It sounds like you didn’t miss me or the girls at all. I’m a little hurt.”

I roll my eyes at the phone. “You’re all adults. You want to spend time at your boyfriend’s place, that’s your prerogative.”

“Well, yes, I spent a lovely time with Florian. His rented Malibu house issoooomuch more comfortable than your father’s crammed house.”Bitch.“Our relationship is unfolding beautifully.” I have no desire to hear about how quickly she moved on after Dad’s death. “The duke is such a great father figure for my daughters.” She’s talking about Duke Florian Thauvin de la Poutaille. A French duke she bumped into at the bank four months ago. Hillary can’t shut up about him, partially because he claims he has ties to the next King of France’s family. I know. Any imbecile can do a quick Google search to find out the last King of France was executed by guillotine over two centuries ago. Hillary prefers wearing blinkers.

“I’m sure you didn’t call me to tell me about your extended weekend at Florian’s.”

“You’re right.”

She allows for a long pause.

A strange fleeting emotion passes through me, but I ignore it.

“Spit it out!” I demand.

I move away from the elevators so I’m not in the way. I don’t have time for this shit, so hopefully it’ll be quick.

“I want out,” Hillary says.

I frown at the phone. “What do you mean?”

“Hollywood is so last century when it comes to acting.”

According to whom?

I yo-yo between curiosity and irritation. “What does Hollywood have to do with your previous statement?” I swear, the woman’s communication skills are deplorable.

“You know what they say about New York? If you can make it there...” she trails off. “My little green olive and my little patch of patchouli have a much better chance of shining on Broadway than in Hollywood.” I hate those ridiculous nicknames. “Even as stunning blondes and after the breast augmentations, they barely get cast.”Eye roll.

“Olive and Petula are moving to pursue their acting career?” I ask.