NOAH
It’s just as I imagined—a modern, almost all-glass home sitting on top of the hill overlooking the Hollywood sign. It’s your typical movie star palatial mansion. There’s a large gate at the bottom of the hill with a security guard sitting beside it. After he does his check, he allows me to drive through up the steep driveway until I reach the main entrance. I park my car, admiring the huge fountain that sits proudly in front of the property.
The door is tall and made of frosted glass. I ring the doorbell to be greeted by the housekeeper. She ushers me into the sitting room, which opens onto a back patio that overlooks the pool. The infinity pool sparkles in the backyard, and everything about this home screams Scarlett Winters—movie star.
Morgan is nowhere in sight, and throughout her text messages, she made no reference as to whether or not she’d be here today. I didn’t want to push her. This meeting is about Scarlett. I wait patiently in the sitting room, staring at the glass cabinets showcasing her awards. Rows and rows of statues and plaques rewarding her for her acting. Oscars, Golden Globes, the list goes on.
“Talented, isn’t she?”
I turn around, and Morgan’s standing at the entrance of the room. Her face appears distant—her eyes look worn out like she’s been up all night. Wearing a sleek black dress, she places her keys on the glass table.
“It appears so,” I acknowledge, moving my attention to Morgan.
“She should be here any minute,” she says plainly, void of any emotion.
“About yesterday…” I trail off.
“I get it.” Staring straight at me, without blinking, she says firmly, “You were frustrated. You want to meet Scarlett and move forward with the project.”
“Yes… I mean, no. Morgan…” I move closer to her, her body now only an arm’s length away, “… you never answered me about yesterday. Why did you cancel our meeting?”
“I said I had—”
There’s chaos at the door, followed by the sharp click of heels on the marble floor tiles. Scarlett walks into the room, followed by three other women behind her, rushing around like nervous servants.
“Oh,” she exclaims, following with a playful smile. “So, this is Mr. Mason.” She walks to me, extending her hand as I shake it politely. She’s everything in real life that she is in the movies—beautiful with flawless skin and perfectly styled platinum-blonde hair. Her signature lipstick has been applied to perfection, not a single smudge or mark out of place. With a body like hers, she manages to pull off a white jumpsuit with gold strappy heels, which make her look exactly like what she is—a movie star.
This should be a jaw-dropping moment for me, yet something isn’t right. My jaw is perfectly holding up without any desire to move. My dick stirs slightly, but I wouldn’t consider the stir anything of value to talk about.
“Very nice,” she says without breaking eye contact. Her eyes are blue, however, washed out, almost gray looking. “Has Morgan been kind enough to show you around, offered you a drink?”
“Actually, she just arrived, but I’m fine, thank you.” I smile politely.
“Well, then, please, let me give you the grand tour.” She motions for the housekeeper. “Esmerelda, please bring drinks out to the back patio.”
I follow her lead as she shows me around the house, giving me a tour of each room, what they represent in her life, along with the artwork. The house is even grander than it appears on the outside. Each room is large and filled with plenty of furniture and art pieces. She conveniently shows me her master suite, something I usually would’ve welcomed, especially when she eye-fucks me, describing how her bed was made by some new designer and has all these fancy things it can do.
I keep quiet and pretend not to notice the silver pole at the entrance of her closet. Okay, maybe there’s been a pick up in the pace of the stirring. She must detect my curiosity too, and she’s quick to mention she installed it after playing a stripper in a movie. I’m well aware of that movie. What fucking guy isn’t? I have to admit, she’s charming, and you can’t help but fall in love with her, figuratively.
She ushers us to the patio where Morgan takes a seat beside her. She’s awfully quiet, not saying much as Scarlett talks on and on about the movie she’s shooting.
“You’re very busy, Miss Winters. Hard to get a hold of,” I tell her.
“Please, call me Scarlett,” she responds with a twinkle in her eye. “Sadly, I’m not home as much as I’d like to be. Aside from the hectic filming schedule, there are constant photoshoots and endorsements. Now this book. I don’t know where I’d be without Morgan in my life.”
There’s a sense of admiration in her voice for Morgan. Surprisingly to me, I had expected a diva-like movie star who bossed her assistant around and demanded unreasonable things.
“I’m sure you’ll manage fine, Scarlett,” Morgan adds with a thankful smile.
“Please, half the time I have no idea what day it is,” she says with a slight chuckle. “I just roll with the punches. One minute you’re hot, and the next minute you’re not. That’s the business we call show.”
I laugh. “Something tells me you’re always hot, Scarlett. At least, that’s what the media seems to portray.”
“I’d say don’t believe everything you read. But sometimes, more often so, they’re spot on. However, my love life seems to be their weakness. Any man I’m seen with is apparently in my bed as well,” she tells me. “Did you hear the latest? I’m apparently carrying George Clooney’s baby. It’s the price I pay for eating that burrito during a work lunch. Bloated stomach and work colleague equal pregnant homewrecker.”
“Scarlett, you know it’s rubbish, and they will do anything to sell those magazines,” Morgan scolds her.
I’m surprised at the tone Morgan takes with Scarlett, almost bera