"You look great," he says, because as brothers go, he's the best. "As a navigator, though, you're crap. Are we even close?"
"Oh, sorry." I'd been navigating until his Speed Racer tactics had thrown me off task. I open the app on my phone and figure out where we are and where we're going. "There," I say, pointing to an upcoming stop sign. "Turn right, and then it looks like we're going all the way to the end of the road."
The map doesn't lie. We end up at a gorgeous multi-level mansion perched at the end of a street that dead-ends over a canyon. Which means that the entire back side of the house more or less hangs off into space. Mildly terrifying, but I can't wait to get inside.
I turn to Griff. "This is your producer's house, right?"
"His name's Tim Falcon, but everyone calls him Bird. I know, it's stupid, but he's brilliant, so he gets away with it."
"And the movie's called Warhol, Women, and the Great White Whale?"
Griffin nods, and I give myself a pat on the back. I pay attention to movies once they're out, not when they're still in production. But now that Griffin's in the biz, I've been trying to get educated. Apparently this is a coming of age film set in the sixties with a protagonist who's fascinated with Moby Dick and pop art. Griffin is his adult voice of reason looking back on the teenage wackiness and angst.
"Ready?" he asks as he gives the valet his keys.
I nod, and one of the uniformed men opens the car door for me. I walk the short path to the house, step inside the already open front door, then gasp at the view.
I'd expected stunning, but this blows me away. There are no walls. Or, rather, there are, but they're entirely glass. So it really does seem as though we're floating in space.
I'm dying to get over to the far wall--I'm curious to know if the illusion is shattered the closer you get--but we get waylaid by a tall, skinny man with wiry, ginger hair and purple-tinted John Lennon glasses.
"Griffin! The man behind the curtain! The voice of the future! I am so glad you could make it." He grabs Griff's shoulders, then leans forward to deposit air kisses on either side of my brother's face while Griff endures this absurdity with an expression that resembles polite civility. But I know him well enough that he's wishing he could bolt.
"And who is this lovely creature?" The man turns to me, then glances back at Griff. "Your wife? Girlfriend? Mistress?" he adds with a wink, as I force a smile and tell myself that I can suffer through this party because I'm here for Griffin.
"Sister," Griff says. "Kelsey, meet Bird. My director."
"Oh!" I reach out to shake his hand, grateful I hadn't made some snarky comment earlier. Instead of shaking, he pulls me close for my own air kisses, followed by a rib-crushing hug.
"Darling, your brother is the best. The absolute best. The nuances he's bringing to Lorelei's script." He lifts himself up on the balls of his feet, making him look even more like a scarecrow, and peers around the room.
"I know she's here somewhere," he mutters. "And she simply must meet you. And say hello to you, too, Griffin. But damn that woman, where is--ah! Well, he'll do. Come here, come here. There's someone I want you to meet."
I practically go en pointe, but I can't see who he's waving over. At least not until a cluster of women to the left of Griffin parts--and there he is. Just standing there looking sexy as hell in tailored gray slacks, a white Henley, and a collarless gray jacket.
Wyatt.
I feel him as much as I see him. That sizzle on my skin. That squeeze around my heart. The warmth that infuses my blood, teasing me in all the right places.
He's looking at me, too, and though I know he must be furious at me for backing out of the project, his expression is entirely unreadable. Even so, I have to force myself to stand
tall under the weight of his gaze. And it takes all of my strength not to reach out and clutch Griff's hand for support.
If Bird notices the tension between us, he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he hooks his arm around Wyatt's shoulder and pulls him closer. "Wyatt, buddy, you have got to meet this man. Griffin, this is Wyatt."
"Nice to meet you," he says, extending his right hand. Griffin takes it, and I hold my breath as I watch Wyatt's face, wondering if he's going to react to the feel of the burn scars or the fact that Griff's missing his right pinkie.
But he doesn't react at all, even though there's no way he can't have noticed, and in that moment I want to kiss the man. That's the hardest thing for Griffin--getting out and socializing, especially in Hollywood where everyone puts such a premium on physical beauty. So anytime someone overlooks his scars, I pretty much want to nominate them for sainthood.
"Wyatt is Lorelei's son," Bird says. "And Griffin here is Arnold's adult voice."
"Oh, right," Wyatt says. He'd turned his attention to me, as if expecting another introduction, but he shifts back to Griffin. "My mom met you at the audition. She said you knocked it out of the park."
"Good to hear. It's a great role. I'm thrilled to be part of it."
"With any luck, our little film is going to make a huge splash," Bird says. From what Griff has told me, he's a respected director, but he tends to do art films. This is a more mainstream project, but the budget is small. They're all hoping, of course, that it explodes once it's released.
But then again, I assume that's what everyone in Hollywood is always hoping. Personally, I'm just glad my brother has work.