Leah
Darin Rossellini is five minutes late, which, for someone like him, is practically early. Might not even matter. This meeting could be nothing. Or it could be everything.
It’s all part of the performance, Leah thinks, watching as he finally steps off the elevator. He wears a crisp white shirt under a charcoal suit, tailored within an inch of effortlessness. Black ceramic watch on one wrist, beaded bracelets sliding down the other. His sun-warmed, slicked-back hair falls across distant hazel eyes.
“Thanks for making the time,” she says once they’re seated in the glass-walled conference room. “My usual spiel, if you’ll forgive the formality, is that at NDA, we don’t just broker book deals. We build empires.”
Darin stares back at her, unimpressed. “It’s your division, right?”
“My division?”
“With you at the lead, I presume. Because I only work with leaders, Leah. Just so we’re clear.”
She holds his gaze, masking the edge behind a polished, professional smile.
“Then I suppose you came to the right place,” she says, bristling.
“Tell me, Leah.” He tilts forward slightly, testing her resolve. “Are you a leader?”
“Absolutely. I’m an integral part of our literary team, and it’s my job to ensure our authors maximize every—”
“You know,” he says, like it just occurred to him. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. Your background, your family’s legacy. Cross Automotive Components. Your great-great-grandfather revolutionized the industry. Built an empire that powered nearly every American car for decades.”
Leah pauses, more cautious now, a flicker of suspicion sharpening her stare. “You’ve done your homework.”
“It must be… interesting,” he continues, like he’s daring her, “being born into that kind of power. Having it at your fingertips. Shaping how others move through the world.”
“Did you look into me?”
“Relax,” he says with a light chuckle. “My team runs checks on everyone we partner with. Literary agents included.”
“Got it.”
“Good,” he says. “So. My book.”
Finally. “Yes, let’s talk about—”
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“Not here,” he interrupts, rising from his chair. “I’d rather discuss it at my home. I want you to meet my team. See the full picture. I don’t trust this room isn’t bugged.”
“You think—?”
“You’d be surprised who’s listening these days.”
Leah forces a smile, recalibrating quickly before any hint of uncertainty shows. “Alright. My office will send some availability.”
“No,” he says, already heading for the exit. “We’ll let you know.”
“Uh… sure. Okay.”
He pauses at the door, turns, eyes locking on her as if weighing how much of herself she’s willing to risk. “And Leah?”
She lifts her chin, still bracing. “Yes?”
“Wear white when you come.”
He says it like it’s the most natural request in the world. No explanation. Just a flicker of a smile. Then he’s gone.
By the time she makes it to Icons, she’s not just craving a drink, she’s desperate to forget why she came here in the first place.
“Whatever it is,” Shane says from behind the bar, a teasing glint in his eye, “it looks bad.”
“You have no idea.” Leah exhales, too drained to care anymore. “Finding a roommate in this city is impossible. Everyone’s either a freak or broke.”
“Poor freaks? Perish the thought.”
“Seriously. If someone needs a roommate in LA, there’s probably a reason they don’t already have one.”
“And what’s your reason?” Shane asks, then quickly backpedals when her expression twists.
“Yeah,” she says dryly. “Let’s maybe change the subject.”
Another voice cuts in: “What subject?”
They both turn to see Gareth approaching, straightening his tie.
“Well, don’t you look dapper,” Shane says, already pouring him a drink.
“I’m co-hosting a penthouse showing with that insufferable jackass from Million Dollar Listing.” Gareth slams back the shot in one go. “So, yes. I needed that. How’s tricks with you two?”
“We were just talking about Leah’s roommate search.”
“Shane—”
Gareth levels her with a look. “I told you, Leah. You need management approval before letting someone shack up. This isn’t the Oakwood Apartments.”
“Come on, man.” Shane leans forward, casually placing a hand on Leah’s wrist as he waves Gareth away with the other. “Don’t be so by-the-book.”
“This isn’t a flop house for LA transients. We don’t let in stragglers, especially ones who need a roommate to make rent. Nothing wrong with struggling, but it’s not our brand.”
He looks squarely at Leah. “You should know that.”
“That’s… a little elitist, don’t you think?” Even as she says it, she winces.
“Yes, it is. Because we are the elite. Well, maybe not all of us.” Gareth raises his empty glass in a mock toast. “But who am I to police your bad decisions?” Then, without another word, he sets it down and walks away.
“He’s a dick,” Shane mutters, stepping back, letting go of her wrist, like maybe he was getting too close. “Don’t let him mess with your head.”
“It’s fine,” Leah says, waving it off. Missing the warmth of his hand on her skin. “I’m just tired of being underestimated.”
“For what it’s worth, I never do.”
“Careful, Shane.” She cocks a brow, lips parting with something between a smile and a dare. “Someone might think you’re flirting.”
“And if I was?”
Her smile widens. Because for once, someone’s not looking through her, past her, or waiting for their turn to speak. Shane’s just there. Really there. And it makes her feel… seen.
“So,” he says, shifting gears, “how’s agent life?”
“Knock on wood, but I might have a game-changer. Darin Rossellini.”
“You’re talking to that guy?”
“You sound like you know something I don’t.”
“I know enough. That guy’s a predator. Be careful, Leah.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she says with a wink, tapping her glass twice. Her eyes glitter with mischief, or maybe defiance. “But I can take care of myself.”