“He called me,” Max said. “I spoke to him on the drive in from the airport. I guess he couldn’t wait for me to get back to him.”
Max picked me up in his arms and resumed kissing me hungrily.
“Wait,” I said. “So what happened?”
Max shrugged. “He wants to buy the script.”
“I know, but what did you say?”
Max kissed me harder, deeper, as if he hadn’t seen me in weeks. I actually felt the same way.
Finally, he stopped just long enough to say, “I told him it wasn’t for sale.”
I smiled, happy that Max would still be controlling the film. “Nice. Way to smack him down before he even makes an offer.”
“Oh, he made an offer,” Max said, slipping off his coat. “But I turned it down. We’re making this movie and I’m directing. I’m not giving this up.”
“Well, just out of curiosity, how much did he offer?”
“Ten,” he said. “And that’s million, not thousand.”
“Well, I kind of figured it wasn’t ten thousand, but…Ten million? For just some script?”
Max looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.
He made a quick move toward me and I ran, up the stairs, with Max chasing me, saying I was going to pay for that comment.
Not that I minded paying the price he demanded….
ELEVEN
Two weeks later, on what was inarguably the biggest Sunday of my life, I found myself being dressed by two stylists Max had surprised me with. I had initially planned to spend most of the morning and early afternoon out, getting my hair and makeup done, but the two women showed up shortly after 10 a.m.
Honestly, it was a bit much. Max had surprised me yet again. I’m not sure why, though. You’d think by now I would have been used to the way he did things — always going all out, over the top, never sparing effort or expense. I can’t honestly say that I wanted to come to expect the things he did. It was part of what made life with him so invigorating.
I wasn’t exactly nervous about the evening, but I didn’t want to let Max down. I had been to that one movie premier in New York City many months ago — another surprise of Max’s — and it had the red carpet and the stars and press it warranted. But that was nothing compared to the Academy Awards.
When Max saw me walk out of the bedroom, he eyed me up and down. I had on a white dress, and he wore a tux with the bowtie hanging from his neck.
All that was missing on me was the veil, and I suddenly had a rush of that odd emotion I’d been feeling more and more lately. Is this what it would feel like on my wedding day?
I also briefly regretted the choice of a white dress. It wasn’t a wedding gown by any stretch of the imagination, but the coincidence was enough to make me rethink it. Too late.
“You look like a movie star.”
“Ha ha,” I said, with heavy sarcasm. “Right.”
He stepped toward me and put his arm around my waist. “If we had more time — ”
“Mr. Dalton?” We heard the voice from outside. It was the limo, ready to take us from Malibu to downtown LA, and The Dolby Theater on Hollywood Boulevard.
When we arrived, there was a line of limos backed up, sort of like you’d see during a delay with airplanes on the runway.
Thankfully, the limo was stocked with wine and beer, cold shrimp and some cheese. I had wine, Max had a beer. He offered me a shrimp, but I declined.
“It’ll mess up my lipstick or I’ll have a fleck of shrimp meat stuck in my teeth.”
Max put the whole thing in his mouth and said, “It’s going to be hours before we eat.”
I looked at him, having never seen him talk with his mouth full before, and he smiled — luckily with his lips pressed together. I realized he was trying to make me laugh and relax me as much as he could.
He sipped his beer and said, “You’re gorgeous, Liv. And if we’re lucky, Jennifer Lawrence or Johnny Depp will be right in front or behind us, and we’ll only be blurry images in the background of one of their shots.” He stroked my knee. “Where’s that confident woman who runs my professional life so well?”
He leaned in toward my face.
I stopped him. “Lipstick. Don’t. Plus you’re all…shrimpy-breath.”
Max laughed and reached for another.
Fifteen minutes later, stepping out of the limo, I realized that the flash of paparazzi is something I can’t imagine ever getting used to. It had happened at that premier in NYC, even though they were snapping shots of real celebs. This time, though, it seemed like they were photographers getting paid by the picture.
I smiled as Max took my hand and we made our way down the carpet. In no time, the cameras turned to the next limo behind us. Just as Max had predicted, it was a big celebrity — Sandra Bullock — and our five seconds of attention were over.
A loud cheer went up from the people who had gathered in the bleachers to get a glimpse of Hollywood “royalty.”
That is, until someone from the rope-line was calling Max’s name. It was a reporter from Variety, and Max graciously walked over to her and gave her a few minutes, during which he answered a few questions about the new film and how things were going with him taking over the director’s role.
“Fantastic,” he said, “and I owe it all to Olivia Rowland.” He turned and smiled at me.
The reporter looked at me and tried not to look confused, though I’m sure she was. She asked how to spell my last name, and what my job was.
“R-O-W-L-A-N-D,” Max said. “And her job… She runs my life.” Tugging my hand, he returned us to the procession toward the doors.
More whoops and screams came from the bleachers. They weren’t for us, but I have to admit — for a moment, I pretended they were.
. . . . .
When the show ended, we went straight to the limo. We had been invited to an after party being held at the Beverly Hilton.
I climbed in first, Max followed, and the driver closed the door.
“That was amazing,” I said. “Almost surreal.”
“It’s quite a show,” he said, almost absently.
I figured that he was in a solemn mood because the night had been so focused on success in the movie industry, and he was considering how the new movie would play not only with the audience, but also with the Academy.
I cozied up close to him, wrapping my arm around his and laying my head on his shoulder. He kissed the top of my head.