Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Filming has gone smoothly, and so far, there’s no fracture I can detect.
No scandal has revealed itself and I’ve uncovered no obvious pressure points.
Merely a hardworking expansion team owned by an obscenely rich man who believes patience and structure will eventually turn into the extraordinary.
It’s honest work, for sure.
But honesty doesn’t always translate to compelling. It’s up to me to find the reason that people will be unable to look away from this film. I’m confident my hook will reveal itself, and it will turn out to be pivotal.
It always comes.
“Juno.”
Simone Turner’s voice cuts through my thoughts, warm and familiar. She approaches with Van beside her, both dressed flawlessly.
“How’s the week treating you?” she asks as we air-kiss.
“Busy,” I say with a smile. “In a good way.”
Simone and I had lunch earlier in the week. It was informal and had nothing to do with the documentary, more so two women navigating proximity to a professional sports machine.
I turn to her husband. “Good to see you without a whistle in your mouth, Van.”
“Good to not have a whistle in my mouth.” He laughs.
I gesture around us. “Looks like Patrick went all out.”
Van’s mouth curves. “This is actually his version of casual.”
Simone laughs. “You should see his office. We flew out here to meet him before Van took the job. It reminds me more of Belle’s library with all the two-story bookshelves filled with literature.”
“No,” Van says, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Go see his garage. He has luxury cars that are stacked on top of each other on these platforms that rotate and spit out whatever car he wants to drive that day.”
I make a mental note to check out the rest of the house, and realize… I really do need to come back and film Patrick in this environment. It’s who he is and he’s a key element in this story.
We talk for another minute—about travel, about how strange it still feels that this is real—and then they’re pulled away by another conversation. I’m left scanning the room again, more aware than I want to be of who I’m really looking for.
I’ve seen Crosby all week, multiple times. It’s like our orbit keeps bringing us together but instead of passing by or bouncing off each other, we’ve taken various moments to hang out. Twice on the recent road trip, Evan and I joined him for dinner.
On the flight home, we ended up in the plane lounge—cards spread across a table playing a vigorous game of rummy with Arch, Boss and Evan. It was a lot of laughs and getting to know these guys on a more intimate level.
Crosby, as always, was quieter than the others, but no less present. Relaxed in a way I’m starting to recognize.
Whereas Crosby is contained, Arch is explosive. I like Arch a lot. He’s kind and thoughtful. Funny to the core and incredibly handsome. For any woman, a real catch.
And I’m pretty sure he likes me too, if the way he flirts is any indication. He’s shameless with it, really, but I roll my eyes at him because whatever exists there is uncomplicated in a way that doesn’t tug at me.
Not the way Crosby does.
And last night, I grabbed a late bite in The Blue Line. Evan had gone home and I realized I’d not had lunch or dinner. I was diving into a delicious shrimp and couscous concoction when Crosby dropped down into the booth opposite me. He had a plate of the same and we talked almost the entire time about foods we love and hate. It took us about fifteen minutes to actually eat, and we talked for another forty. I can’t speak for Crosby, but when it was time to pack up and leave, saying goodbye was a little hard.
In a million years, I never thought I’d have any personal interest in one of my subjects. One of the reasons I’m good at what I do is because I can remain aloof and objective about what I’m observing. But I’m finding it harder and harder to compartmentalize when it comes to Crosby.
I spot him near the far windows, drink in hand, posture loose but contained. He’s dressed simply—dark suit with an open collar, and when our eyes meet, I feel the connection.
He smiles slowly and unguarded, then starts toward me.
I know it’s ridiculous, but the room recalibrates around his movement. Conversations soften. Bodies shift without anyone quite realizing why. It’s as if the space makes room for him on instinct. He doesn’t notice any of it and I flush a little at the way his attention is steadily locked on me.
“Having fun?” he asks.
His gaze drifts—unhurried, appreciative—down the length of my dress before returning to my face. He doesn’t comment on it, which somehow makes the look more intimate.
“As much as one can,” I say, lifting my glass slightly, “drinking expensive champagne in a luxury mansion. Of course, I’m also calculating all the filming angles, should I drag Evan back to film.”