Chrystelle glanced in the rearview mirror. Quint was looking out the window. His straight nose, coupled with the rigid line of his square jaw, made him seem more like a movie star than a behind-the-scenes Hollywood executive. He was the embodiment of authority and masculine grace, and she wondered how many women were lining up to be Mrs. Quinton Fairchild. He must be a private person because she’d never heard anything about the women in his life.
She hopped out and opened the rear door, then waited for the two words that would turn her bones to water—you’re fired!
“Please accept my sincerest apologies, sir.” She looked at the ground. She didn’t want to see how angry she’d made him.
“Apologies for what?” He sounded confused.
She lifted her gaze to his. A frown slashed between his smooth brows.
“For being bold enough to give you my script.” She felt the blood drain from her face. “It was never my intention to eavesdrop.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I moved to Los Angeles, it’s to be prepared for anything. I wanted to be prepared for an opportunity to show my script to someone.” She was talking too fast and saying too much, but she couldn’t stop. This was her chance. If it ruined her shot in Hollywood, she’d leave, but at least she could say she tried. “You produce TV series and movies that are heartwarming, and I believe this script is something that you’d produce. I understand my impropriety will ban me from this studio and Hollywood forever.”
“Banned from Hollywood forever?” He chuckled. “That’s a little extreme.”
His laugh was low and inviting in that Hollywood silver-screen way.
She swallowed hard and filled her lungs before she could speak and sound half normal. “If you could forgive my boldness, I promise you’ll never see me again.”
“We’re not talking the Middle Ages.” His eyes shadowed. “We still live in a country where we’re free to go wherever we please whether you’re a Hollywood producer or a writer trying to break into the industry. I won’t ban you from the studio. I didn’t have to accept your script.”
“But you did and for that I’m eternally grateful.” Her knees weakened and she locked them to keep from collapsing in front of him. “I can help you carry your things to your office.”
“My staff will see to everything.”
At that moment, the doors to the office building opened and a team of gray-suited young men and women exited the offices and streamed down the steps like dancers in a musical. Their smiles bright, they greeted Quint before forming a semicircle around the limousine. A man who looked barely old enough to shave opened the front passenger door and scooped the portfolios from the floor, along with collecting Quint’s briefcase and laptop. The young man handed them to the team members and shut the door. With precision choreography, the group turned and filed into the building.
“If there’s nothing else, sir, I thank you for your time.” Chrystelle grimaced at the tremble in her voice. “I wish you a pleasant day. If you’d be so kind as to return my script to me, I’ll leave the premises.”
“Do you have another fare?” he asked.
Another fare! Why would he care about that?
“I’m not sure, sir. I have to check with dispatch.” She spoke hesitantly. Senseless fear seized her.
“Do that now. I’ll wait.”
He would stand here in this cool December breeze and wait while she checked for another fare? She wasn’t about to ask why. She’d already caused enough problems. “I’ll just be a moment, sir.”
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she glanced at the screen. The limousine service app glowed, indicating that if she called in the next two minutes, they’d schedule her to drive an executive to another studio.
“I have another fare, sir. I’ll be on my way.” She closed her hand over her phone. It didn’t seem like a bad thing that Quint wanted to know if she had another fare. It just made absolutely no sense.
“Call dispatch,” he said.
Her insides melted. This was it. He was going to demand the limousine service fire her, and they would. Mr. Lowery believed in keeping the customer happy. “Could you spare me the humiliation and just let me quit?”
“You think I want to humiliate you?” Confusion clouded his eyes. His mouth, sensuous and strong, quirked as if he expected a punch line.
“Granted, it’s justified. I know I messed up and should be fired.” She looked at the concrete sidewalk emblazoned with the Fairchild Films logo. She couldn’t look at him, mainly because of the perplexing emotions that rushed through her when she did, but also from the shame filling her due to her boldness.
“You think you deserve to be fired?” He shook his head as if trying to understand what she’d said. “Get dispatch on the phone.” He looked ready to do battle. “I’ll take it from there.”
Of course, he would. Why stop at firing her?
Stupidly, she dialed the limousine service. She could’ve refused but someone as powerful as he could make sure no one on the planet hired her.
“Hello, Elsa? This is Chrystelle. Yes, I’m fine but that isn’t why I called. Can you get Mr. Lowery on the line, please? It’s kind of important.” Her gaze flicked to Quint. “It’s Quinton Fairchild important.” The background noise of the reception desk went dead as she was put on hold. Fear spread like ice water through Chrystelle’s veins.
“Yeah?” Mr. Lowery’s voice boomed through the earpiece. “What do you want? You better not be ruining my reputation with the Hollywood elite. I worked hard to be the limousine service to the stars.”
She went cold. She wanted to ask him why he’d assigned her a sedan rather than the SUV Quint had ordered, but that could wait. “But—”
“And that’s another thing,” Mr. Lowery’s voice barked through the phone. “I should’ve known better than to hire some greenhorn from a Podunk town in Kansas.”
“Colorado.” Chrystelle’s voice was a whisper. “And it isn’t Podunk. It’s beautiful.”
“May I?” Quint said and extended his hand to her.
“He’s in a bad mood,” she said. Thanks to her. Her jaw tight, she laid the phone in his hand. This time, she avoided making physical contact. She didn’t trust her emotions if they touched again. And she cared why? This man was about to destroy her life.
“Bad moods are my specialty.” Quint winked at her.
It gave her a start. Was this a game he was playing with her life?
Turning away, he pressed the phone to his ear. “Mr. Lowery, Quinton Fairchild here. I’m fine, thank you. I hope you are as well, but I’ll get to the point. I want to commend you on the excellent hire of your employee Chrystelle Bach.”
Chrystelle’s pulse rocketed. What joke was this? Were cameras floating in the sky and filming this insane scene? She’d just given a top Hollywood executive the worst ride in limousine history, and now he praised her to a boss who would pitch her into the ocean if he saw her again.
Quint and Mr. Lowery spoke less than a minute, but the pounding in Chrystelle’s head blocked their conversation.