Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book 1) Read online

  “In this table here, I’ve factored in the living costs for each member of the cast.” She glances up and lifts a brow. “Are you calling them cast members or residents or what?”

  “Community members.” A little dumbfounded, I drop into the seat beside her. “You already started running numbers?”

  “I emailed the hiring manger to request some data—Marilyn?”

  “Mari.” Who, of course, failed to mention this. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, this takes into account the economic contributions of each community member—for instance, farmers, chefs, grocers—everyone who represents the food supply is shown in this column, while those who contribute to safety—police and fire, for example—are represented here on the grid.”

  I listen to her rattle off numbers, staggered by how much she’s put into this. We had two other candidates make it to this round, and neither took it this far. I listen with rapt attention, impressed she’s thought of aspects of this that my five siblings and I hadn’t considered in months of planning.

  “I’d be happy to email this to you if you’d like a closer look.” She smiles and glances at the coffeemaker. “Smells like that’s ready. Want me to get it?”

  “Definitely not.” I jump up like my chair’s on fire and hurry to grab mugs. “If we were to offer you the CFO position, I’d want to be clear you’re not my assistant. You and I would be partners on the business side of this operation.”

  She nods and tucks a shock of hair behind one ear. “And your siblings—they’re mostly on the production side?” She accepts the mug I hand her, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic instead of grabbing the handle. “I find the whole dynamic fascinating.”

  “Yeah, Gabe’s directing, working with our sister, Lauren. She’s the producer.” I blow on my coffee, conscious of an odd sting in my nostrils. “There’s also Mari—Marilyn—she’s a psychologist. The social component was her brainchild.”

  “And Lana.” Vanessa twists the mug in her hands but doesn’t take a sip. “Public relations, right?”

  “Yep, and then Cooper. An actor, though he’ll be taking a different role with this endeavor.”

  I wait for her to ask about Coop. Most people pry for gossip about the Judson family hellraiser, but Vanessa doesn’t go there.

  “You have a lot of talent in one family.” She lifts her mug in a mock toast, then raises it to her lips.

  The instant she sips, her brown eyes bulge. “Holy shit!” She sputters into the mug, spraying coffee as she jumps from her chair. “Did you brew napalm?”

  I take a sip from my own mug and choke. “My God. It’s like battery acid.”

  She’s wiping her tongue with a paper towel, gagging as she does it. “I thought you went heavy on the grounds, but this is like drinking tar.”

  Handing me the roll of paper towels, she bends to rinse her mouth in the sink. Swishing and spitting, she coughs as she edges sideways to make room for me.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, scraping my tongue with my teeth. “It’s—uh—my first time making coffee.”

  “I kinda guessed by watching you,” she says. “But this is beyond awful.”

  I finish gulping water from the tap and stand to face her. Water dribbles down my chin, and this is so far from the interview I imagined that there’s no point in saving it. “You knew I was screwing it up, but you didn’t say so?”

  She folds her arms over her chest and stares me down. “It’s not my style to micromanage. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt that you had a different way of doing things.”

  “And that I wasn’t trying to kill you?” I shake my head, feeling like an asshole. “I really am sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it. What kind of coffee is that, anyway?”

  I open the cupboard and pull out the flowery tin. “Jovan’s Special Blend,” I read off the label.

  “Jovan?” She frowns. “The cult leader? Weren’t they raided like two years ago?”

  I sniff the contents of the canister. “What does tear gas smell like?”

  Vanessa grimaces and dumps the contents of her mug down the sink. “I think I’ll skip the coffee, thanks.”

  “Good thinking.” I start to chuck the whole canister, then stop. “Maybe I should have this tested.”

  She sniffs the contents and shrugs. “It smells like coffee. Really bad, really old coffee, but still coffee.”

  I smell it myself, and she’s right. So maybe it’s a case of user error.

  “Come on.” I put the lid back on and set the canister on the counter. “There’s a coffee shop on the other side of the compound. It’s not fully operational yet, but at least the coffee is drinkable.”

  Vanessa cocks her head. “Does this mean we’re continuing the interview?”

  She’s already hired as far as I’m concerned, but yeah. I should do my due diligence. Failing to do that has burned me before, and no way am I repeating that.

  A chill snakes down my arms, and I wonder if she feels it. The way she’s looking at me is so intense, so intimate, that it stalls the breath in my lungs.

  Vanessa takes a step back. “I should tell you up front that I’m here for a fresh start,” she says. “I’ve had bad luck in the past mixing business and—and—not business, so this role would be purely professional for me.”

  I stare at her as my subconscious jumps up and down yelling.

  You’re hired. You’re so fucking hired.

  But I’ve learned not to listen to that asshole.

  Clearing my throat, I turn toward the door. “Let’s get that coffee.”

  Chapter 2

  CONFESSIONAL 46

  Vincent, Vanessa (CFO candidate: Juniper Ridge)

  Like this? I’m not used to all these lights. It’s been a while since—I’m sorry, what was the question? Oh, right. Yes, absolutely it’s a change. A good change, though. I like the idea of starting fresh. Running? I wouldn’t say running, exactly. Not away from something, anyway. More like toward it. Toward something…different.

  I wrap my hands around a third—and likely ill-advised—cup of coffee and stare straight into Dean Judson’s eyes like I practiced.

  “Absolutely, I’m still interested in the job.” I offer a small but professional smile. “In spite of the fact that you tried to kill me with toxic coffee.”

  An even smaller smile tugs the edges of his mouth, and I resist the urge to wilt with relief. This guy is a tough nut to crack. Over the years, the tabloids have pegged him as sort of a hard-ass. The big brother of the legendary Judson clan, he’s known for his cool efficiency in business deals and boardrooms.

  But I wasn’t prepared for his eyes. Hazel instead of brown like his brother’s, which I normally wouldn’t notice. But there’s something almost eerie about Dean’s eyes. A greenish silver on the inside, with a faint rim of cinnamon around the edges. I’ve seen them in magazines, but up close they’re quite disarming.

  “…would be working closely with me, but also with the individuals we hire to handle banking and legal issues,” he’s saying, and I order myself to pay attention. “Obviously the level of on-camera time for you would be different from regular community members, but you’d still be participating.”

  “Of course, I already signed the waiver.” I give him my cheeriest smile. “I’m not camera shy, if that’s a concern.”

  He gives me an odd look. “Because of your stint on Baby Spies.”

  Whoa. I mean, it’s no secret my twin sister and I starred in a TV show that lasted a single season when we were six years old, but that was more than two decades ago. It’s sure as hell not on my resumé.

  Surprise must register on my face, because Dean’s expression softens. “I hope you don’t mind, but I believe in being thorough. I needed to know everything I could learn about you.”

  “Of course.” Here’s where I should definitely not admit to internet stalking him. “Is it true you singlehandedly exposed director Dave Wienerman for sexually harassing all those actresses and t
hen fought to upend the Hollywood status quo so it doesn’t happen again?”

  Shit. I didn’t mean to ask that.

  Dean presses his lips together and stares at me. “No.”

  “I see.”

  “Not singlehandedly.”

  Oh.

  He spreads his hands on the table and looks at me. “I see we’ve both done our homework, Ms. Vincent.”

  “Vanessa. Please, call me Vanessa.”

  “Vanessa.” He says my name like he’s tasting it. Like he’s rolling it around on his tongue like a juicy raspberry.

  I uncross my legs and re-cross them, pretty sure I should quit with the coffee. It’s definitely hot in here.

  “Well, Vanessa” he says. “It’s apparent we’ve both done our research. Due diligence is important, so I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  I’m struck suddenly by the urge to know more about him. Some detail that’s not on his IMDb page or in the gossip columns online. Those sites froth with facts about his family’s Hollywood pedigree or his ugly breakup with one of Hollywood’s hottest actresses, but I want more. If we’ll be working as closely as he says, I want to understand what makes Dean Judson tick.

  “Tell me something about yourself.” I grip my mug a little tighter and focus on holding eye contact. “It doesn’t have to be a big secret or anything, but something that’s not on every website.”

  Dean studies me a moment while I try not to look at his hands. They’re splayed on the table like he might take a pen and trace around them, making one of those turkey drawings kids do in kindergarten.

  It would be a huge fucking turkey.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  I drag my eyes off his hands to see him eyeing me with curiosity. He doesn’t look mad, but I force myself to stop smiling. “Nothing. Just thinking of absurd things to share when first meeting someone. Details that give more information than your usual interview questions.”

  Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  His expression tugs my attention to the edge of his left eyebrow, which sports a crescent-shaped scar the size of a nickel. “Your scar.” I point to his forehead unnecessarily. “How did you get it?”

  He hesitates, watching my face like he’s looking for clues that I’m worthy of hearing the story. “Bike accident.”

  Something in his expression tells me there’s more to the story, but I don’t want to push. “Bike accidents can be brutal,” I say. “I had a bad one on a cycling trip through the San Juan Islands.”

  I was riding with an old boyfriend who insisted he knew where we were going and led us down a treacherous gravel-spiked hill. I wound up with sixteen stitches in my left calf and a growing awareness of my unfortunate taste for controlling yet clueless assholes.

  Dean’s eyes sweep mine. “How old were you?”

  “It was right after college, so twenty-two or twenty-three,” I tell him. “How old were you when you had your bike accident?”

  “It wasn’t me in the bike accident.” Again with the hesitation. “My sister, Lana—she’s the baby of the family. Our nanny fell asleep, and we went outside to play.”

  I digest this information, the details he’s shared without meaning to. He was raised with a nanny. He grew up playing with his siblings, even though he’s at least twelve years older than the youngest.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “Lana was always trying to copy everything Lauren did, so when Lauren went off a jump on her bike, Lana tried it on her tricycle.”

  “Ouch.” I don’t know details, but jumping a trike sounds plenty dangerous. “What happened?”

  Dean eases back in his chair a bit, relaxing into the story. “Lana’s lying there screaming and bleeding, while Lauren and Mari try to calm her down.”

  “Were your brothers there?”

  “Yeah.” He smiles a little at that. “Gabe and Coop were standing guard in case our parents came home or the nanny woke up. They had this whole cover story concocted so we wouldn’t get in trouble.”

  He’s given me a snapshot of his whole family in two simple lines, and I’m not sure he realizes it. I’m utterly charmed and irksomely turned on, the latter of which I have no business being in a job interview.

  “Was your sister okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” Again, he smiles. “She’s got a head like a battering ram. But then our mom showed up.”

  I’ve read about Shirleen Judson. Not much, just headlines, but enough to get the full picture. Sex siren of ‘70s cinema, she graced the cover of hundreds of fashion magazines and won two Oscars before pausing her acting career to get married and make babies.

  “Was she angry?” I realize I’m on the edge of my seat and scoot back to avoid looking too eager.

  If Dean notices, he says nothing. “Not at us, but she was pissed at the nanny. And she was freaking out about Lana maybe having permanent scars. ‘What if you want to model someday?’ she kept asking. ‘Or star in films?’”

  “Jesus.” And I thought my mom cornered the market on shallowness.

  “She’s not that bad,” Dean says, reading my mind. “Just wanted us to have all the options. Anyway, Lana starts crying harder saying, ‘No scar! No scar!’ even though she’s four and has no idea what a scar is. So I pick up this bottlecap lying on the ground beside her bike. And real quick, I jam it into my forehead. The same spot where Lana had a cut above her eyebrow.”

  “Holy—” I stop myself from saying ‘shit,’ but just barely. “That’s some serious sibling sympathy right there.”

  “I was fifteen,” he says, a little shamefaced. “I didn’t really think it through. But it made Lana stop crying.”

  I don’t even know what to ask. “Does she have the same scar?”

  “Nah, hers wasn’t even that deep,” he says. “Head wounds just bleed a lot. Mine probably would have been fine, too, but it got infected.” He grins and there goes my stomach rolling like a kid doing a somersault down a grassy hill. “Apparently, bottlecaps aren’t hygienic surgical instruments.”

  “You don’t say.” I’m seriously reeling right now with this tidbit from Dean Judson. Maybe he’s told this in magazine interviews, but I don’t think so. For some reason, I’m almost positive this is a story few people know.

  I peer at the scar, seeing it with fresh eyes. “That’s quite the scar. And quite the story.”

  “Thanks.” He picks up his coffee cup and nods at me. “Now you.”

  Damn. I don’t know where to begin. “I can’t compete with that.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “Right.” I clear my throat, determined to offer Dean the same sort of insight he just gave me. “I’ve run three ultra-marathons. I’ve climbed Kilimanjaro and K2. I got scuba certified and went cage diving with sharks in Fiji.”

  “So you’re a daredevil.” He looks impressed, though not as much as you might think. “Or an adrenaline junkie.”

  I shake my head, glancing down at my hands. “I’m actually a huge chicken.”

  Just ask my mother. I don’t say that bit out loud, but Dean’s regarding me with intense curiosity.

  “How do you figure you’re a chicken?”

  “I’ve done all that stuff because I’m scared as hell, and I want to prove to myself I can get over it.” Not just prove it to myself, if I’m being honest. “Also, I have severe globophobia.”

  His brow furrows as he puzzles out the word. “Fear of world travel?”

  “Nope.” I bite the edge of my lip. “Fear of balloons.”

  I stare him in the eye, waiting for the laughter that always follows.

  Dean sits silent. “You’re afraid of balloons.”

  “Yep. Terrified. If I walk into a little kid’s birthday party and see them, I have to walk back out or I’ll have a full-on panic attack.”

  “You’re kidding me.” It’s not a question, so he knows I’m not kidding. “Is it a fear of the balloons or the balloons being popped?”

  “Both,” I admit. “
I’ve seen several shrinks about it and even got hypnotized once. But nothing seems to cure it.”

  Dean quirks an eyebrow. “Not even wading through a sea of balloons.”

  I suppress a shudder, shaking my head. “Not that I’ve tried that specifically, but no. It’s not like rock climbing or sky diving where doing the thing helps me get past my fear. It’s been the opposite, really.”

  “Huh.” His expression is thoughtful with a touch of confusion.

  It’s possible this was not the best story to share in a job interview. I’m about to explain. To tell him it shouldn’t be an issue as long as he’s not planning some sort of fucked up office party with clowns twisting oblong latex forms into zoo animals.

  But then his face breaks into a smile. Folding his hands together on the table, he gives me a nod. “I’d like to offer you the job.”

  I blink. “Because of, or in spite of my weird phobia?”

  He laughs and leans back in his chair. “Neither. I was planning to do it anyway, but you kinda sealed the deal with that story.”

  I’m honestly not sure what he means, but I don’t ask him to elaborate. I got the job, and that’s what matters. “Is there a contract I can look over or—”

  “Yeah, hang on.” He whips out his phone, and I watch as his thumbs fly over the screen. For a guy with such oversized digits, he sure is dexterous. I’m the world’s clumsiest typist on my phone, but this guy’s fingers move like he’s stroking clitoris-covered piano keys.

  Stop staring at his hands.

  “Done,” he says, putting the phone down. “Mari will be here in a couple minutes with a contract for you to review. You can take your time looking it over, but we’d love to have a response by the end of the week.”

  It’s all I can do not to fall off my chair. “Wow. That was—uh—quick.”

  He shrugs. “When you know, you know.”

  I feel my smile start to falter, though I rally to keep the edges of my lips tipped up. How many times have I been sure—absolutely freakin’ positive—that some guy is THE ONE. The guy I’m meant to spend the rest of my life with?