Red Carpet Arrangement - Vicki Essex

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crap most of the time, but she doesn’t have a lot of sense when it comes to other people’s nutritional needs. One time she put a pile of wilted spinach topped with raw almonds in front of each of us and told us it was ‘a paleo dinner.’” She could almost picture his shudder. “Tell me honestly, is she feeding you okay?”

      “She cooks a lot of fish for me. For the baby. I mean, it’s not the shrimp feast we had in Hawaii—”

      Riley groaned. “Oh, man. Wish you hadn’t mentioned those—I haven’t eaten yet today. Those kebabs were the best I’ve ever had. I haven’t found their equal, like, anywhere.”

      She smiled as warmth flowed through her. The night they’d met she’d taken him to a roadside stand because nothing on the tiki bar’s menu had struck her as particularly good or authentically Hawaiian. “You’re lucky I knew the owner of that food truck. Those kebabs aren’t on his regular menu. He made them especially for us.”

      The brief trip down memory lane was followed by stilted silence. The ease with which they’d slid back to that night was almost unsettling.

      “Kaylee’s cooking is fine, really,” Kat continued, clearing her throat. She needed to veer away from those happy memories—they felt dangerous. And she also didn’t want to be the cause of strife in the family. She wouldn’t gripe to him about free food and shelter. Riley, however, seemed to pick up on her underlying discontent.

      “I’ll talk to Mom. She only lets Kaylee cook so she feels relevant.”

      Ouch. Was that how siblings usually talked about each other?

      She said carefully, “You don’t have to. I’m really easy to please.”

      God, that sounded wishy-washy. But she’d rather choke down more lemony fish than have someone tell the already querulous Kaylee that Kat didn’t like her cooking.

      “This isn’t about you,” Riley said. “It’s about the baby.”

      Right. The baby. Never mind the woman carrying her. She stuffed down her resentment and asked him pleasantly, “How are things on your end? You sound stressed.”

      “Busy. I’ve barely had a moment to breathe.”

      “Not a good busy?”

      “Hrmmph.”

      He’d made that exact sound the first time they met and she’d asked him if everything was all right. The sound somehow conveyed the cheerlessness of gritty sand blowing across a gravel beach on an overcast day. She supposed it matched the glower he so often sported on movie posters.

      “There’s something you need to know,” he admitted reluctantly.

      He told her about the press junket and the questions surrounding her identity. Then he told her about the reporter, Charlie Durst. “Sam’s doing her best to turn people away from the story, but you need to watch out for Durst. He’s sneaky. He’s been known to go around in disguise and crash celebrity weddings and parties.”

      “I’ll keep an eye out for guys in trench coats with big fake mustaches and rubber noses.”

      He chuckled. She was glad she could still make him laugh.

      “You sound like you need a Shirley Temple.” She couldn’t seem to keep away from the memories, no matter how dangerous.

      Riley’s soft laughter eased the tension strung over the phone line. “You might’ve made me a fan for life if you hadn’t told me what it was.”

      “What’s in a name? A mocktail by any other name would be just as fruity.”

      “You could’ve lied.”

      “It was a pink drink with a cherry and an umbrella in it. Your ego didn’t dent when I set it down, and no one else knew it was virgin. Anyhow, it helped, didn’t it?”

      “I think we both know the drink wasn’t what helped me get through that night.”

      Warmth blossomed in her belly. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the easy way they’d flirted their first—and only—night together.

      “So have you been out? Seen anything of my hometown?” Riley asked.

      “Not much. Your mom’s driven me to the grocery store and the ob-gyn’s office to make an appointment, but...” She hesitated. “I was wondering...if it’s not too much trouble...if I could get a rental car.”

      Silence on the other end of the line. “Why do you need a car?” he asked slowly.

      It wasn’t a straight-out no, but his probing tone made her defensive. “Your mother’s been great, but I don’t want her taking time off work to chauffeur me around all the time.”

      “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you driving yourself around,” Riley said.

      “I’m fully licensed in five states, including California. My driving record is clean. Not a single parking or speeding ticket.”

      “Yeah, but you don’t know this city very well. The roads can be tricky and the freeways are nuts.”

      “Riley, I’ve driven through all kinds of weather conditions all over the place. I even have a truck license.”

      “Still. I’m not sure you should be driving around.”

      “Why? Because I’m pregnant?”

      Silence. She chewed her lip. Maybe he wanted to control her movements and ensure she didn’t simply drive away, or go to meet some journalists or something. He should’ve known by now she wouldn’t do that—why would she jeopardize her meal ticket?

      “I don’t need anything fancy,” she added, in case it seemed as if she was asking him to buy her a Mercedes. “Just something to get me from point A to B. There’ll be a lot of appointments...”

      “All right,” he said, sighing. “I’ll call and have someone drop something off tomorrow.”

      She pursed her lips. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

      “Kat...” he began tentatively.

      Her breath stalled in her lungs—she didn’t know what she was waiting for, what she was hoping to hear. She didn’t even know if there was something she wanted to hear from him. “Yes, Riley?”

      “Take care of yourself. I’ll be back in Modesto on Sunday.”

      Disappointment filtered through her. She nodded stiffly. “Okay.”

      He hung up without saying goodbye.

      “WE HAVE TO find out who she is.”

      Jamie peeked up from her desk as Limelight Whispers’ editor-in-chief, Lance McVeigh, paced behind his enormous desk, his thinning straw-yellow hair forming a wild halo around his head. A pattern of coffee-ring stains linked across the wood-veneer tabletop like caffeinated chain mail. Two open packages of cigarettes lay atop a small stack of file folders. Lance had been trying to quit all year.

      On the other side of the desk, freelance investigative reporter Charlie “Chameleon” Durst watched him with the poise of a cat, one ankle crossed over his knee. His tailored blue suit fit his lean, angular form very nicely. He might have passed for an important investor, except that he wore white high-top canvas sneakers. She almost never saw him in his “regular” attire—the last time he’d been in, he’d worn a golf shirt, cargo shorts and black socks with sandals, as well as big sunglasses and a wig of thick black hair.

      As if he knew she was watching him, he met her eyes and raised one dark eyebrow. Jamie averted her gaze and refocused on the webpage she’d been working on. That didn’t stop her from listening in, of course—the open-plan office didn’t offer much privacy.

      “Until

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