After dropping off the signed representation contract at West Coast Artists, Morthisal returned to the Hollywood Hacienda. When he arrived, he kept his head down and rushed to his room. Thankfully, only a few residents were hanging out by the pool. Kenadee and Kristol were not among them. He sighed gratefully as he closed the door.

  No sooner had he stepped into the cool room than his phone buzzed twice in rapid succession.

  The first message came from a car service requesting the pickup time and his address for transport to the Hotel Bel-Air.

  Morthisal sat down and took a breath. Soon, he and Yvette would be together. He had already read up on the hotel and knew it was one of the most exclusive establishments in Los Angeles. The Bel-Air had secluded private cabanas. The establishment claimed that guests' every need would be met. Morthisal had glanced at the prices and understood that claim.

  He moved on to the second message.

  It's Serena. You got the part.

  Morthisal stared at the screen. Read the message again, blinked rapidly. A third time to confirm what he'd seen. This time he shot to his feet.

  He had secured the role!

  His hands trembled slightly as he typed a response to Serena.

  My gratitude for this news. I am... pleased.

  The words felt inadequate, but they were honest. Well. Mostly genuine. Morthisal had spent many decades waging battles and wars that had led to countless victories, but this one felt different. He'd been forced to show a vulnerable side of himself that he had been unaware existed, even if it had to be coaxed out with a little magic.

  His fingers hovered over Yvette's name in his contacts. He wanted to share the news immediately, but stopped himself. Better to tell her in person tonight. The surprise would make the moment sweeter.

  Serena's response arrived within seconds.

  Keep it quiet for now. There's a lot that has to happen behind the scenes before the official offer comes through your agent.

  Morthisal frowned and typed back.

  Does she know?

  Jordan probably doesn't know yet. Have to go—meeting for one of my brand lines.

  The conversation ended there. Morthisal set his phone on the bed and crossed to his small closet. He pulled out his duffel bag and packed for the weekend. He bore a smile that refused to leave.

  Morthisal hummed an old tune from his childhood, a dark little ditty about torturing the wretched long-lived and long-eared elves. The melody felt appropriate for his mood, though the lyrics probably weren't.

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  He zipped the bag closed, grabbed his phone, and messaged the car service his address for pickup.

  The rideshare dropped him at the Hotel Bel-Air's entrance forty minutes later. Morthisal stepped out onto pristine pavement with a small duffel slung over one shoulder. The hotel sprawled before him, sporting an architecture he found pleasing. The website had called it A fountain burbled somewhere nearby. The scent of jasmine hung in the warm evening air.

  A man in a burgundy uniform approached immediately.

  "Welcome to the Hotel Bel-Air, sir. May I assist with your luggage?"

  Morthisal held up his single bag. "That will not be necessary."

  The man nodded and gestured toward the entrance. "Right this way, please."

  A luxurious lobby spread before him. Cream walls. Dark wood accents. Fresh flowers in crystal vases. Everything spoke of wealth. How appropriate for this town, he reflected.

  Morthisal approached the front desk, where a woman with perfect posture and a practiced smile greeted him.

  "Good evening. Checking in?"

  "Vince Logan. I believe there is a reservation under that name."

  "I'll need to see your id."

  Morthisal dug Vince's Washington driver's license out of his wallet and presented it to the concierge. Her fingers tapped across a keyboard. "Ah, yes. Ms. Sterling made the arrangements. You'll be in the presidential suite. There are a host of amenities, including a private chef. We'll bring you to your room and give a tour."

  "I do not require assistance at this time. Perhaps when Ms. Sterling arrives."

  She blinked several times, shrugged, produced a key card and a small map, circling the destination in pen.

  "Follow the path past the swan pond. Your bungalow is on the left, number seven. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to call the front desk.

  Morthisal accepted the key and map. "Thank you."

  The gardens were immaculate. Stone pathways wove their way between perfectly trimmed hedges and flowering plants he couldn't name. The swan pond appeared exactly where the map indicated. Two white birds glided across dark water.

  The large bungalow, which was the size of a house, sat tucked behind a wall of jasmine vines. Morthisal unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The space was larger than his entire room at the Hollywood Hacienda. Cream-colored walls. Plush carpeting. A king-sized bed with crisp white linens dominated one wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private patio with comfortable seating.

  But something else caught his eye. He sighed in relief.

  A fully stocked bar occupied one corner of the room. Crystal glasses hung from racks above. A small refrigerator hummed quietly beneath the counter.

  Morthisal dropped his bag on a chair and crossed to the bar. He selected a bottle of whiskey, poured two fingers into a glass, and was about to add ice when the door burst open.

  Yvette swept in, escorted by a hotel staff member who wheeled a large designer suitcase behind him. She pressed a twenty into the man's hand. He quickly tucked the money away. "Thank you so much."

  The staff member deposited, asked if they needed anything, and was met by two shaking heads. He left the suitcase, departed with a polite nod, and shut the door behind him.

  Morthisal set down his glass.

  "Would you like—"

  Yvette rushed across the room and practically jumped him. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her lips found his. The kiss was hungry. He returned it in kind. Morthisal's hands found their way into her hair. She moaned as he pulled her head back and kissed her neck.

  When they finally broke apart, both breathless, Yvette's platinum hair was disheveled, and her blue gaze burned into his.

  "I missed you," she whispered.

  "And I you."

  She kissed him again, slower this time but no less intense. Her hands tangled in his hair. His arms tightened around her waist.

  The half-mixed Sex on the Beach sat forgotten on the bar as they stumbled toward the bed, shedding clothes along the way.