Plus One

Chapter Three

Sophie knew it would happen—just as they were coming through the door, Troy floated toward them with the mini quiche...and stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped slightly and he stared at Sophie, wide-eyed.

Sophie crossed to him and took a quiche.

"It's a really strange story," she said softly.

"I'm dying. Oh my god what is going on?"

Sophie felt the gentle pressure of Ian's hand on her elbow.

"Later, hmm?" he said to her.

Sophie threw an apologetic glance at Troy and popped the quiche into her mouth. She made a face.

"What?" Ian said, his mouth twitching.

"I forgot how terrible this food is," she said after swallowing. She'd long stopped eating during her shifts.

"I know," he said. "But I didn't know how else to get you here."

"You could have just called the company and asked to speak with me."

"Yes, but it's more fun this way, isn't it?" he said, his eyes bright with mischief.

"And who is this lovely young woman?" said an older gentleman with a white beard as he came up to Ian.

"This is Miss Sophie Kinsale. Sophie, this is Lloyd Ingles—he's the director of LACMA." The LA County Museum of Art.

Holy. Shit.

He turned to Lloyd. "Sophie's a photographer."

Sophie tried not to look bug-eyed.

"What gallery do you show at?" he asked.

"We're working on that," Ian said smoothly.

A few more people showed up and the conversation went in several directions, Sophie trying to keep up.

"Sophie, give me your number," Jenna James said, coming up to her. "We should do lunch."

Sophie stared. Did one of Hollywood's stars just invite her to lunch?

"Um, sure." She gave Jenna her phone number.

"Great. Ian," she called. "I'm off. I have to do some PR stuff tomorrow," she said with an eye roll. "Lovely party." Jenna gave Sophie a half-hug and then she was gone.

A few hours later the caterers left, but the party was still going on. Sophie wasn't sure how long she was supposed to stay. As it was, she'd have to call a cab to get home. It was a long way to her crappy apartment in Culver City.

"There's an after-party at my hotel," he said. "You don't have to come, but I think you'd have fun. And I'll make sure they have a room there for you when you're ready to crash."

"Are we going to ever really talk about this?" she asked. "Because I have no real clue what sort of...what's expected of me."

"How about this: you come to the after-party, stay at the hotel, and I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. We'll do breakfast. There's a contract and everything. I can have my lawyer meet with you, too, if you wish."

"This is...What am I doing?" she said, her hand going to her forehead.

He took her hands. "You're doing art and going to fabulous parties for the next month, at the very least. What's not to like?"

A corner of her mouth turned up. "You don't seem like the kind of guy that would use the word fabulous."

"Oh, I have all kinds of surprises up my sleeve."