Page 1 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Chapter One
“Hold it right there, Charlie. I need a moment to process this.” Lucy exhales on a colorful verbal montage of her three favorite curse words. “Okay, now tell meexactlywhat she said.”
“That the job’s mine if I want it,” I say, trying not to laugh. My best friend is a straight-up cynic with an extra splash of drama, but I adore her for it. She’s the roots to my wings. She’s also my open window into this thing called life. Reality is overrated—or it was until five minutes ago.
Earthquakes aren’t supposed to happen in London, not ones that reduce that open window to broken fragments. Top movie executives aren’t supposed to call at stupid o’clock in the morning to offer you a job.
Yet here I am. Charlotte Winters. Newly appointed assistant to iconic Hollywood director Max Dalton, no less.
“It doesn’t seem real.” Lucy’s floundering again and it’s cute to watch. She’s usually the ballsy one. The great unflappable. “How much wine did you have to drink last night?”
“Not enough to fan the flames of your burning skepticism.”
“Oh pu-lease.” She rolls her eyes at me, but I know that there’s a smile in there somewhere. I have a smart answer for everything—even once-in-a-lifetime phone calls that have the potential to tilt my whole world on its axis. The quips drip from my tongue like mercury. For my mother and most of the universe, they’re dull and deadly. All the quicksilver gets saved for the people I love.
Lucy kicks off her quilt and swings her legs out of bed. She looks like a crumpled pixie with her flashing blue eyes and her short blond hair all prickly with sleep. “But it’s Max Dalton, Charlie. MaxfreakingDalton. Are you sure it wasn’t a prank call? Are you hallucinating?” She glances at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “It’s not even five a.m. yet. What did she sound like?”
“Smart. Intimidating. The kind of woman who fires minions for breakfast and negotiates billion-dollar deals during hot stone yoga classes.”
Lucy’s eyebrows disappear. She has the same image in her head as I do: smart suit with a subtle gray pinstripe, sky-high courts, and a pair of black-rimmed Chanel glasses balancing on the bridge of her nose.
“How much are they paying you? Are you working for Max exclusively? When do you start?” Her questions are coming at me like therat-a-tat-tatof machine gun fire.
“Money’s good. My flight leaves this afternoon. The movie starts shooting in two days.”
“No slow and steady intros, then.” She whistles. “Where are they sending you?”
“Morocco.” How can one word sound so stupidly sexy and exotic? “When I reach Casablanca I’m connecting with a flight to a place called Erizo. It’s a small village in the middle of the Sahara Desert.”
I can tell she’s impressed. “And they didn’t seem remotely bothered that you’re a movie Neanderthal? You’re the only person I know who’s never seenPretty Woman.”
“You know Richard Gere creeps me out. Maybe it’s no big deal…” I shrug. “Maybe an English major and no experience is a prerequisite for this position? Maybe, for once, they want more Shakespeare, lessHollywood Reporter?”
Lucy starts laughing for real this time. “Oh, my God, did you just compare yourself to Shakespeare?”
“Nothim. One of his earlier tragedies, maybe.”
The smile fades from her lips. She knows exactly what I’m referring to.
“Hey, don’t kill my buzz,” I scold her. “I’m really excited about this.”
“So I can see.” She sighs and I wait for those curses to start up again. “Can I at least be concerned?”
“Nope,” I say, navigating my way through a minefield of discarded clothes and heels to reach her bedside. “I’mtwenty-two, Lucy.” I chuck my age at her like it’s a live hand grenade. “So far I’ve nothing to show for it except unhealthy fixations with parental avoidance and Kindle Unlimited. Stop worrying so much, I’m only his assistant.”
“Oh, it’s not him I’m worried about,” she says ominously. “And your mom’s going to need serious therapy to cope with this.”
She’s right. Normal things like jobs don’t feature in my mother’s grand plans for me. She’ll only be happy when I’m married off to some rich man to justify her own choices in life.
“What did you mean when you said that Max isn’t the one I should be worried about?” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above her bed. I’m a slim, slumberous vision in a rumpled white T-shirt, with long, unruly dark hair that’s sprawled across my face like a lazy teenager’s. Definitely more gazelle than Gisele… I’ll never be one of those women who emerges from her bed looking like a supermodel.
“I was referring to his older brother,” Lucy says, her expression clouding over. “He’s Max’s producer and a complete jerk, by all accounts. Jake Dalton has that whole dark and dangerous vibe going on, but he’s also the kind of man who shoves bleeding hearts in blenders. You know, just for kicks.”
Lucy’s a celebrity reporter, a purveyor of the finest A-lister dirt. She’s also the most opinionated woman on the face of the planet. I’m no pushover myself, and I usually value those opinions, except when my instincts are screaming at me to get on that plane and jumpstart…something.
“I can handle Jake Dalton,” I say with a scoff.Can I?My track record with men in general is pretty grim.
Lucy doesn’t believe a word of it, either. She’s got that deeply skeptical look on her face again. “Do you even know what he looks like?”
