LOL: Laugh Out Loud (After Oscar, #2)(32)

I felt Roman stiffen beside me.

Pink Polo tapped a finger on his lips. “You from Harry’s Hot Wax? The guy who gives out the bottled water and ointment?”

Roman shifted from one foot to the other. “Um… no?”

I didn’t know why he was suddenly so unsure of himself. It was the complete opposite of the Roman I’d seen on the street after the police had pulled us over for our joyride through Manhattan. That Roman had given everyone his Hollywood smile and practically preened under their attention. This Roman appeared awkward and uncomfortable and at a complete loss for words.

I decided to step in and help the poor man out. I clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, who here knows Oscar?”

All the hands shot up and everyone in the room cheered. Well, that was at least something, but it didn’t narrow down who they were or what they were doing here. I tried a different tactic. “Who here has the key code to get in the door and was specifically given permission to come today?”

The only person who raised her hand was the lady we’d seen in the bedroom.

“And who might you be?” I asked.

She gave me a knowing smirk and seemed confident as hell. I liked her already. “I’m Marigold,” she said matter-of-factly, as if that was supposed to mean something to me.

“Marigold…” I drew out her name and then paused, hoping she’d fill in the blank, but she just raised an eyebrow at me.

“Oscar’s sister,” Roman murmured to me the same way I’d imagine a stage manager would feed someone forgotten lines.

I turned to him in surprise. “Wait, you know her?”

“No. She lives in Nebraska.”

“You’re from Nebraska,” I pointed out. I mean seriously, how many people actually chose to live in Nebraska voluntarily? They had to all know each other.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a big place.”

“Not really,” Marigold piped up. “Not in terms of population anyway. Hey, do you know Dan and Trish—”

“Stay focused,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Why didn’t Oscar tell Roman you’d be stopping by?”

She grabbed a strawberry from a basket on the counter and popped it in her mimosa before taking a chug. “Oh, we’re not stopping by. We’re staying.”

Roman choked beside me. “You can’t.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Seriously, dude, you are really, really familiar,” Pink Polo interrupted, oblivious to the conversation we’d been in the middle of. He kept tilting his head from side to side as though looking at Roman from a different angle might jog his memory. I ignored him.

“What he means to say,” I said to Marigold, placing a hand on Roman’s arm to calm him, “is that Oscar told us—” She quirked an interested eyebrow the moment I said the word us. I cleared my throat. “I mean Oscar told Roman that he’d have the place to himself.”

She gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, we’re not staying here, we’re staying at the spa, and screw Oscar if he thinks he can dictate otherwise.”

I felt a small bit of relief at that information. Beside me, Roman seemed to also relax a tiny bit. “Good,” I said.

“Roman… Roman… Roman…” Pink Polo guy muttered as he stared up at the ceiling. “That name. I feel like I should know it.”

We ignored him. So did everyone else in the kitchen. Most of them seemed to be raiding the fridge and chugging mimosas as though the house belonged to them.

I tried to focus on what was important. “So what was that you said about someone stealing Roman’s car?”

Marigold rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s just Cyan being Cyan.” She pulled another carton of orange juice from the fridge and started pouring it into a crystal pitcher.

I blinked at her. “And Cyan would be… I mean, other than a color?”

“My boyfriend. He does that sometimes—takes off when the muse strikes. Artists, am I right?” She said it so casually as if this was a totally normal thing.

“Does he usually use other people’s cars?” I asked incredulously.

She shrugged, completely unruffled. “Sometimes.”

I didn’t even know where to begin. “Is he going to… bring it back?”

“Of course,” she said, seeming a little affronted by the question.

“But—”

She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at me. “Who the hell are you? Roman’s naked spokesperson?”

I returned to our side-of-the-mouth whispering. “Is that a thing? Because I happen to be looking for work…”

“God, it’s like right on the tip of my tongue,” Pink Polo said, shoving his hand through his frost-tipped hair. “This is going to drive me crazy.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Collins,” Marigold said, whirling on him. “It’s Roman Burke. The movie star. You know, the lead in the movie you’ve watched like seventy billion times?”

Collins’s jaw dropped. “Oh. My God. That is totally who it is.”

Beside me, Roman practically vibrated he was so tense. Which didn’t make sense—he got recognized all the time; this couldn’t be anything new for him.