The Reunion by Kayla Olson(55)

“Yes, sorry, things ran a bit long,” his dad replies. “You know how business meetings go, I’m sure.”

Ransom had mentioned a meeting, but it was supposed to have started around four—it’s quarter to eight right now. Ransom’s father quickly gathers his things, tucking an expensive-looking document portfolio into a Saint Laurent leather satchel.

“I’ll touch base tomorrow,” he says on his way out the door. “Think about it.”

Ransom gives him a tight smile. I think back to what he told me on the beach two nights ago, about the little say he’s had in his own career. Mr. Joel climbs into the car I noticed on my way in—a black Bugatti that looks like it time traveled straight to Ransom’s driveway from some century far in the future—and like it would push the budget, even for someone like Ransom.

“Nice car,” I say, the car as flashy as Ransom is not. I knew it seemed out of place.

“He bought it used,” he replies. “And he’d kill me if he found out I told anyone.”

“Long meeting.”

“Well, he was over two hours late. I told him we should reschedule, but he ignored me and came anyway.”

“Wow.” I follow Ransom out of the foyer and into a gigantic kitchen. “Does he do that often?”

“It’s gotten worse the past few years.” He rummages around inside his fridge; his kitchen is spotless, practically glittering under the bright overhead lights. “His word has always been the final one, but it wasn’t as obvious when I was younger—back then, it felt more like he was just a parent looking out for his kid. But now…”

“You’re not a kid,” I finish, when his voice trails off.

“Exactly.”

He pulls two balls of—dough?—from his fridge, along with some fresh mozzarella, basil, and a jar of marinara sauce. “You okay with a little homemade pizza?” He grins, and his eyes twinkle on cue. How does he do that? “I have pineapple, too—I know how much you love that on pizza.”

I laugh. He knows full well how much I hate it on pizza, but I love that he remembers to tease me about it.

“This is amazing. When did you learn how to do this?”

“Oh, you know,” he says as he slices the mozzarella. “Somewhere in between fighting off velociraptors and zombies and solving a number of international crises. As one does.”

“It’s too bad they never thought to combine all of those into one of your movies—velociraptor zombies would make quite the international crisis.” I steal a tiny bit of mozzarella and pop it into my mouth.

“Don’t let my father hear that idea,” he says, suddenly slicing a bit more vigorously. “He might pitch it.”

We work together quietly, rolling out the dough and building two personal-sized Margherita pizzas. He doesn’t have a pizza stone or a pizza peel, just a deep cast-iron Dutch oven, so we cook them one at a time, narrowly avoiding burns from the 500°F heat.

“I thought we could eat outside by the pool,” he suggests, a sudden reminder that while I know thousands of things about Ransom himself, I know practically nothing about this home I’m in, where he lives. I just wish I’d thought to bring a suit.

Ransom smiles, grabbing a bottle of merlot and a pair of wineglasses; I take our plates, on which he has placed a simple pile of greens in addition to each of our pizzas.

His backyard is small but immaculately kept—and very private. Whereas my home’s privacy is implied by its proximity to nature and ultra-reclusive neighbors, his has been carefully and purposefully crafted, walled in by ivy-covered enclosures that stretch as high as his two-story house. It’s green, green, and more green—the trees, the ivy, the perfect sort of grass for running barefoot—except for the travertine pool deck and the pool itself. The pool glows turquoise in the twilight, with a backlit waterfall spilling over a stony cliff. His backyard is incredible.

I arrange our plates on a simple stone table, fill our glasses with wine; meanwhile, Ransom works magic in a nearby firepit, and a blaze flares to life in its smooth iron bowl.

“This… your place is amazing.” I take a bite of the pizza, close my eyes—it’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. “And so is this. Holy crap, Ransom! I think you missed your calling!”

He gives a shy smile. It’s so new and refreshing and rare that I can’t look away.

“I’ve gotten really into dough,” he says, like it’s a secret he’s admitting to. In a way, it is: I imagine the list of people who get to see inside these high walls is very short. Me, and—I assume—Gemma, before.

“It’s relaxing,” he goes on, “and the possibilities are endless. There are so many different kinds of dough, and to do it well requires this weird and precise mix of science and intuition. Don’t even get me started on sourdough.”

I laugh. “This is really amazing, Ransom. I mean it.”

“Only downside to learning how to bake is that the craft services croissants now feel barely edible in comparison.”

“They’re not the best,” I agree, an understatement. They’re actually kind of the worst.

A fly buzzes near the rim of his wineglass; he swats it away.

“So it was tense on set today?” he asks.