"I'm sorry," David said, shaking his head, "she's not interested."
Grant nearly stopped in his tracks, except that David kept walking, and so Grant was forced to keep moving if he wanted the conversation to continue. "What? Why not?"
It hadn't at all occurred to Grant that she might say no. No one ever said no to him.
David gave a negligent shrug. "She didn't give me a reason, mate. I can't say I know what she looks for."
They wended their way through the overlit halls of the agency, ignoring the occasional glances from the assistants, most of whom showed little interest in them anyway. Stars were always coming and going, rising and falling.
"It's easy for you," Grant grumbled. "You've got one in your pocket."
A corner of David's mouth turned up, but the half smile appeared strained. "Andra is a different case. Fo—, that is Genevieve, works by another set of guidelines. I think," he added uncertainly, the smile falling to a frown.
"Look, it doesn't mean you won't make it," David went on encouragingly. "Plenty of people do, even without her help. And so long as you don't cross her—"
Grant's head snapped up. "I haven't."
"Good. Don't." They came to reception.
"And Andra?" Grant asked.
David took in a long, slow, deep breath. "She only goes where and when she's called. She has no sway over matters outside of the ones she's . . . assigned to."
"And who assigns them?"
David shook his head again.
"You were an assignment?" Grant pressed.
David looked away, squinting at the bright Los Angeles sunlight as it slanted through the glass that fronted the building. "I don't know what I am," he murmured.
Gathering himself, David offered Grant a smile and a handshake, along with some final advice. "If I were you, I'd forget about For—Genevieve. Just keep your head down and you'll do all right."
But as Grant watched the great David Styles stroll out of the building, he began to formulate other plans.