I'm in a bad mood, especially after reading a new article ripping me to shreds in the press. I paste on a smile and wave to a little group of women eyeballing me from the corner of the hotel that houses Picante, a restaurant where Nolan and I are meeting Monroe. Nolan keeps his face forward and pretends not to notice the waves and gestures from my little fan club. It makes the women happier, we've learned, to think they had a “moment” with me. Ridiculous but true. I usually give them a quick once-over, just check them out a little bit, see what’s being offered. Normally, if I’m feeling particularly interested, I’d mosey over, make small talk, and grab a phone number for later. Or two. Hell, sometimes three. Today I have zero interest. "Now, when we get in here, I want you to remember that you're here to appease him," Nolan says under his breath. "We'll see," I mutter. The elevator door opens and we walk inside. Nolan presses the button to close the doors before anyone can get on with us.
