Free Charming Christmas by Carly Alexander Page A

sing.”
    â€œOh, whoop-dee-doo.” I stood up and turned away so he couldn’t see the conflicted emotions on my face, the war between flattery and betrayal. He had invaded my privacy by using me as a basis for his character, and yet, somehow, I was a little tickled that I’d left such an impression.
    â€œI mean that, Liv. You are the pulse of this show.”
    I pulled my coat on. “Great. I’m looking forward to getting my cut.”
    He leaned back slightly, cautious, shocked at my bitchiness.
    How could I be such a bitch? That sort of behavior would never make him love me.
    But then, deep down I knew it was too late for all that, with Bobby married now. Funny that her name hadn’t come up in the conversation, but Bobby probably figured it would piss me off that much more. I decided to take “Destiny” into my own hands. “So where is your wife? I’ve read that you two are inseparable.”
    â€œShe’s running a few errands. Manicure, hair appointment. Girl stuff.”
    â€œReally? And here I thought she was a busy working girl.”
    â€œThe two of us are crazy busy when the show is filming. Destiny is my coproducer.”
    That would be my job , I thought. And that would be my man, if only a few things had played out differently . That queasy feeling rose inside me, another session of making myself sick over my mistakes. I wasn’t up for it. “I’ve got to get back to work,” I said.
    â€œYeah, what’s that about? Did you really give up the Rockettes thing?”
    â€œI sort of had to take a hiatus when I broke my ankle. The Rockettes look down upon dancers who can’t walk. Sort of ruins the lineup.”
    â€œI knew about the accident,” he said, waving a hand. “By the way, did you sue? Hope you got a bundle out of them. Immigrants, right? Probably illegal.”
    My jaw dropped in revulsion. “Mario? Don’t you remember the pizza place we loved?”
    He shrugged. “Anyway, your ankle looks fine. What about the Rockettes thing?”
    Since the day of my audition at Radio City Music Hall, the “Rockettes thing” had been a problem for Bobby. Although he’d never been too concerned that I was the one paying our bills when we lived together in Baltimore, the fact that I’d pulled ahead to pursue a high-visibility showbiz job in New York was too much for his delicate ego to balance. He had helped me move into the apartment with the other two dancers, had spent a weekend at a nearby motel, had even stayed for my first performance and brought me a bouquet of flowers backstage, but inside I think he was beginning to disconnect. Despite the pledge to make this long-distance thing work with Metroliner trips and daily phone calls, Bobby was working up a Plan B, which involved jetting out to L.A. to pursue a separate career and audition stand-ins.
    â€œAre you done with New York?” he added.
    â€œI’m on hiatus,” I said, flinging back his insider lingo. “I’m going back to New York after Christmas.” That much was true. He didn’t have to know I’d need to audition for the Rockettes all over again. “So . . . I’ll let you know how much I really hate you after I see the first episode. Of my show.”
    Such a bitch!
    â€œYou’re kidding . . . I know you are. Listen, we’re all getting together at Club 13 to watch the series debut—the cast and crew, lots of media people. Got to make a splash in Baltimore, of course, and it’s such a great angle, that homegrown thing. You know, they’ll probably want to talk with you, the inspiration for the show. Why don’t you come?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œCome on,” he growled in that jovial way. “I mean it. The media people are going to want interviews with the real Olivia.”
    â€œI have plans,” I said firmly, though an invitation to the premiere party