Breathe Again Read Free

topics—usually either made up completely,
or exaggerated by my creative friend—was the celebrities
she saw on a regular (if not daily) basis. Brad Pitt had saved her life once,
when she was in a car accident (he apparently carried her, in his arms, for
either six or ten miles to the nearest hospital, depending on the day she was
telling the story), and supposedly Gwen Stefani lived in the same neighborhood
that she did.
    It took me four months of living in Los Angeles before I saw
my first celebrity, and even then I didn’t realize who it was until after one of the real housewives of Beverly Hills left the café.
    I glanced at the directions in my hand, and wondered if I
would finally meet someone famous. I didn’t feel like I’d be the type to be
starstruck, but I wanted to be prepared anyway. The birthday cake I was
delivering was going to a house in the Hollywood Hills, and the homes I was
driving by definitely looked like they could house someone with some serious
money. They’d left a somewhat innocuous name on the order, but apparently
people did that a lot in this town. I turned onto the right street and pulled
up to a high gate surrounded by a lot of greenery. There was no way to tell
what it would look like on the inside.
    I pushed the button on the intercom and let them know I was
here to deliver the birthday cake. Whoever was on the other side of that
speaker didn’t seem too concerned with who I was, since they let me in without
even asking my name or what company I was with.
    It took me almost five minutes to maneuver Josephine’s
catering van up the steep driveway, but I finally parked in front of a
Spanish-style house that had to have been bigger than my high school. I made my
way to the back of the van and pulled out the large, square box containing the
elaborate two-tiered birthday cake I’d been working on since yesterday.
    The front door to the house was open slightly, but I rang the
bell with my elbow anyway, hoping someone would come find me. I stood outside
for another few minutes, wondering if I should just head inside and drop it
off. There had to be someone around; they did let me in the gate, after all.
    Eventually my arms started to ache and I decided to just go
for it. I nudged the door open with my foot and made my way in through the
enormous foyer. It was still midafternoon, and light seemed to pour in from
everywhere. The floors were a brilliant white marble, and a gorgeous antique
buffet sat at the other end of the hallway.
    “Hello?” I called out, pausing midstep, just in case someone
could hear me now. It was quiet, so I just kept going, and saw a massive
kitchen to the right. I made my way through a high archway that separated the
foyer from the rest of the house, and set the box down on the kitchen counter.
    “Hello?” I called out once again. I couldn’t just leave the
cake alone, since I did need someone to sign for it, but I wasn’t about to go
explore the rest of the house to find someone. I stood kind of awkwardly in the
kitchen, hoping someone would just appear and put me out of my misery.
    Finally, I heard footsteps from behind me, and turned
quickly. “I’m sorry,” I said, before I could even see who it was. “I have the
cake, and nobody was answering the door, so I thought I’d just bring it in. I
didn’t mean to intrude.”
    “No need to apologize,” a petite, young blonde said as she
made her way into the kitchen. “We’re all in the back, which is why I left the
door open.”
    There was something familiar in her features. I studied her
face for a second, but I tried not to make it obvious. “Well, I just need
someone’s signature, and then I can be out of your hair.”
    She smiled, and I immediately recognized her as Meredith
Sawyer, a fairly well-known talk show host. I didn’t have cable, but I’d seen
the ads for her show around town. I looked away quickly, hoping she didn’t
notice.
    “Wait,” she said, looking down at my chef’s jacket.