Spoiled by Heather Cocks Page A

closer, making an odd
     rapping sound as it found Molly’s skull….
    She cracked a bleary eye.
    Tap, tap, tap.
    “Molly?” said a male voice from outside the door.
    Molly pulled the covers over her head then lowered them enough to peek out without actually exposing her bedhead.
    “Come in,” she mumbled.
    Stan popped open the door and backed inside, carrying a large silver tray with a domed lid on it. He took one look at her
     in her down comforter cave and smiled empathetically.
    “Feeling okay?” he asked. “You seemed a bit the worse for wear last night.”
    Molly groaned and rolled into her pillow.
    Stan reached out to where her foot seemed to be and patted it. “We’ve all been there. Even Brick.
Especially
Brick, since he won’t eat the food at his movie premieres—says it’s a caloric trap designed to make him fat and force down
     his salary.”
    He set the tray down on the large bench at the foot of her bed. “He ordered this just for you,” he said. “A shot of wheatgrass
     juice and a vegan prune muffin bar. He swears by them. So if you lift this dome and see an Egg McMuffin with hash browns,
     well, I’m afraid I won’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Thanks,” Molly mumbled, and tried to summon a smile for him. It didn’t exactly work. Her mouth was dry, and it tasted like
     the bottom of a birdcage. “It’s nice of you to do this for me on a Sunday.”
    “No worries. It’s my job. In Brick Berlin’s world, there are no weekends,” he said. “Why do you think I know the best hangover
     cures?”
    Stan headed for the door, stopping just as he reached for the knob. “He does want to see you, though,” he added, looking a
     bit grim. “Come on down to his study as soon as you feel up to it.”
    He closed the door behind him. Molly rubbed her face and sat up, then immediately regretted moving. Her stomach sloshed, and
     it felt like someone had gotten trapped inside her brain and was trying to tunnel his way out using a ball-peen hammer. It
     might be a long time before she felt steady enough to go downstairs, physically
or
emotionally. A week ago she’d never met her father; now he was about to punish her for crawling down the neck of a beer bottle.
     What a great first impression. He probably thought she got hammered all the time in Indiana, and was on the phone with Ginger
     asking if she’d ever staged an intervention.
    Molly could barely remember what happened after Brick picked her up off the grass, though she had faint, misshapen memories—like
     photos accidentally sent through the laundry—of Brooke towering over her, squealing something gleeful. But she didn’t want
     to think about that, or what it might mean. Plus, her head really hurt.
    Molly burrowed through her bedding until her head popped out next to the tray, then grabbed the McMuffin and dragged it with
     her back under the covers. She’d face the world later.

    Brooke’s phone rang. And rang. Irritated, she lifted her head just enough to check the clock. Eleven thirty in the morning.
Obscene.
Who called at this hour?
    She groped at the nightstand until her hand found heriPhone. Brick’s name flashed up on the screen, along with a picture of him on the red carpet at the Oscars. He’d done a cameo
     as an unusually muscular Rasputin in
Night at the Museum III: MoMA, Mo’ Problems
, which had been nominated for best costumes. Brooke smiled, remembering how funny his bit with Ben Stiller had been when
     they presented Best Editing. Then she heard his stern voice in her head from the previous night and recalled the disappointed
     way he’d looked at her—at
her—
when she brought him to Molly’s slumped, drunk body.
    She sent the call to voice mail.
    Almost instantly, Madonna’s “Material Girl” kicked up again. Brooke ignored it, still stung that Brick had seemed so put out
     when she was only trying to be helpful by showing him what Molly was really like. She wondered how much inertia it would