CHAPTER 13
REID
I was wondering when an uninvited film crew was going to show up. I’m actual y surprised it took them this long.
Paparazzi, as careless as they appear, know better than to trespass on personal property. But the Habitat property is tiny, and telescopic lenses are standard for these guys.
Camped out in adjacent yards, the shrewd ones undoubtedly paid the neighbors off to get closer. This is the sort of thing George would term “free positive PR”—an occurrence that I, apparently, can’t get too much of. The only hitch is the fact that I have to be here the rest of this week plus two more; this situation could morph into insanity central if it isn’t managed.
Stripping the heavy work gloves off as I go, I wander inside to find Roberta. She’s talking to the general contractor about what grade of insulation to use in the attic.
I could fal asleep from extreme disinterest any minute.
Luckily, they finish up in a minute or so and she turns to me warily. “Yes, um, Reid?”
“I just wanted to let you know that there are photogs out there—paparazzi—not on the property, but as close as they there—paparazzi—not on the property, but as close as they can legal y get. With me outside, it’s gonna be a zoo.
Thought I should warn you.”
“Oh.” She’s immediately flustered; obviously this is something new for her. She moves to a rear window.
“They’re out there now?”
“Yeah.”
Peering out, she narrows her eyes, scanning, and then gasps softly. “What in the world? There’s someone balancing on top of a swing set… and on the roof next door!”
I shrug.
“What should we do? I guess I should have considered this probability…”
“They’re not going anywhere, now that they know where I am. I already cal ed my manager. He’s sending bodyguards to make sure they keep their distance from me, and he’s alerting the police to make sure they respect property boundaries.”
“The police? Oh, dear.”
Roberta continues to stare at the guy on the roof next door while I push off from the counter and head back outside, pul ing the work gloves on. Frank says we’re demolishing an old fence at the back of the property—so termite-ridden that one good kick could turn it into a cloud of splinters. Painting wal s was tedious. Tearing shit down?
Not.
Predictably, the photogs wake up when I exit the back door. Some of them try cal ing to me, like I’m walking the red carpet or something, which pisses me off.
I’m working. Can’t they see that?
*** *** ***
Dori
As I fel asleep last night, I considered tel ing Roberta to finish this job without me. I miss my VBS kids and their joyful, artless voices practicing the choral arrangements. I miss singing along with them. I miss babysitting people who are immature because they’re five, not because they’re arrogant buttheads. Most of al , I miss being unacquainted with Reid Alexander.
Just when I think to myself what next, it turns out I shouldn’t have wondered. Of course the paparazzi would show up. There’s an A-list celebrity on the premises.
Pressed against the living room wal like a ninja assassin, I peek out the window. Reid continues to work, paying no attention to the photographers, who are simply everywhere. They remind me of a nature special about army ants that I watched in a state of unmoving horror when I was six. Devouring everything in their col ective path, ants swarmed across the landscape in a bold undulating line of black. I couldn’t sleep for a week, until Deb convinced me that African army ants weren’t general y known to raid urban California.
Exhausted after a night of tossing and turning, I consider whether or not I’m hungry enough to risk appearing in even the outer fringes of those photos. This is ridiculous. Several hours stand between me and my next meal. I shouldn’t feel the need to skulk around inside because of some sil y photographers. Besides, they aren’t interested in me.
The Plan: go out, grab something to eat, dash back inside.
Minutes later, I’m skirting the crowd with a bowl of fruit and an iced tea when one of our corporate volunteers veers directly towards me, ogling the photographers gathered on the neighbor’s roof. Realizing too late that she doesn’t see me, I scoot as close to the patio edge as possible. As she passes, our sleeves grazing, I exhale in relief. And then she whips around and accidental y elbows me right off the patio’s four-foot no-railing-instal ed-yet drop.
Everything is slow-motion. Eyes widening, mouth rounding into a shocked “O,” she grabs for me as I lurch over the edge, backwards. She catches nothing but air, and neither do I. The bowl flies up, chunks of fruit tossed in every direction. The tea levitates from the cup in an arc above me. And though I know I’ve generated a squeak of surprise, I can’t hear anything—it’s as though the world has been muted.
If you’ve never fal en and been caught by someone before, I am here to tel you that the landing is not as smooth and effortless as Hol ywood portrays it to be. In reality, parts land where they land, and though hitting a human body is probably less painful than hitting the ground, it’s not like landing on a sofa or a trampoline or anything that gives.
My limbs stil flailing uselessly, my head slams against a shoulder and I knee myself in the chin as the body I’ve tumbled onto goes down under me. “Oof,” he says as he hits the ground, my elbow jabbing into his abdomen as he absorbs my entire body weight.
I don’t have to see his face—I know the voice—but I can’t help looking. With a yard ful of people looking on, plus several yards ful of photographers, I’m lying halfway on top of Reid, who is sprawled on the ground, holding me tightly, blinking as the blue sky rains fruit on top of us.
Camera shutters whir and snap in the distance. And to think, I feared being in the peripheral background of a photo taken of him.
I scramble to rol off of him, and he releases me slowly enough that I’m pul ing against his hold for a couple of seconds, until he realizes we’re not actual y fal ing anymore.
My iced tea has splashed a swath across both of our white t-shirts, and pieces of pineapple, cantaloupe and various berries tumble from our clothes and hair as we move to sit upright.
People who a moment ago were al frozen, agog, are rushing towards us, asking if we’re okay, helping us to our feet.
Mortified, I stare down at my soggy, fruit laden outfit. My legs are wet, too—rivulets of iced tea dripping from my shorts and snaking down the bare skin. I can’t look directly at Reid. “I’m so sorry,” I say in his general direction before mumbling, “I need to go clean up,” in answer to offers of assistance from half a dozen people.
Grabbing a stack of napkins, I walk inside, fighting the urge to run. The bathroom plumbing has been hooked up, thank God, though mirrors haven’t been hung yet. After mopping the tea from my legs, I press a damp napkin into the shirt where the tea has stained it, though it’s a hopeless gesture. Running my fingers over my head, I pluck out bits of fruit, struggling not to picture what might get into the gossip rags or, oh gol y, on the Internet tomorrow: Unbalanced Fan Tackles Heartthrob, see page 2.
Clumsy Girl falls for Reid Alexander—Click Here for Photos!
Good grief.
“You missed some cantaloupe.” Reid stops me from turning, one hand on my shoulder, his fingers in my hair, plucking a thin slice of orange melon from my ponytail. “It could be worse, you know.”
“Oh?” I’m sure he’s correct, but at the moment, I can’t imagine how.
“Sure. Spaghetti and meatbal s would be worse.
Chocolate milk. Sangria. That stuff stains anything, trust me.” He dislodges a blueberry from my shoulder and it lands in the sink, rol ing, leaving a purple trail. I make a mental note to get some bleach-containing cleaner from Roberta to scour the sink so it won’t discolor the white porcelain.
Picturing myself covered in spaghetti, I turn and face him without even a hint of a smile. “We don’t usual y serve pasta. Or sangria.”
“I guess you’re safe from tomato sauce and red wine stains then.” His expression is serious, but his eyes dance.
“Yes.”
“Hey, make sure I don’t have any stray fruit in my hair, wil you?” He angles the top of his head towards me. “I ran my hands over it, but I think I missed some.”
“I don’t see anything… oh, wait. There are a few strawberry bits.” I try to remove the squishy stuff without actual y touching his head, which proves impossible.
Raspberry seeds are tangled along a strand a few inches over, and I give up and comb my fingers across his scalp, checking for concealed fruit.
“Mmm,” he says, as though he likes my hands in his hair, which is softer than I would have imagined. The bathroom suddenly feels very smal .
I drop the berries and seeds next to the one he flicked into the sink. “I don’t see any more...”
He lifts his head, his eyes stil playful, and I have no idea what he’s doing until he does it. At first I think he’s spied another piece of fruit in my hair, so I don’t react right away when he lifts his hand. The wal is only a foot or so behind me, and it takes little effort for him to push me to it, one hand cradling the back of my head and the other skimming my hip as he leans down. Something in my brain sparks awake and I jerk my face to the side as his mouth grazes the outer edge of my jaw. My hands come up to his chest and shove him. “Reid, no.”
He backs up immediately, hands up and out. Smirking, one corner of his mouth turns up and he shrugs. “Sorry.
Won’t happen again. Just, you know, curious.”
“About what? ” My voice is somehow steady, when I’m anything but. He almost kissed me. He almost kissed me.
He shrugs a second time, which makes me want to punch him. He’s so whatever. “I didn’t mean anything.
Seriously. Won’t happen again.”
There’s no responsibility to accept, because everything just happens around him, as though he’s at the eye of a storm he has nothing to do with causing or sustaining. I shove past him, my heart hammering. He barely touched me, and he stopped the second I protested. He said it wouldn’t happen again. Twice, in fact.
People glance up as I pass, ask if I’m okay, and I fix a fake smile on my face, tel them I’m fine, even while I feel like I might hyperventilate. Why? Because he’s a rich celebrity? Hardly. Because he’s beautiful? Because of his casual arrogance—that intangible thing he exudes that some women find so irresistible? No, and no.
Okay. Then why?
Because everything I wanted to feel when Nick kissed me last Friday, I felt in the near-miss that just occurred.