18
DORI
A month ago, I woke up with Reid in my narrow dorm bed, and it was like a dream – spending an entire night with him next to me. Burrowed under the covers, back pressed to his warm chest, his arms surrounding me – I wanted to stay there forever.
Waking up with him in this suite feels like – what’s better than a dream?
A fantasy. That’s what.
We left the heavy draperies pulled open last night. Without moving from the bed, I take in the cerulean blue of the bay, blending into the lighter horizon beyond it. Boats cross the water slowly – tiny specs of white or grey from this distance, without form.
The suite is perfectly temperature-controlled, and the pillow-topped bed is huge, so we weren’t required to sleep like two spoons in a drawer due to winter chill or lack of space. Still, my ankle is hooked over his. With the arch of my foot, I stroke the soft hairs on top of his foot and he utters a sleepy, ‘Mmm …’ Bare-chested, sheet pushed to his waist, his opposite arm is crooked under his pillow while the arm nearest me is parallel to mine, intersecting at our hands. His hand rests under mine, fingers folded loosely over the back of my hand.
Asleep, he looks so young, which is perhaps odd for me to think, considering the fact that I’m eleven months younger than he is. With his independent demeanour and his successful career, it’s difficult to view him as a boy who’s a month shy of twenty. Except when he’s unguarded, like now.
I slip from the bed to use the bathroom and brush my teeth, and a few minutes later, he pads in, still a bit heavy-eyed, his hair sticking in all directions. He’s pulled on the plaid Cal pyjama bottoms I gave him when he visited campus, while I’m wearing his Berkeley tank that completes the set. It falls to my mid-thigh, the arm openings extending almost to my waist.
It’s all I can do to concentrate on getting rid of any traces of morning breath instead of turning and twining myself around him like a ribbon. He grabs his toothbrush and the toothpaste, blearily squirting a blob on to the bristles and attacking his teeth. When he begins to brush his tongue, I stare at my toothbrush, running it under the water stream and willing my pulse rate to normalize. My hair looks like chaos incarnate, but thank goodness, it’s down and covering my ears, because I can’t stop conjuring memories of his tongue. Sweet baby Jesus.
Before I can leave the room, he captures my hand and pulls me back, tossing his toothbrush next to mine. ‘Good morning, baby.’ Slipping his arms around my waist, his lips meet mine as his hands inch the hem of the tank higher. ‘Should I call for breakfast now? Or do we want dessert first …’
Scraping my nails lightly over his hard pecs, tracing the sharp definitions and encircling each nipple with an index finger, I watch his eyes darken. ‘Dessert, please,’ I say, and he gathers me into his arms, walks to an overstuffed chair in the living area and settles me astride his lap, giving me a floor-to-ceiling view of the bay over his shoulder that I can’t quite take advantage of at the moment.
His hands alternately dipping into the sides of the tank or gripping the bare skin of my hips, he makes love to me with slight adjustments of clothing only, pushing his drawstring pants lower on his hips after producing a condom from the pocket.
‘That’s some confidence, Mr Alexander,’ I whisper, closing my eyes as he rains kisses down my throat and pulls the arm slit of the tank to my mid-chest, exposing one breast and making good use of his gifted tongue.
‘Um-hmm,’ he mumbles, completely unrepentant about his smug capacity to dissolve my reticence like a quick, hard summer rain dissolves chalk sketches from sidewalks.
I dig my nails into his shoulders and down his hard, muscled arms, holding him close and almost crying from pleasure. He chuckles, pulling me tighter – his confidence fully justified.
After a late breakfast on the terrace of our suite, wrapped in fluffy robes and soaking up the sun, we dress and head out for a day of attempted incognito shopping. Reid’s dark sunglasses, two to three days of facial scruff and the Cal cap I bought him, along with my standard ordinary-girl appearance, fool the general public just enough for us to remain anonymous, for the most part. We earn a few double takes – especially from clerks in the shops – but there aren’t any mob scenes.
In a boutique shop on Fillmore, he chooses several dresses and tells me to go try them on. ‘If you hate them all, we’ll go somewhere else. But I’m getting you something that will make you feel like royalty when we go out tonight.’ I start to object, but he hands the hangers to a shop attendant and presses me towards the dressing room. ‘No arguments, because I chose somewhere completely condescending and snooty for dinner, and that’s not your fault.’
His line of reasoning makes a peculiar sort of sense … until I look at the price tags. ‘Reid,’ I hiss, poking my face out from behind the dressing-room curtain. ‘I can’t wear this. It’s the price of a car.’ He smirks. ‘A used car, maybe,’ I qualify. ‘But still.’
‘I bought a car two months ago, and I will personally guarantee that nothing in that dressing room is anywhere near the price of a car. Even if you wanted all of them.’
‘I don’t!’ I gasp. ‘But –’
Crossing his arms, he says, ‘Let’s assume that for you, the price of a nice dress is the price of a decent new car, minus a couple of zeros. Yes?’ I nod. ‘That’s what this is for me. It’s all relative, Dori.’ He pushes the curtain aside enough to peek inside. ‘Let me see.’ Smiling, he asks, ‘You love it, don’t you?’
I chew the inside of my cheek, appraising myself in this dress – a soft, dark royal blue knit cut like it was made exclusively for me. It somehow upgrades every physical attribute I’ve got – enhancing the good and improving the bad. But I don’t want him to buy me something this un-reasonable. My life is made up of enough make-believe with him even in it.
Stepping into the dressing booth and drawing the curtain closed behind him, he pulls the zipper down at the slowest pace imaginable and catches my gaze in the mirror. His eyes are steely. ‘I’m purchasing this dress, Miss Cantrell, and you’re going to wear it tonight. Understood?’
Caught between wanting to stomp his foot for ordering me around and wanting to throw my arms around him for making me feel like the most desirable girl in California, I simply nod.
‘Good girl. As always – like you said.’ He places a kiss on my nape and leaves the room.
We’re driving back to the hotel when my brain clicks everything into place. I turn the music down. ‘Reid. This car – this car cost that dress, plus a couple of zeros?’
He just smiles out of the windscreen and I’m glad to be sitting down and strapped in.
Holy cow.
While Reid is showering, Brooke calls him – no last name. She’s in his contacts, then, as simply Brooke. I assume it’s Brooke Cameron, though of course there are other Brookes in the world.
This could be a publicist Brooke. Or an admin Brooke. Or a mechanic Brooke. Frozen in place, I stare at his phone’s display while it buzzes. A minute after the buzzing stops, a message alert beeps. She’s left him voicemail.
Wandering out minutes later with a bath sheet slung loosely around his hips, rubbing his hair dry with a hand towel, he glances to where I’m carefully removing the price tags from my dress. After detouring to turn me by my robe’s belt and steal a slow-building kiss, one hand slipping inside the robe to stroke the bare skin of my hip, he smiles and turns to dig shaving accoutrements from his bag, his phone feet away on the night table.
Trembling from his touch and the words stuck in my throat – Brooke called you – I walk into the bathroom.
I pull coils of my hair up with hairpins while Reid shaves, reflecting that he was in the bedroom long enough to listen to the message, but I didn’t hear him call her back. He doesn’t seem uneasy or concerned. Expression concentrated, he runs the razor over his foam-obscured jaw, pausing to swish the blade beneath a stream of hot water after each swipe.
Maybe it was unimportant. Maybe it was nothing.
‘You got a call while you were in the shower,’ I finally say, watching him.
His brows draw down slightly and his eyes flick to me. ‘Oh?’
Staring into my own eyes, I lean close to the mirror and run the mascara wand over my lashes. ‘From Brooke?’ I clarify, trying to sound unconcerned. Trying to be unconcerned.
He stops cold, staring at me, and I feel as though the air has all just been sucked from the room. ‘Did you … answer it?’ he asks, strained.
He must not have looked at his phone, must not have seen the alert. Even before calling her back, he’s more on edge than I’ve seen him since the night he came to speak to my parents. The apprehension is plain on his face – his normally evasive-if-necessary face.
‘Of course not, Reid – I wouldn’t answer your phone.’ I frown, as taken aback by his question as I am by the disquiet in his eyes and the rigid line of his bare shoulders. If I could backpedal right now and retract my mention of her, I would. I wanted this to be nothing. I wanted him to shrug and say it’s nothing, but it isn’t nothing. It’s clearly anything but nothing.
It’s too late to about-face, but I can’t watch this unravel, not now, even if I’m the one who pulled the string.
‘I have to tell you something –’ he says as I say, ‘I only wanted to let you know –’
We both stop.
He licks his lips, still unmoving, his face half shaved. ‘Dori, tonight is your birthday celebration. Let me take you out – let’s have our night out, and we can talk later, or tomorrow.’
I’m a coward. A willing coward, complicit in my own fall. I’ve never told him that I love him, as if refusing to say it aloud would somehow shield us both, but it hasn’t. Like an untamed, sentient thing, full of all I am and yet estranged from me, my heart discerns its own truth and knows that this omission is a lie.
‘Okay,’ I whisper.
‘Okay,’ he says.
REID
I want to shake Brooke until her perfectly straight, Hollywood-white teeth rattle. God f*cking damn her timing. I don’t know what message she left, but I suspect it’s a Why haven’t you signed that form yet call – which can wait, because she’s going to give me hell over my answer.
Dori and I finish dressing in silence, and when she’s done, she looks more beautiful than she’s ever looked – while clothed. The deep blue of her dress reveals the flawless tone of her warm skin, and matches my eyes besides. The clingy knit hugs the lush curves of her hips, and nips at her waist, while the neckline plunges just low enough to give a hint of her perfect breasts. She was made to wear clothes that fit her like a second skin.
Still, nothing compares to how damned gorgeous she is when there’s nothing between us. In my bed – or hers – with her modest demeanour suspended and her curious nature aroused, she’s everything I could ever want.
‘Your tie matches my dress,’ she says, running a finger over the silky pattern down the centre of my chest. ‘And your eyes.’ I packed a crisp white shirt and a dark grey jacket and slacks, plus an assortment of ties, intending to match whatever dress she chose today.
We’re taking one last look at ourselves and each other before we exit the room, the mirror reflecting how very different but complementary we are – my build still angled and a bit boyish, but tall and broad-shouldered next to her smaller, softer frame of arcs and curves. Our colouring contrasts too – my blue eyes and dirty blond hair next to her almost black eyes and smooth mahogany curls. I imagine pulling those pins from her hair, one by one, and pushing my fingers through the soft strands.
‘How many hairpins did you use?’ I ask, my words seeming like so much small talk while I’m picturing her beneath me in a few hours’ time, hair spread across the pillow like a spill of ink.
She smiles, but permeating every tic of her mouth is an underlying sadness that I’m determined to wipe away, no matter what I have to do. I will make her forget that badly timed call – for tonight, at least.
‘I’m not sure. A lot?’
Pulling her to me, I don’t have to bend as far to kiss her. When I pull away, I smile down at her. ‘Mmm, you’re wearing heels. Do me a favour – walk across the room and back. I won’t get to appreciate this view nearly as much as everyone else will tonight.’
She purses her lips, self-conscious, but she complies, turning to walk the length of the 2,000-square-foot suite.
Oh. God. Damn. Her hips sway, and my eyes are torn between following her curvaceous ass, her shapely, naked calves, or the arch of her neck – bare but for a few strategic tendrils allowed to escape the pins. She turns at the opposite end of the room, eyes widening in confusion at the look on my face, and I wonder how the hell that’s possible – because she just looked in the mirror, didn’t she?
As she returns, I find that it’s no easier to decide what to focus on from this perspective. Same flawlessly muscled legs and rounded hips, with the addition of those perfect breasts and her beautiful face.
‘We need to leave now,’ I say gruffly when she reaches me. ‘Right now. Or else I’m going to toss you on that bed,’ I take her in my arms and whisper into her ear, ‘and f*ck you senseless.’
She leans into me and gasps softly, flushing scarlet, fingers crushing the sleeves of my jacket and digging into my arms.
‘Let’s just put that on the agenda for our return, shall we?’ I kiss her one more time, gently, carefully, and then pluck her tiny clutch from the dresser and lead her from the room, never releasing her hand.
The paparazzi find us between the valet stand and the restaurant door, which is no big shock, considering I shaved and ditched the classic celebrity disguise – hat and sunglasses. They get off a few shots while bellowing my name. They don’t know Dori’s yet – too slow to match my designer-swathed date with her Habitat girl alter ego.
Once we enter the restaurant, all the diners and every employee from the head waiter to the chef are aware that a paparazzi-worthy guest has arrived. The whole place is either staring or trying not to. So much for a private, low-key meal.
‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ I ask, holding Dori’s hand across the tiny candlelit table, ignoring the audience and hoping she can as well.
‘I’m still seeing spots … but no, I guess not.’ She blinks a couple more times. ‘How in the world do you see where you’re going if you’re alone?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, that can be tricky. If you’re with bodyguards or other handlers, they just cannonball you through the crowd to where you need to be, almost like crowd-surfing. When I’m with other celebs, we stay in a herd as much as possible and head in the general direction of an entrance, exit, or car door.’
She laughs lightly. ‘That’s terrible.’
I arch a brow at her. ‘And she laughs! Where’s the compassion?’
Attempting to suppress her smile, she fails entirely. ‘No, I’m serious! But I mean, a herd of you? How is that not a funny mental picture?’
‘I’m glad my pain amuses you,’ I say, feigning a stern countenance.
She releases my hand and runs her finger across my palm. ‘Well, no herd tonight. And no bodyguard, either – unless I can stand in. I may not look very tough, but I pack a mean shin-kick.’
Imagining her booting a hulking stalker photog in the shin is only amusing to the extent that I make sure it never happens – because I sort of believe she’d do it. ‘You’re plenty tough, Dorcas Cantrell.’ When I reclaim her hand and brush my thumb over her knuckles, her lips part. ‘But your bodyguarding skills won’t be necessary this evening. I’ll get the head waiter to help us sneak out when we leave. Don’t worry over that now. Because right now, I’m just a guy, trying to have a romantic dinner with this beautiful girl …’
She lowers her eyes.
‘You aren’t worried, right?’
Her smile is wry. ‘No. But I’m really relieved to be wearing this dress, instead of an extra-large iced-tea-and-fruit-stained T-shirt.’