CHAPTER 30
Emma
I’m about to text Graham to see if he’s checked in yet when there’s a knock at the door. Glancing in the mirror as I pass it and wishing I’d had two minutes to check my hair and brush my teeth, I take a deep breath and make myself walk to the door. I want to run to it.
I pull the door open and feel my smile falter and resume half-heartedly. “Reid.”
He sighs. “God, woman, at least try to look like I’m not the last person on earth you’d like to see at your door. My self-image might never recover. You don’t want to be responsible for destroying my career, do you?”
Rolling my eyes at Reid’s exaggeration—as if I could deliver any kind of blow to his sense of self—I ignore his silly speech, backing up to let him in. “What’s up?” I shouldn’t have expected Graham. I don’t even know if he’s arrived at LAX yet.
Reid drops onto the small sofa. “We should talk about tonight’s logistics. The red carpet, the seating during the showing, whether or not you’ll need a paper bag to breathe into while you watch an entire film full of Emma Pierce on the huge screen…”
“Ha, ha,” I say with a nervous flutter in my stomach at the thought of that. Discomfort at watching yourself onscreen isn’t unheard of—some big-name actors even refuse to do it, which keeps me from feeling like a complete weirdo. I won’t need the paper bag if Graham is sitting next to me. He can unwind me with a look, or the smallest touch.
Rather than joining Reid on the sofa, I go back to unpacking, calling the concierge to have my dress for the premiere steamed for tonight. “I guess we’ll be walking in together, sitting next to each other during the showing. But… I’d like to have Graham on the other side of me.”
His mouth tightens a fraction with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Should be fine. If anything, it will just add to the drama. I take it production doesn’t have any clue about you and Graham?”
I shake my head, pulling out the pretty silver stilettoes I’m sure to hate by the end of the night. Chloe helped me shop for the shoes, and the dress. She was ecstatic when I agreed to let her assist, and she would have earned the Emily stamp of approval for the withering rebuke she sneered at a clerk at the boutique who wasn’t accommodating enough:
“This is Emma Pierce, and we’re choosing a gown for the worldwide premiere of the film School Pride, in which she stars alongside Reid Alexander! Fetch someone who can figure out what that requires, or we will take our business elsewhere!”
The snooty clerk, wide-eyed with panic by the time she heard Reid’s name, sprinted to the back. Minutes later, we were shown to a private dressing room and offered champagne while dozens of dresses were presented for our inspection. After narrowing these as though she was choosing weapons for battle, Chloe had me try on the few that made the cut. The green and silver dress we chose—our agreement my second shock of the day—is backless and flows to mid-calf.
I can hardly wait for Graham to see me in it.
Reid watches me remove the dress from my suitcase and hang it on the door. “That’s going to be stunning on you, with your beautiful green eyes.”
I clear my throat and murmur, “Thank you,” recalling what he said a couple of weeks ago—that if Graham screwed up he wanted another chance. And that kiss on Monday—what was that? Even if I didn’t feel it or respond to it, the fact that he did it was disconcerting.
When I turn away from the door, he’s standing close enough that I startle, my heart galloping under my hand. “God, Reid.” Instantly recognizing his heated expression, I brace my hands against his chest. “Don’t.”
He presses no closer, but he doesn’t step back, either. “Do you think you’re in love with him, too?” His voice is very soft, his eyes almost navy blue in the entry alcove of my room, away from the windows and light.
“Too?”
A knock at the door sends me stumbling into him. He steadies my shoulders under his firm grasp as my heart races from the hard, unexpected knock.
“That must be laundry pickup, for the dress.” My voice is breathless, and he smiles.
Reaching behind me, he retrieves the dress from the hook and hands it down, and then he opens the door. On the other side is not a hotel employee. The forceful knocker is Graham, his smile fading when he sees Reid standing right behind me, in my room. I’m still holding the dress. I turn and shove it into Reid’s hands, and he rehangs it without comment.
“Hi.” I push the door further open, to let Graham in. To let Reid out.
Moving into the doorway, Reid turns back to me. “The concierge will call when the limos get here. I suggest you and I share one of them on the ride to Grauman’s, so the exit will be simple. There will be too many flashes to be able to see. You’ll never locate anyone who isn’t already right next to you.”
“Okay.”
Reid turns to Graham. They’re standing two feet apart—the tension rocking between them like punches thrown. And then suddenly Reid is completely at ease. “Graham,” he says.
Graham’s jaw remains rigid. “Reid.”
Boys.
*** *** ***
REID
I learned years ago that the most defenseless you can ever be is when you believe yourself to be in love. I say I don’t believe in love, but that’s not really true—love is just the name of an emotion. It’s like on steroids. It’s lust with ethics. And emotions—fear, hate, whatever—come and go.
What I don’t believe in is the notion of being in love.
People talk about falling in love as though it’s accidental. As though it surprises the hell out of them. I understand those impressions, because that’s how I felt with Brooke. Unlike most people, though, once it was over and I got some emotional distance, I saw it for what it was—an obsession.
Consequently, believing myself to be in love isn’t a high I crave—it was a total loss of control that I hope to never experience again. I’m attracted to Emma. I’m amused and distracted by her. I can even say I care about her. But I’m not in love with her. There’s no need to sacrifice my metaphorical heart on a platter when all I want is a temporary diversion.
***
With the whole cast assembled along the red carpet en masse, the paparazzi are like barracudas in a feeding frenzy. Between their usual catcalls and the screaming fans, the noise level is insane. The bodyguards have their hands full keeping people from jumping the velvet cords. I take Emma’s hand as we exit the limo, and she accepts the support, clutching my hand so tightly I’m worried she’s about to freak out. Every time I glance down at her face, though, she’s smiling and seems perfectly calm.
The dress, as I predicted, is stunning on her—the green of her eyes more potent next to the silky emerald fabric, the silver threads shimmering with every flash. I can’t resist the thought of trailing my fingers down her bare back, or slipping the straps from her shoulders. She looks like a goddess, and I’d be content to worship at her feet. She eclipses everyone here, even Brooke in her predictable little black dress.
My ex-lover is jealous. Posing for photos between Graham and Tadd, she smiles charmingly, but when she directs one unguarded look in Emma’s direction, the resentment is palpable. When her gaze shifts to me, my deliberate grin makes her eyes blaze.
Yeah. She’d still definitely kill me if she could.
None of us can see for five minutes after we finally complete the extended fifteen-minute walk from the limo to the theater doors, and we’re half-deaf as well. I take the seat next to Emma, and Graham takes her opposite side. Her body language is clear. When he leans closer to make a comment or observation, she sways towards him like gravity is involved. Brooke takes the seat on the opposite side of Graham.
The movie isn’t perfect, but none of them ever are. It’s a little sugary, trying too hard to be like the classic novel on which it was based. That will carry box office sales, though, and girls will gobble it up like candy. Sorry, boyfriends everywhere—you’re doomed to sit through an hour and forty-seven minutes of syrupy drivel. The payoff? Between my face, Tadd’s abs and Quinton’s biceps, your girl will be ready for takeoff as soon as the credits roll. You’re welcome.
The official after-party is being held on the third-floor terrace of the hotel. Some of us take the opportunity to change outfits, some don’t. I’m glad to see Emma doesn’t. All the guys remain in dark suits and ties, though jackets are ditched, ties loosened, buttons undone and sleeves rolled. Tadd’s wearing the bolo tie and cowboy hat he bought in Austin, and next to him is MiShaun in the silky white and gold number she wore to the theater. Meredith and Jenna switched to jeans, and Brooke swapped her black gown for a powder blue micro-dress that matches the frosty blue of her eyes and shows off her runway-smooth legs. Her effort yields striking results, but not enough to surpass Emma.
“Nice dress,” I say when Brooke joins me at the table. No one else is sitting there at the moment, everyone either admiring the buffet with its ice sculptures and chocolate fondue setup, or rubbing elbows with other Hollywood elite. “Matches your eyes.”
I laugh when she narrows those eyes at me.
She glances around to make sure no one’s near. “You know where the rooms are located, right? Graham’s is in that alcove area on the other side of the elevators, and Emma’s and mine are in between yours and his.”
I nod. I’d checked out the locations she’d given me before leaving. “Did you have something to do with where our rooms are, Brooke?”
She shrugs, and I wonder if she didn’t miss her calling as a CIA operative.
“You left your phone in her room?”
I smile. “Ingeniously wedged between sofa cushions.”
“We’ll leave when they do. As soon as you get to your room, call and convince her to bring your phone to your room. When you hang up with her, call me. I’ll be in the hallway between your rooms, and she’ll overhear my conversation. When we hang up, come out of your room and find her. Keep her faced towards you—that’s really important. Are you listening?”
Something about her superior way of giving instructions just makes me want to pay no attention. “Yeah. Ask her to bring my phone. Then call you. Then come into the hallway. Real complicated.”
Her jaw sets. “Reid, I swear to God, if you screw this up—”
“Reid Alexander!” A woman appears next to our table with a girl of twelve or thirteen, who’s staring at me with a dumbfounded expression.
“Uh, yes?”
“I’m Johanna and this is Christina Noel and may I say that we are such huge fans of yours!” She sticks out a clammy hand for me to shake, barking, “Christina Noel, shake his hand!” The girl complies, her hand trembling. “We won tickets to the premiere and this after-party shindig and traveled 1421 miles to be here!” The woman says, leaning closer to stage whisper, “This hotel costs a fortune!” Straightening, she adds, “Worth every penny—but it’s a lot of pennies!” She hoots with laughter while the girl turns bright red. “Anyhoo, we are just speechless with delight to be here!”
Speechless is not the word I would have chosen for her, though it appears fitting for her unfortunate kid.
“Oh, and look!” Staring at Brooke, she elbows the girl. “It’s Caroline.” I feel Brooke stiffen beside me at the condescending tone. “You were in that little cable series—what was it called—Life’s a Beach? We don’t let Christina Noel watch trashy stuff—no offense—so we haven’t seen it. But I’m sure it’s just peachy, for what it is.”
Oh shit. Cleanup at Table One in three, two…
“Do you have a camera?” I ask. “How about a photo of me and Christina, er, Noel.” I gesture to the girl to stand next to me, since we’re about the same height if I remain seated. She inches closer, visibly shaking. Her mother tears through her bag hunting for her camera, tossing tissues, celebrity maps, and bottles of lotion and hand sanitizer on the table, oblivious to the fact that Brooke is giving her a marked-for-death stare.
“Ah-ha!” She produces a cheap camera and turns it on, but instead of lining up the shot, she thrusts it into Brooke’s hands. “Be a dear and take our picture, will you?” She squeezes herself on the opposite side of me from her daughter, all but knocking Brooke off of her chair.
Brooke snaps one photo before giving me a piercing glare as though I had anything to do with the insulting speech. “Call me. Later.” Shoving the camera back into Johanna’s hands, she spins and strides towards MiShaun and Tadd, disaster somewhat averted.
“Well, gracious me, what bee got into her bonnet?” Johanna mutters.