He winks at me. “A little self-adoration is often a good thing.”
Pulling down the visor, I stare into the makeup mirror—at who I truly am now, with the quivering smile and the perfectly flawed face. “They’re expecting someone else.”
“They’re expecting Rebecca O’Neill,” he counters. “And perhaps Mary Agnes Hill—who never even existed, so no worries there.”
“It’s Jake.” I shake my head. “I can’t stand the thought of his gloating.”
He corkscrews his eyebrows upward. “About bloody what?”
“My no-longer-existent love life.” I release a defeated little sigh.
“Ah, we can handle that.” He dismisses my concern with a wave of his hand, leaning across from the driver’s seat to kiss me. Our chariot is his vintage Porsche Roadster tonight, which trumps my Honda in a paper-rock-scissors contest any day of the week.
“You have your inhaler?” he asks me, handing me my hot-pink Coach bag. I nod, feeling much like a little girl as he carefully guides me out of the car and toward the party entrance.
“Don’t worry, Rebecca,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll take good care of you tonight.”
Trevor’s calming hand never leaves the small of my back, as he steers me through the throngs of people, protecting me. I’d told the coordinator I would bring some kind of security guard—which I never really intended to do—but Trevor makes the perfect substitute. He so completely doesn’t look the part of a security guard that maybe any would-be stalker will think he’s the ultimate real deal—like a Secret Service guy. He directs me toward my table, never allowing anyone to hold onto or touch me for too long. Then next thing I know, I’m positioned in my assigned seat, a bevy of fans crushing close—but not frighteningly so because of the ease with which Trevor controls the scene. At the table I sign headshots and fan art until my hand grows numb; yet whenever the crowd makes me anxious, it seems Trevor simply snaps his fingers, and then I can breathe again.
He also manages to keep me positioned well apart from Jake—who in classic form was painfully late for this event. We knew Cat wouldn’t arrive until night’s end since she’s wrapping her Evan Beckman picture, but unemployed Jake has no excuse.
I’m starting to breathe easier, lost in the glow of fan appreciation, when from behind me I hear, “So they booked Blondie.” The same lazy manner of talking, the same cocky tone. The same belief that my whole world must be rocked by his attention. “Blondie looks hot too.”
I never even turn around. “I’m busy, Jake,” I say, taking a young girl’s hand, clasping it across the table. She fiddles with a photograph—never meeting my eyes—and tells me that she discovered the show in reruns. Behind me, I sense Jake still standing; feel it in the way the small hairs on the back of my neck bristle; sense heat coming off his body.
His hand brushes my shoulder. “Too busy for a drink, Rebecca?” he whispers against the back of my neck.
“Too busy for you,” I say dismissively, and continue signing pictures. As he brushes on past me, I hear him say under his breath, “You’ll come around, Rebecca. You always do.”
Shaking out a cramp in my hand, I steal a glance in his direction—long enough to see his profile. Unfortunately, even viewed from the side, he’s still heartstoppingly handsome.
It sure would be nice to prove him wrong about me—just for once.
***
Outside by the hotel pool, Trevor and I find a quiet sanctuary toward night’s end, sipping margaritas and kicking back on lounge chairs covered in a dewy sheen. He grabbed a towel and wiped my seat dry before I sat down, ever the perfect Gentleman Date.
Twirling the paper umbrella in my drink, the world feels fuzzy—and I feel free out here beneath the moon, away from the stifling crowd back inside the hotel. Only a few people mingle here; presumably the fans are inside the hotel itself, semi-stalking the other actors and writers. When the Beach Boys come on, “God Only Knows” playing over the poolside speakers, Trevor stands gallantly, offering me his hand.
“Come dance.” He tugs me unsteadily to my feet.
“Whoa!” I laugh, catching his arm.
“I’ve got you,” he assures me softly, clasping me with both hands. He’s not an overly tall man, but even with my strappy slides, he’s a good six or seven inches taller than me. We fall into a slow dance together, oddly hushed.
After a time of us quiet together in one another’s arms, he says, “You really should talk to him, you know.”
“Jake?” I look up into his warm eyes. “No way.”
“No, darling,” he answers softly. “Michael.”
I stiffen in his arms. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“You love him, and I worry that perhaps I put you off him, with some of my silly warnings and all that.”