“How much longer are you going to wait? God, don’t you remember how excited I was when Pick finally made with the ring? There wasn’t a single person in my life that didn’t know about it within an hour of that happening. I’ve been dying to talk to my mother about this, but I can’t even do that until you do.”
“Well, gee. I’m so sorry you don’t get to talk to your mom about my engagement.”
“Layla, give me a break. You know damn well she’ll be jumping out of her skin when she hears the news. She’ll be on the phone with Kleinfeld’s the second she finds out, making the appointment to go get your dress. She lives for that stuff.”
My heart panged when I thought about going dress shopping with Lisa’s mom. I hadn’t really thought about it, but of course she’d be the one to take me.
I felt guilty about the fact that I hadn’t spilled the beans about such big news, not only to Lisa’s parents, but especially my own brother and father. I truly wasn’t trying to keep secrets from my family and friends. It’s just that I’d been keeping my life with them separate from my life with Devin for so long, and I was just waiting to figure out the correct way to merge the two. I was just waiting for the right time.
Timing, after all, was everything.
Chapter 8
PANIC
I made myself eat breakfast that Monday morning, but it was difficult to do with my stomach so tied up in knots.
It had been one week since I found out Trip was in New York, five days since I finagled a press pass to attend the junket and twenty-four hours since Lisa dropped off the designer suit she’d lent me from her pre-pregnancy wardrobe.
Multiply that by the nine years it had been since I’d last seen Trip, and it all added up to the thirty-seven times I felt like throwing up that morning.
I checked my reflection in the mirror, again, adjusted the thin silver belt at my waist, and smoothed away some non-existent wrinkles from my slacks. The suit was sleek, black and nicer than anything hanging in my own closet, and I was grateful to have it. I’d left the blazer open, revealing a white silk shell underneath, trying for a more casual look even though I was feeling anything but. I cursed my frazzled nerves and tried to get myself under control.
It was strange enough to think about being in the same room with my old high school sweetheart, but it was positively surreal to have to reconcile that eighteen-year-old boy with the überhot movie star that he’d become.
There isn’t a girl alive that doesn’t want to feel like she’s left some sort of imprint on every single one of her exes, and I was no different in that regard. But how many girls have to deal with their ex becoming a famous movie star who had since been with no less than half a million other women, most of whom were beautiful Hollywood movie stars themselves? How would I even rank in such a grouping?
I had a guilty vision of Devin and reminded myself that I really shouldn’t even care about any of that. I grabbed my leather carryall and headed out the door.
I took a cab up to the TRU Times Square and made my way into the lobby. I’d been by the hotel numerous times, but never had any reason to go inside. One look at the place, and I was sorry I never bothered to check it out before. The décor was modern—not usually my style, but incredible nonetheless—white floors, white furniture, white everything except the walls, which were painted in a deep, dark navy. The lighting was done in tones of blue and green and purple, splashed across every surface and sofa in the sprawling room.
My Steve Madden heels clacked against the white marble floor as I headed toward the front desk, trying very hard not to seem impressed by the expanse of my surroundings. My brain flashed back to my high school graduation night, standing inside the Wilmingtons’ foyer for the first time, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of the massive home.
The Wilmingtons’ hotel was infinitely more imposing.
I resisted the urge to pivot my head around the space, take it all in like some wide-eyed tourist who didn’t know how to play it cool. I lived in the city for godsakes. I didn’t need to look like a sightseer in my own backyard.
I approached the front desk where a model-thin concierge stopped tapping away at her computer to look up apathetically at me. She had a severely cut black bob that dusted her impossibly high cheekbones, and large, almond-shaped green eyes that made her look almost feline.
She gave the briefest intimation of a smile before offering stoically, “Welcome to TRU. How may I help you.”
New Yorkers always get a bad rap for being rude. The thing is, they’re not normally mean; they just don’t have time for anyone’s bullshit. This is something I inherently knew my whole life, but had just recently learned to project myself.
I flashed my press pass, laminated and hanging from my neck by a long, black, nylon lanyard. “Layla Warren, Now! Magazine. I’m here to meet Mr. Kelly.” It was the code name I’d been given to be granted access to The Great Trip Wiley, up-and-coming movie star, already in need of a pseudonym in order to protect his privacy.