Instead of returning her smile, the woman’s eyes narrowed and her face darkened. “I hope you treat him right. He’s been through so much…he doesn’t deserve another heartbreak.”
Grey was stunned. She thought she must have misheard. “Um…I’m sorry? Do you…are you a friend of his?”
The woman got close enough that Grey instinctively clutched her olives tighter. She brandished her finger in Grey’s face. “Don’t you get cute with me. The last thing he needs is some gold-digging fame whore latching on to him and sucking him dry. You better watch yourself.”
Grey’s mind raced. Obviously the woman was totally out of line—but also, disturbingly close to the truth. She itched to tell the woman to mind her own business and return to the barn she was clearly raised in, but she had to play nice. Audrey would kill her if she made a scene. But below her indignation was a thrum of fear: everybody knows. You’re screwed.
Grey turned to the antipasti bar, scooping a heaping spoonful of blue cheese olives into her plastic carton and grabbing a lid. She glanced back at the woman.
“I appreciate that you care so much about Ethan. I do, too. He’s…a very special person. I’ll let him know you send your regards, I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to him that everyone is so invested in his well-being.” To her relief, she managed to keep her voice from shaking.
Grey placed the olives in her shopping cart and pushed it authoritatively away from the woman before she had a chance to respond, thankfully making it to a deserted aisle before bursting into angry tears.
Ten minutes later, safely back in her Prius after hurriedly checking out, her phone rang. Pulling out of the parking lot, she hit the console button to answer the call. Renata’s voice filled the car.
“Hey, pumpkin. This a good time?”
“Sure. What’s up?” Grey realized too late that she still had cry voice.
“What’s going on? Is everything okay? Do I need to send someone to kill that son of a bitch? I’ll make it discreet, no one will ever trace it back to you.” Renata’s already loud voice amplified itself by several decibels. Grey raced to turn down the volume on the call.
“No, it’s not Ethan. Well, not really.” She recounted what had happened in the grocery store. Renata’s response was instantaneous.
“Fuck her. You know that has nothing to do with you, right? She’s probably been dating him in her twisted little head since his divorce. I’m sure she’d question the intentions of the goddamn Pope if they started dating.”
Grey laughed despite herself. “I mean, I’d be a little suspicious of that couple, too.”
“Regardless. I don’t think you should worry too much that she speaks for the public about you two. Audrey told me they’ve been very pleased so far about how everything’s going. Speaking of which, I’m on a very annoying email thread with her and that asshole Paul about next week. He’s been making a stink, but we should be good to go.”
They’d decided that Grey and Ethan’s first red carpet appearance would be at the premiere of Clutch, a highly anticipated action/comedy that would serve as the big-budget debut of a well-regarded cult director. One of Grey’s former Poison Paradise costars, Mia Pereira, had landed the female lead. Grey had read for the part, too, but hadn’t held her breath. She’d never had any luck booking femme fatale sex bomb roles, though she sympathized with Mia (who’d played a similar type on the show) frequently lamenting that she was never sent anything else. She and Mia had never been that close, but Grey didn’t begrudge her snagging a big break. If Clutch was successful, it would propel her out of typecasting purgatory—unless it was too successful, and stuck her there for good.
The event would be high profile, but not high pressure, and Grey’s connection to Mia was the perfect excuse for them to show up.
“What’s Paul’s problem?”
“He thinks it’s still too early for you two to be stepping out in such a big way yet. Says it’ll look fishy.”
“I guess he kind of has a point. But Audrey doesn’t think so?”
“No, they’ve been monitoring the public response closely. She says it’s the perfect time.”
“Great, looking forward to it.” Grey overshot the perkiness in her voice, but Renata didn’t call her on it. Instead, her voice lowered slightly.
“How are you doing with all of this? Is he treating you okay? How’s his drinking?”
“Um, fine, I guess. So far mine has been worse, actually.”
Renata made a disapproving noise. “Mmm. You should be rubbing off on him, not the other way around.”
Actually, nobody’s rubbing off on anybody.
“I’ll do my best.”
GREY AND ETHAN RODE TO the premiere in silence. Though being in such close proximity to Ethan normally made Grey’s head spin, tonight it was crystal clear. Being in public with him was easy. She was playing a part: the up-and-coming ingenue infatuated with her older, A-list paramour. Not the most original role, sure, but she’d had worse. He was just her costar, and she was a consummate professional. The boundaries of what was required of her were clear. It was when they were alone that things started to get muddled.
She knew the prospect of the red carpet was less appealing for Ethan. He was looking out the window, lips pressed into a thin line, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual. Other than that, however, she had to admit that for the first time since she’d met him, he looked every inch the matinee idol of yesteryear. He wore a flawlessly tailored dark gray suit, no tie, and had shaved his omnipresent stubble, revealing the contours of his cheekbones and the hard angles of his jaw. His long legs were spread wide on the seat, one of his ankles loosely balanced on his other knee, bouncing with barely concealed nervous energy.
She’d accepted Audrey’s offer of professional styling, and had spent the preceding five hours being primped, prodded, buffed, and smoothed. The final product was worth it, though. After clashing with the hairstylist over whether they should heat-style her waves, which had finally started to recover after years of being fried daily on Poison Paradise, Grey had relented, allowing her hair to be straightened and slicked back into a low, glossy ponytail. The stylist had brought in two racks of clothing that probably cost more than Grey’s car. They’d settled on a silky midnight-blue jumpsuit, whose modest long sleeves were counteracted by the fact that it was practically cut down to her navel. The color of the jumpsuit, combined with whatever witchcraft the makeup artist had worked on her face, made her eyes seem preternaturally blue.
She couldn’t help but preen in front of the mirror once they’d finished. It had been months since she’d been professionally styled. She’d forgotten she could look this good. She had all but strutted out to the Bentley when Ethan had arrived to pick her up, and refused to be deflated when he barely flicked his eyes over at her. It didn’t matter what he thought. She was already in character.
As Ozzy pulled into the long line of luxury cars waiting to eject their famous contents onto the red carpet, Ethan turned to look at her for the first time. His eyes swept over her, taking her in from head to toe. She met his eyes, chin tilted up, refusing to let herself be flustered by the intensity of his gaze. They stared at each other for what felt like minutes. Though she felt a little childish having an impromptu staring contest with an almost forty-year-old man, Grey refused to look away first.