“Sure. And I’m glad you told Jackson the rest of it.”
I sit back, a little bit pleased and a little bit befuddled.
“It’s not a contest, Syl. What you tell him, what you tell me. I’m here if you need me, and I always will be.”
I close my eyes tight and hug my knees against my chest. “Thank you.”
“Not the kind of thing you say thank you for, but you’re welcome anyway. Seriously, Syl. Talk to me, don’t talk to me. I love you, and nothing’s going to change that. And I mean that in a fully clothed, platonic sort of way.”
A bubble of laughter bursts out of me. “Okay. Thanks.” I swallow. Then I draw a breath and I tell her the thing I haven’t quite been able to say yet, not even to myself. “I think I’m falling in love with him.”
She makes a dismissive noise. “I don’t.”
“Really?” I’m not sure if I’m hurt or surprised or disappointed.
“Falling? No way, babe. I think you’ve been in love with him since Atlanta.” She squeezes my hand. “Congrats on finally realizing it.”
My best friend, I realize, is a very smart woman. “I love you, too, you know.”
“Hell yeah, you do. I’m extremely lovable.”
We spend the rest of the night talking about nothing and everything, but it’s nice to spend time on the boat with the water lapping in the background and an open bottle—or two—of wine in front of us.
When I see Cass yawn and realize that the light is off in Jackson’s study, I call time-out and we both head down.
I give her a hug outside the guest room, tell her she can sleep as late as she wants, but I’ll be leaving insanely early to get to the office, and that I’ll text her with the time the limo will come for her.
Then I quietly open the bedroom door to go see the man I love.
He’s asleep in bed, his laptop open beside him. I take it away, then slide in next to him. He pulls me close in sleep, and I snuggle against him, as moved by that simple, unconscious gesture as anything else he’s done or said.
I’m content, I realize.
Content. Happy. And, yes, in love.
twenty-three
“I’m so glad the three of you could make it,” Michael Prado says as he greets me, Jackson, and Cass in the foyer of his astounding Beverly Hills home.
“We’re glad to be here,” Jackson says, shaking his friend’s hand. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Sylvia Brooks, and her friend Cassidy Cunningham.”
Girlfriend.
It’s the first time that Jackson has used that title, and I am so astounded that I almost don’t notice the hand that Michael extends for me to shake.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Jackson whispers after the introductions have been completed and we’ve joined the crowd in the ballroom. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The word bubbles through me like champagne, and I catch Cass’s eye. “Yes, it is.”
“It’s not easy to shock her,” Cass says to Jackson. “I think the only way you’ll manage again is to strip her naked.”
He chuckles and swings an arm around her shoulder. “Nice try, but I’m not indulging your prurient fantasies.”
“Had to give it a shot.”
I roll my eyes at both of them, but it’s only for show. Not only am I still flying from the girlfriend label, but my best friend and my boyfriend have crossed that invisible line from friendly acquaintances to actual friends.
All things considered, life is pretty damn spiffy.
I lean against Jackson as I take in the surroundings. I’ve seen what an obscene amount of money can buy, but even I have to force myself not to stare. Freestanding architectural relics representing different periods in history are placed artfully throughout the space, and bits and pieces of Hollywood memorabilia are mixed among the antiquities. Movie posters, candid photographs of celebrities, pages from scripts, and even three Oscars cover the walls or fill display cases.
“It’s like a museum,” I say, then blush when I realize that Michael has joined our little trio.
“It’s meant to be,” he says. “I keep my memories here. It seemed easier than a scrapbook, and it makes the room uniquely appealing for events like this. As Jackson knows, the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project is one of my pet causes, and when they asked me to host a cocktail party and silent auction, I was happy to do it.”
“It’s a wonderful cause,” I say genuinely. “And I thought Stone and Steele was brilliant,” I add, though the truth is I still haven’t seen more than the first few minutes.
“It really was,” Cass chimes in. She’s blond tonight, and so elegant that she looks as though she belongs among Prado’s treasures.
“You’re both very kind,” Prado says, then winks at Jackson. “Of course, I had excellent material. But first things first. Before you check out the silent auction, we need to get you drinks. I’ve done enough of these events to know that there’s a direct upward correlation between the amount of alcohol that goes into a person and the amount of their bid. And I really do want this event to be a success.”
“Well, if drinking your alcohol will help,” Cass says, “then I’m happy to oblige.”
Prado calls over a waiter with a tray of drinks, then selects an Amsterdam Art and Science for me, a Sydney Opera House for Cass, and a Guggenheim for Jackson. “A Cosmopolitan, an Old-Fashioned, and a vodka martini with a twist,” he says. “But we needed to keep with the theme.”
He points to the area beneath a massive curving staircase that sweeps across the far wall. “The auction items are set up on tables against that wall. You can’t see from here, but they extend back under the stairs, and we have quite a few goodies to bid on. I’ve invited a number of people with more money than time, so that means that not only do I anticipate a significant number of bids, but there are also some incredible prizes. You’ve donated thirty hours toward the design of a single-family home, haven’t you, Jackson?”
“You did?” I ask.
“A weak moment,” he says, and we all laugh.
“I like him,” I say to Jackson when Prado leaves us to go mingle with other guests.
“As do I. My one decent experience in Hollywood so far.”
“I don’t know about decent,” Cass says, “but there’s another Hollywood experience trying to get your attention.” She nods to the stairs, where Irena Kent is descending with a fortysomething bald man with a goatee and the kind of dark frame glasses people wear when they’re trying to look hip and artsy. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him. Irena Kent, however, draws my attention completely. She’s got an arm hooked through the bald man’s, and with the other she’s waving to Jackson.
“Well, hell,” he says.
“You could ignore her.” I believe him that there is nothing going on with him and Irena Kent anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to invite her over into our little circle. And, because I’m just that petty, the fact that he’s slept with her still stings.
“I could. But she’s with Robert Reed.”
Cass and I exchange shrugs.
“The asshole producer,” he explains.