“British heart-throb Jack Hamilton has been photographed all over Los Angeles with a mystery girl. Has this Brit Boy been bitten by the love bug? Or has a cougar gotten her claws into this very single guy?” I felt tears prick at my eyes as I read the last part. Cougar.
As in, what the f**k was I thinking, dating this much younger man?
As in, what the f**k was he thinking, hanging out with my ancient ass?
As in, what the f**k must everyone be thinking when they see us together?
Cougar. And the stink of it was that I wasn’t even, technically, old enough to be a cougar.
I noticed that Jack still hadn’t walked over to look at the pictures. I shook it off, smiling through the fuckery.
“Hey, you should come see these, Hamilton! You look great, although the redhead next to you clearly needs some neck cream … hi turkey wobble!” I forced a laugh out, glaring at Holly’s pained expression.
“I’ve seen them,” he said softly. “And Grace, you’re insane. I think you look lovely in those pictures.”
“Wel , the insane part is obviously true. Cougar, huh? You dirty boy,” I joked, swallowing hard on the lump in the back of my throat that was rising swiftly.
He crossed to me and took my hands.
“Stop it,” he said, brushing his nose to mine and clasping my hands to his chest. I blinked back the tears furiously, bending my head down so he couldn’t see them. I could hear Holly typing behind me.
“So, anything else on there I should see? Ashton and Demi make any appearances this week?” I asked, turning away from him and going back over to Holly. I heard Jack grumble behind me. I was getting some control back. I was squishing it back down.
“Nope, that’s it,” she said, closing her laptop. “Look, guys, no one’s happier than me about this weird little thing you guys got going on. Truly, I think it’s great. In fact, I think it’s pretty f**king fantastic.”
“Holly, listen, I know that—” I started, and she held up her finger.
“That being said, I have to play the part of manipulative manager and say that being photographed like this, all over town—not a good idea,” she said quietly, pain in her face to say it. She looked at me apologetically. I nodded my head to her to show her that I understood, which I did.
“Holly,” Jack began, “I’m not going to change what I do in my personal life just because it’s more media savvy. We should get that straight right now,” he said, coming to me again and slipping an arm around my waist. I leaned into him instinctively, not realizing that we looked like we were presenting a united front on this one. However, I did agree with Holly.
“You know what? I think we should go to dinner, and we can figure all this out later,” I cut in, attempting to smooth this over. Jack was not upset, but I could see his jaw begin to set. Besides, I was leaving in just a few days. This would be a problem we didn’t even have to begin to deal with. It would soon be a non-issue. Holly looked at the two of us and sighed heavily.
“Jack, you know I think you’re a great guy. And I obviously love my girl more than anything. But trust me when I say, this is the worst time in your career for you to be perceived as unavailable. That’s all I’m going to say for tonight. You guys enjoy yourselves.” She smiled, kissing Jack on the cheek, and turning to me.
“And for fuck’s sake, Grace, just keep your hands off him in public and all is well,” she said, smacking me lightly on the face.
“I hate you, fucko,” I sneered.
“I hate you more. Now scoot.” She giggled, leaving the kitchen. And me alone with my Brit.
There was an awkward silence, a first for us.
“So, should we go?” I asked, speaking first. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
“Yes, let’s go,” he said, smiling at me and catching my hand as we walked toward the door.
He stopped me right before we went outside.
“Are we cool, Gracie?” he asked, his eyes worried. I smoothed his hair back, his eyes relaxing with my touch. I traced my fingers down over his furrowed brow, down his cheek, and pressed my fingers into his lips, which formed into a pucker.
“We’re cool, George, we’re cool,” I answered, smiling at him.
Liar.
This was going to break my heart.
Chapter 19
We were quiet as we drove, both of us lost in thought. I didn’t want the night to be about the earlier conversation, but all I kept seeing when I closed my eyes were those pictures and the word COUGAR emblazoned across the inside of my eyelids. I knew the age thing was going to come back to bite me in the ass sometime—I was just hoping it wouldn’t happen so fast and in full view of his fans. I usually never felt old. Thirty-three wasn’t old, for Christ’s sake. However, if you’re dating an actor who was twenty-four and the object of young girls’
affection … thirty-three was decrepit. But God, those pictures, those pictures!
If you took all the implications away, the pictures were sweet. They had captured what we were: happy and content, funny and fresh, Jack and Grace.
I loved these pictures, especially the one at our blessed FatBurger. We were in line at the counter, waiting to order. He had me tucked into his side, and we were both looking up at the menu. And his hand, well, his hand was on my ass.
Lovingly. Like when you were fourteen and you went to the amusement park and your boyfriend parked his hand on your butt while you walked around, looking for that one slow boat ride where you could make out in the dark in front of the animatronics, hands all fumbling and frantic.
It was sweet.
And the picture of us coming out of Whole Foods? Hell, I would frame it and put it on my mantle it was so cute. Our hands were swinging between us as we walked out to my car, having just been caught by the manager kissing in the frozen food aisle. I smiled, remembering what had triggered that particular grope fest. It had been the bags of organic frozen corn. In the picture, he was holding our bags full of food that I had later cooked for him for dinner, and I was brushing his hair out of his face with the hand that wasn’t tangled with his.
We were twisted.
That was the one that had the COUGAR caption. Mother fuck. Well, technically, not yet he hadn’t.
I looked over at him, driving my car, as was now habit. Usually he drove, I sat, we talked and held hands or he played with my pant leg, trying to push it further up my thigh. I pretended to try to stop him, usually. Truth be told, I loved that he couldn’t keep his hands off me. But in this car, at this time, it was different. His hands were clutched tightly on the steering wheel as we moved west toward the coast. His jaw was tense, and I could see the worry on his face. I could fix this simply by taking his hand off the wheel and holding it in my own.
I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it though, and so I waited, and watched …
He sighed again, and I knew he was wondering how to fix the tension that had built up between us. It had grown even since we’d gotten in the car. I was quiet, biting on my lip and staring out the window. Every now and again, I saw him look at me out of the corner of his eye, darting his eyes back to the road ahead when I would try to meet them. He seemed so far away. I didn’t have a big car, but he felt miles from me.
He looked so sad, so concerned. He was as torn up about this as I was. I felt terrible seeing him look so conflicted.
Fix this. Fix this now.
I watched him run his hands through his hair again, and before he could place his right hand back on the steering wheel, I caught it, and brought it to my lips. He turned quickly to look at me, his eyes surprised and … relieved?
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hey, yourself.” He smiled back, face lightening immediately, then dropped our hands to my thigh, where he immediately brushed up my dress so he could rest them on my bare skin.
I felt his hand on my skin, and I felt a sense of calm, of peace, of quiet settle over me.
I felt a sense of grace.
We pulled into Geoffrey’s, one of my favorite restaurants. It was in Malibu, on the water, perched on top of a beautiful cliff overlooking the Pacific. I’d never told him this was one of my favorites, but he knew. We held hands as we walked into the restaurant, and the host took us straight to one of the tables right in front, the ocean spread out before us. They both went to pull out my chair, and I grinned when Jack won out.
After tucking me in, he sat across from me, and I was reminded again how truly striking this man was. He was beautiful, just beautiful. We smiled for a moment, waiting for the waiter to finish explaining the specials. We picked out a bottle of wine together and then settled into another silence, watching the tide ebb and flow below us. This silence was much better than the last one.
“So, should we talk about it?” he asked, brushing a piece of my hair back behind my ear. He’d been watching me struggle to keep it unstuck from my lip-gloss.
“We can, but it doesn’t change anything. It would be great if we could walk right into a crowded Hollywood club holding hands in front of all the paparazzi, but we can’t.”
He smiled at the thought, curling his hand around mine.
“No, I suppose we couldn’t,” he sighed, the same concern flashing through his eyes again. I was determined to not have those gorgeous green eyes look like that again.
“So, let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it. Besides, my ass will be far away in New York, and then you can make sure to slut it up playboy style again.” I smirked, pulling my dress a little lower and exposing just enough of my br**sts to pull his focus. Sure enough, like a magnet, his eyes were drawn there, and when he looked at me again, the green was on fire.
The waiter brought our wine, and after we ordered, Jack raised a glass to me.
“So, here’s to our second meal at the beach, and may this one be seagullshit free.”
“That might be the best toast I have ever heard in my entire life,” I added, clinking his glass merrily and sipping the wine we had chosen.
We laughed, and then Jack leaned into the table a little, taking my hand again.
“So, I have something I would like to propose.”
“Hamilton, be careful. The first night we met you told me that we would engage in a tryst, and that happened didn’t it?” I thought of that magical night, when the dirty martinis had flowed as freely as the banter.
“I remember, Sheridan, and I’ve quite enjoyed trysting you. But this one is different.”
“Oh, do tell,” I teased, sipping my wine, delighting in the feel of his fingers tracing circles on the inside of my palm. He had it open on the table, fortuneteller style.
“I have to go out of town this weekend, to Santa Barbara,” he started, and I felt my face fall. I only had a few days left, and he was leaving. This sucked so much ass. His eyes were down, staring at our hands. Then he looked up, staring at me through his lashes.
“I want you to come with me. Will you come?” he asked, his words rushing out. Like I would ever say no to that. Like I would ever say no to him.
Fantastic, hotel sex.
I maniacal giggle escaped before I could catch it.
He caught it. “What are you thinking?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up in that sexy half grin that made my knees go weak.
“I was thinking: fantastic, hotel sex,” I admitted, still not containing the grin that was ear to ear.
“Hotel sex?” he asked, blinking. Understanding now dawned in his eyes, and they burned into mine.
“Hmm, hotel sex. The best kind of sex.” He chuckled lowly.
“Hotel sex, where Grace doesn’t have to be quiet,” I purred.
“Hotel sex, where Jack doesn’t have to be quiet either,” he answered right back, making my tummy clench at the thought of Aggressive Jack making another appearance.
“Hotel sex, where we will finally have the sex … is it wrong of me to want to skip dinner and drive to Santa Barbara right now?” I asked, only half kidding.
“No, it’s not wrong. I’ve half a mind to drive you there right now. You could use a good shagging,” he answered, raising the inside of my palm to his mouth, pressing his sweet mouth to it, and then darting his tongue out to lick it lightly.
My mouth hung open as I contemplated his words.
He wants to shag me.
He wants to shag me.
Why did that sound so dirty, sexy, and all around nasty? I got shagged in Santa Barbara, and all I got was this fantastic orgasm. It had a nice ring to it. I was sooo going to get shagged.
About time.
After dinner, we drove back to Hol y’s. This time, we were touching the entire time. When we paused at the light at Santa Monica and Coldwater Canyon, his hands had been unstoppable, roaming all over my legs, my arms, over my dress, under my dress.
Whenever we stopped at a stoplight, he would lean over and kiss me like someone was going to take my lips away from him, and he was determined to get all he could, while he could. I was a little free with my hands as well. I had already unbuttoned nearly his entire shirt, his jacket long since abandoned to the back seat. When I noticed we were at a particularly long light, I had a brilliant idea.
I pulled my eyes off him long enough to press the button that controlled the convertible. He was in the middle of kissing me and struggling to get past my seatbelt enough to allow his fingers the access he needed to make me all shivery and silly. He noticed the top going up and he stopped suddenly.
“Did I do that?” he asked, looking confused. “I was nowhere near the button.”
“No, Sweet Nuts, but you were getting close to the button that matters. I did it. I thought we could use a little more privacy,” I teased, pulling my dress up high enough that he could see the white lacy boy shorts I was currently rocking.