Given the above, her kissing skill is incredible. I know it’s subjective, and not everyone likes the same things, the same way. Honestly, if I’m going to get laid, I tolerate just about anything. But Emma requires no toleration, and with a lot of past history to use for comparison, I know better than to take that for granted. She’s responsive, following every move I make like she did on the dance floor, tentative and sweet while managing to drive me crazy with wanting her, no matter how much control I seem to have over myself and the situation in the beginning.
It’s been a while since I’ve been this infatuated with someone. Jesus, what a rush. I can’t screw this up, and the best way to insure success in that is to cut off any other action for the duration. After the hour or so the two of us spent in my room last night, I’ve lost all interest in everyone else anyway. I want her. Period.
So then, Graham Douglas.
I don’t know him. He’s a puzzle. He’s done nothing but indie films, with some student films mixed in. No acting jobs before he was seventeen, and it looks like he started college before that. No idea if he continued or gave it up or what. He’s two years older than me, a year older than Brooke. I assume the two of them met on some previous project. They seem too chummy to have just met.
I can’t find that he crossed paths with Emma before School Pride, but anything is possible. Maybe they hooked up at some point, but not all the way. All the same, he doesn’t seem like the sort to dispute boundaries—if he thinks she’s mine, I think he’ll retreat. After I kissed Emma in front of him yesterday, he backed off without a word. Caveman tactics aren’t in my repertoire, generally, but neither is losing a girl I want this badly.
Emma
Over lunch, Meredith grills me. “Emma, what is going on between you and Reid?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”
“Hmm. I thought I might not to get an answer to my text until this morning....”
“Well, I answered last night—from my room.” She arches a brow. “Where I was alone.”
“Okay, enough interrogation, I get it.” She takes a sip of her iced tea. “I’m still depressed over breaking up with Robby, even if it was for the best.”
“What happened?”
Her mouth twists. “When we’re together, everything is fine. When I’m away on location or whatever, it goes to hell. He loses all trust in me. If he can’t get me on my cell, he leaves angry messages. He accuses me of doing things I’d never do. Then he says he loves me and he’s just scared. The night we broke up, I told him I can’t be with him if he can’t trust me. And he said, ‘Then I guess you can’t be with me,’ and that was that.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“Seriously.”
My phone beeps and I dig it out of my bag.
Reid: Dinner tonight? Alone? Be at your room at 7?
Me: Sure
“Reid?” Meredith asks.
“He wants us to go to dinner alone.”
“Yet you’re ‘not sure’ what’s going on.” She smirks. “Look, he obviously likes you, you like him… unless there’s someone else?”
I think of Graham, and my teeth clench. Why can’t I stop thinking of him that way? Because of one kiss that he obviously thinks was a mistake? I stack my fork and knife on the plate, not looking at her. “No. I just need to get over it.”
“I hear that. Robby and I have broken up three times in the last two years, and I really just need to get over it.” Her eyes well up with tears. I wish I could find this Robby guy and dead-leg him, like I’d done to a kid who broke Emily’s heart in second grade, when retribution was easy.
“So. What are we wearing tonight? Casual hot, or dressy hot?” Meredith asks, smiling, blinking her tears away. “We’re about to shop this town’s rocks off. We need to know what we’re hunting for.”
Me: Casual or dressy?
Reid: Preference?
Me: No?
Reid: K, lol. Casual it is. See you at 7.
While I’m dressing for my date with Reid (dark jeans, purple silk tank), I think about my run with Graham this morning. He didn’t ask what happened to me last night, thank God. He asked about my upcoming classes. Those of us who haven’t graduated and are under eighteen are required by law to attend class on set during the school year. Next week, Jenna, Meredith and I begin timed blocks of instruction with tutors. I’ll have enough credits to graduate by November.
“So then what?” We single-filed around a slower couple, for the third time in ten minutes. “College?” The paths are busy on Sunday mornings, which makes carrying on a conversation a disconnected and sporadic event.
“I’ve never planned to go.”
He smiled down at a toddler in a stroller as we passed, and she smiled back. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “I’ve never considered it a requirement. Or an option.” I felt myself getting defensive. “I’m not that bright. I do okay in my coursework, but nothing spectacular.”
“You’re underestimating yourself, Emma. And most people in college are not geniuses.”
“So you’ve taken some sort of poll? Or perhaps did some research?”
He laughed, falling in behind me as we passed a group jogging the opposite direction. “If research can be defined as being aware that you could run brainy little circles around most of the people I’ve gone to class with,” he said, “then yes.”
The warm sensation that flowed through me was both similar to yet nothing like some guy telling me I’m hot. Some guy like Reid, for instance.
“MiShaun says you completed a degree in New York?”
“Not quite. My final semester is this spring, after School Pride wraps.”
“How’d you get so far ahead?”
He bit his lip. “With academic parents and older sisters, I was precocious. I skipped kindergarten, moved from second grade to third mid-year. I liked being younger than anyone else in class, even though I got beat up occasionally for being pretentious.”
“Were you pretentious?”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “I was completely full of myself, pretty much all the time.”
“So you finished high school when?”
“Sixteen.” He smirked at me. “Clever diversion, getting me to talk about myself so I’ll quit asking you about your future plans, which you haven’t made.”
“I wasn’t trying to divert. I was curious.”
“Uh-huh.” I guessed he was wearing the same expression that got him creamed on the playground.
“Besides, if you’re trying to convince me that people who go to college aren’t brilliant, you totally suck at the persuasive part of your argument.”
He sighed. “I’m not brilliant. I’ve just always been a bit more… driven… than my peers. Another thing—certain classes and instructors make you think and generate approaches to issues you didn’t know existed. As an actor, it gives you more depth to pull from.”
Almost exactly what Jenna said on the plane.
“Hu—” I caught myself and clamped my lips shut.
“Nice catch,” he said before taking the lead so we could pass another slowpoke walker.
I’m ready to go at 6:45. By 7:00, I’ve retouched my hair four times, checked my teeth twice, sat down on the bed and stood up again countless times. At the knock, my stomach drops. Without checking the peephole, I pull the door open, and there stands Brooke, dressed to go out, but her hair is straight on one side, wavy on the other.
“Brooke? Hi?”
She walks into my room. “Hey, cute tank. Please tell me you have a Chi flatiron. Mine shorted out or something. Goddamned thing made a zzzzt noise when I was halfway done, as you can undoubtedly see with your own eyes, and now I have a date in like twenty minutes with the super hot manager of that band we saw the other night? And my hair looks like complete crap.”
Band manager? She has a date with a band manager? “Uh, sure. I’ll get it.”
“Oh, thank God. I seriously wanted to kill someone but couldn’t think who’d be culpable except for whoever put that thing together, and they’re probably making three cents an hour and working out of a windowless factory in southeast Asia.”
As we exit the bathroom, a confident knock sounds at the door. Brooke’s eyes slide to me. “Date tonight, Emma? Who is it? Reid?” She peers through the peephole. “Yep, there he stands, Mr. Everything.” I’m wondering what she means by that as she pulls the door open and stands in the doorway. “Hey there.”
He’s wearing jeans and a white jersey Lacoste shirt, and he looks like he got up from a nap, ran a hand through his hair and pronounced it fine. And that’s the thing—it is fine. This is the most unfair and strangely subtle characteristic that he possesses: the more blasé he is about his appearance, the more beautiful he gets.
Over Brooke’s shoulder, I watch a number of emotions flicker over Reid’s face. Glancing at the number on the door and back to her, he blinks, his head tilting sideways just slightly. His eyes narrow, spotting me behind her. “Brooke. Nice hair.”
“Well. I’m off to repair my split personality. You children have fun.” She turns to me. “Thanks for the Chi. I owe you big time.” She and Reid are like five-year-olds in a stare-off as she walks around him, until she breaks it off and walks towards her room, humming.
“Odd girl,” he says, turning back to me. His gaze appreciative, he looks me up and down. Taking my hand, he twirls me around slowly. “You look so hot. Are you ready to go?”
“Yep. I’ll get my bag.” I take a calming breath as I cross the room, trying to remind myself that he’s just a guy. On this date, he’s just a guy.
Right.
Chapter 27
REID
Bob and Jeff are standing at the hotel exit, which tells me everything is about to get a lot more interesting. When we step outside and the flashes start, Emma’s hand tightens in mine. With our bodyguards running defense, I slide an arm around Emma and lead her to the waiting car. She’s clearly a little freaked out and unused to this level of media attention.
One of the many alarming and unexpected things no one tells you is how close the people with cameras come. Don’t they have professional zoom lenses? Do they really need to duck under Bob’s meaty arm to snap a flash right in our faces? The photographers call my name, trying to get me to glance up so they can get the money shot. When that doesn’t work, they try Emma. She follows my lead and ignores them. Smart girl.
Some of the paparazzi follow us to the restaurant, which is at least half an hour away, and the flashes start up again before we even get out of the car. Bob and Jeff, as usual, are worth every penny production is paying them, supplying a wall of muscle on either side of us as we dash inside.
We’re greeted by a deferential maître d, dim lighting, thick carpeting, limestone walls and wood beams. The wait staff is dressed in formal black and white, tables boast crisp white cloths and frosted candlelight, and tiny white lights wrap around columns and dip overhead like stars. I give my name and we’re ushered to a table near the window in the back, as I requested, with a view of the lake. There’s outdoor seating and a dock, which is trimmed with more firefly-sized lights.