To the Stars and Back
(A Glittering Romantic Comedy)
First Comes Love Series
Book 4
by Camilla Isley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright Pink Bloom Press, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission in writing of the author.
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Dedication
To all my fellow women engineers…
Contents
Dedication
Contents
One
Christian
Two
Christian
Three
Lana
Four
Lana
Five
Christian
Six
Christian
Seven
Lana
Eight
Christian
Lana
Nine
Christian
Lana
Ten
Christian
Eleven
Lana
Twelve
Lana
Thirteen
Lana
Christian
Fourteen
Lana
Fifteen
Christian
Lana
Sixteen
Christian
Lana
Seventeen
Christian
Eighteen
Christian
Nineteen
Lana
Christian
Twenty
Christian
Twenty-one
Lana
Christian
Lana
Twenty-two
Christian
Lana
Twenty-three
Christian
Lana
Note From The Author
Also by Camilla Isley
About the Author
Acknowledgments
One
Christian
I race down the service hall until I find a door with a “personnel only” sign. I try the handle, it turns. In a flash, I rush in and shut the closet door behind me.
Without the outside light, the small room stands in complete darkness, but as I entered I thought I saw someone sitting on the floor or… was it just my imagination?
“Is someone in here?” I ask, unsure.
“Who’s there?” a shaky female voice asks.
“Sorry to intrude,” I say. “I need a place to hide.”
“Well, this closet is taken,” she wails. “Go away.”
“Are you crying?”
“Nooo.” Her reply comes out in a howl.
Clearly, the woman is crying.
“Should I turn on the lights?”
I grope the wall for a switch, find one, and flip it. But I only get a quick flash of metal racks filled with linens and toiletries before I’m hit over the head by something white and fluffy—a towel.
“Put that along the threshold,” my fellow stowaway orders. “People outside might notice the light. You’ll get us caught.”
I do as she says and then turn around to assess the situation. The hideaway is minuscule and cramped. Two silver racks crammed with supplies are pushed against the walls with only a narrow hall in the middle. Exactly what one would expect from a hotel storage room.
The woman sharing this impromptu refuge with me is a young brunette in a white T-shirt and jeans. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sliver of space between the racks, her shoulders leaning against the back wall. Hands in her lap, she’s clinging to a phone, its screen dark.
I sit on the opposite side of the closet, resting with my back against the door with a sigh―I’m knackered. I fold my legs close to my chest so as not to invade her space too much—even like this our knees are not three feet apart—and study her. She isn’t looking at me; she’s too busy blowing her nose and wiping tears from her face. But even with a runny nose, red-blotted skin, and tear-streaked cheeks, I can tell she’s pretty.
When the lady finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, their color is breathtaking. A deep, vibrant blue that reminds me of the Pacific Ocean on a sunny day. I wait for those two sapphires to widen in recognition as she takes me in, but nothing happens. Not a blink. She barely spares me a glance, then goes back to blowing her nose.
Could she really not have recognized me? Must still be too shocked a random bloke barged in on her hiding place. I wonder what a crying girl’s doing stashed up in the broom closet of The Peninsula Beverly Hills.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
“Do I look okay to you?” she fires back.
Yeah, Christian, kind of a dick question.
“I meant, what happened? Why are you hiding in here?”
“Why are you?” she retorts.
Should I tell her I’m running from the paparazzi? No real reason why, but a gut feeling is telling me not to. So I decide not to mention the paps.
“Fair enough,” I say. “Want to swap stories?” I tilt my head at her in a silent question.
She nods, so I go ahead and give her an edited version of the truth. Which is how, “I was meeting privately with Ridley Scott to discuss his next movie, but the paps busted us,” becomes, “I had a meeting about a project I’d like to keep under wraps, but a bunch of people I’ve worked with in the past appeared in the lobby. Small world, huh?” I try to be casual. “And I couldn’t have them see me here today. Hence the closet.”
“Secret meeting?” She frowns. “Sounds shady.”
I smile. “More confidential, really. What about you?”
“I… I…” She starts the phrase multiple times before collapsing in another fit of sobs. “I’m s-sorry…”
“No, it’s okay… err… What’s your name?”
“Lana,” she says, blows her nose, then looks at me expectantly. “And you?”
Unbelievable. She really has no idea who I am. Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I haven’t had to introduce myself to anyone in, well, forever.
“Christian,” I say. “Christian Slade.”
No reaction. Zero recognition in her eyes. Well, that’s new and one hundred percent unexpected. Anonymity doesn’t happen to me—ever. People know who I am. Everyone does, especially women. My face has been on the front page of practically every tabloid, magazine, and online publication in the world. The city is plastered with posters of me, I’m on the side of buses, on billboards and digital screens… and, yet, this woman has no clue who she’s talking to.
“Hi, Christian.” Lana cracks a small smile and, wow, her entire face transforms. “Sorry for breaking dow
n on you. Not my best day.”
Lana reaches into her bag for a stainless steel bottle and takes a small sip.
“You want some water?” she offers.
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
I’m not thirsty, but I’m dying to know what’s going on with this woman. But it doesn’t feel right to pressure her to share. The last thing she needs right now is a nosy stranger. So I watch Lana as she drinks, unlocks the phone in her lap, and stares at the screen for an eternity without uttering a single word. When the display goes dark on its own, a fresh flood of tears rolls down her cheeks.
“Can I do anything for you?”
She sniffles. “Could you check if there are tissues somewhere in here?” She shows me the crumpled white paper in her hands. “This was my last one.”
I get up, search the shelves for a box of Kleenex, and hand it to her.
“Thanks.” Lana lets out a bittersweet chuckle. “At least I won’t run out of wipes.” She noisily blows her nose again.
“Are you planning on staying here long?”
“I’m not leaving until they do.” She points a finger at the dark screen in her lap.
“Who’s they?”
“My boyfriend and my best friend,” she says.
Bloody hell.
“Or,” she continues, “more like my ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend.”
“Are they… mmm?” How do I ask in a tactful way? Impossible. “Sorry, I don’t want to meddle if you’re not comfortable talking.”
She shrugs. “Talking is better than crying, and at least you’re a total stranger. It’s not like you can judge me.”
“I wouldn’t,” I say, and relax against the door. “Shoot.”
“You have an iPhone?”
Weird question, but I answer anyway. “Yeah?”
“Ever used the Find Friends app?”
“No. How does it work?”
“It allows you to share your position with your contacts, to see each other’s location at all times.”
That sounds like my very own personal hell. Imagine everyone being able to geo-target me at any moment. Oh, the paparazzi would love to have me pinned down like that.
“But you can turn it off, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. To access their location, a contact has to approve you.”
“And your boyfriend approved you?”
Seems like a stupid move for someone having an affair.
“Yeah, they both did.”
Even more stupid.
“But it was ages ago. I’m talking five or six years ago.”
I low-whistle. “Long relationship.”
Especially considering I’ve never made it past the one-year mark.
Lana winces. “Longer, unfortunately; we met in college.”
“So, the app?” I prompt.
“Yeah, sorry. We all followed each other on a weekend we went hiking in Big Bear, in case someone got lost. And I guess neither of them thought of withdrawing the approval.”
“And the app is telling you they’re both here?”
Lana swallows and nods.
“Could they not… I mean, could it be innocent?”
“Two adults booking a room at the Peninsula? They’re not here to play Scrabble,” she hisses.
No, probably not.
“I’m sorry,” I offer. “First time this happened?”
“No, I-I don’t think so.” Lana takes a deep breath, possibly to stop more tears from coming. “I like to check on John’s position from time to time…”
“John’s the boyfriend?”
“Yeah, Johnathan. And I’m not a psycho-stalker who likes to track her boyfriend’s every move or anything. It was more to see when he was coming home from work so I could set the table, or other silly things like that. Always knowing where he was felt… I don’t know… comforting?”
Definitely sounds more stalkerish, but better not to contradict an angry, crying woman.
“Anyway,” Lana continues. “About two months ago, I saw them in the same location, downtown, at lunchtime. But then afterward Summer—my best friend—called me and told me she’d bumped into John and that they’d eaten together, so I didn’t read much into it. Not until it happened again last week.”
“For the first time in two months?”
“I don’t know. It’s not like I check on their position every day; it’s a random thing I do from time to time. When I’m thinking about John for whatever reason, I have a peek at where he is…”
“So, last week they were together again.”
“Mm-hm, lunchtime again, but in Santa Monica this time, which is as far as it gets from both their offices.”
I shift positions; this floor is really hard to sit on. “And I guess there was no call from Summer this time?”
“No, exactly.” Lana pulls her hair away from her cheeks and up in a messy bun. Tendrils trail down, framing her face. She’s cute. “And when I texted Summer to ask how she was doing, she told me she’d been stuck in the office all day.”
“A lie.”
“Yeah. That night I asked John about his day and he, too, lied. Said he had a business meeting in Malibu. No mention of a pit-stop in Santa Monica. As you said, I tried to come up with an alternative, logical explanation. The app isn’t super precise. They could’ve been in the same neighborhood without being together. But even so, why lie?”
“Only one reason I can think of.”
“Right.” Lana stares back down at her phone, unlocks the screen, grimaces, and locks it. “After that day, I turned into a real stalker. I’ve been obsessed with the app ever since. And today, bingo, I caught them in the same place again. So I hopped on the first bus and followed them here.”
“And you’re sure they’re in the hotel?”
“Both their cars are in the parking lot.”
“They could’ve gone somewhere else.”
“I called reception and asked to speak to John. They connected me to his room.” Lana grimaces. “He didn’t even bother with a fake name. Anyway, I pretended to be the concierge checking in to see if everything was okay. I could hear Summer’s voice in the background, asking who was on the phone. They’re here together, probably having sex right as we speak, and… oh… oh, gosh…” Lana starts hyperventilating. “There’s no air in here…”
She needs something to breathe into. I only find sanitary paper bags on the racks, which isn’t the best, but… she’s having a panic attack. They’ll have to do.
“Here.” I open one and give it to her. “Put this over your mouth.”
Lana follows my instructions and, after a few deep inhales, she starts to calm down. Or, at least, she stops hyperventilating, which I’m taking as a good sign.
“Sorry,” she apologizes.
“Don’t be. I don’t know what I’d do if our roles were reversed.”
Probably would’ve already knocked down the damn room door and started throwing punches. At least her way doesn’t end in an assault charge.
“Can we… Can we talk about something else?” Lana asks.
“Like what?”
“Tell me about you. What do you do? What’s the secret project about?”
Ah, a direct question. I could skid the truth again, but no, I don’t want to lie to Lana. She’s already had enough bullshit fed to her.
“I’m an actor,” I say, “and I’m working on a new movie.”
Her mouth curls into a little smile.
“What?” I ask, self-consciously.
Her smile widens. “You’re just so LA,” she says. “So, is this an actual movie we’re talking about, or are you really a bartender walking around with headshots in your pockets, hoping to be discovered?”
Maybe fifteen years ago.
“No, I did some work already.” That’s, like, the understatement of the century. I’ve featured in so many box office hits, I’ve been the top-grossing actor in LA for almost a
decade. “You might’ve seen me?”
“No, sorry,” she says. “I don’t watch TV.”
No kidding!
“You don’t go to the movies?” I ask.
“Nope. I prefer to read books or spend time outdoors…”
As she talks, Lana almost unconsciously unlocks her phone. Only this time, she jolts, sitting up straighter.
“They’re on the move!” Her eyes track the screen for a few seconds. “They’re both heading back to their offices. Guess they finished their business and now it’s life as usual.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Take the bus home and pack John’s stuff before he comes back tonight,” Lana says determinedly. “I want that bastard out of our house.”
“Hey, you want a ride?” I ask on impulse. “I came here in my car.”
“No, thanks. I don’t drive by choice. There’s enough pollution around already. The weather here’s nice enough to walk anywhere I need to go, and if it’s too far, I use public transportation.”
“Oh, but I drive electric.”
The lie escapes my lips before I know what I’m saying. My Ferrari California may be a sweet ride, but it’s not exactly eco-friendly.
“Traffic is terrible at this hour,” she protests.
“Traffic is terrible at any hour in LA,” I counter. “I promise, it’s no trouble at all.”
Why am I so hell-bent on giving this woman a ride home? I don’t know her. Her problems aren’t mine. But I’m not heartless, and it doesn’t seem fair to make her battle public transportation on top of everything else.
“You don’t even know where I live.”
“Where do you live?”
“Westwood.”
“Perfect, it’s on the way…” …opposite to my house, I finish silently.
Lana sags back against the wall. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll gladly skip the over-packed bus ride, then. Are you good to go, or are the people you’re hiding from still out there?”
I fish my phone out of my pocket. “Let me check real quick.”
Christian, you’re screwed. She’s never going to believe the Ferrari is electric.
I think of the car’s thundering roar… No chance.
Two
Christian
I text my assistant, Penny; she’s my only hope.
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 1
