I need you to buy me a Tesla
Bring it by the Peninsula parking lot in Beverly Hills
Swap it with the Ferrari
Leave the keys under the front tire
Her reply arrives two seconds later.
Should I even ask?
No
How long do I have?
Kudos to Penny for understanding right away that time is of the essence.
Half an hour tops
On it, Boss
I can always count on her. Penny is the most efficient PA on the planet.
But you should give me a raise
And the cockiest.
Tell you what
Get me a Tesla in 30 min
And you can keep the Ferrari for the day and go shopping with my credit card
Those are dangerous words
Never give your credit card to a woman
You’re no ordinary woman
I know I can trust you
She replies with a smiling devil emoji.
“Everything all right?” Lana asks.
I stare up from the phone at her. “Would you mind waiting a little longer? To make sure everyone downstairs is gone.”
“No problem.”
We fall into silence, which quickly becomes awkward.
“What about you?” I eventually ask. “You haven’t told me what you do.”
“I’m a teacher.”
“Really?” An image of her dressed in a pencil skirt, white blouse, and dark-rimmed glasses pops into my head. I wave the dirty fantasy away, and ask, “What grade do you teach?”
“I’m a rocket science professor at UCLA, in the engineering department.”
“An engineer? I wouldn’t have guessed—”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she interrupts me, suddenly on the defensive. “Not many girls in my profession. But we’re trying to change that.”
“We?”
“I volunteer as a tutor at charter schools, and I try to steer as many girls as I can toward scientific subjects, to empower them.”
A tutor, huh? Wouldn’t it be a weird coincidence if she worked at one of my schools?
“Really? I donate to a similar charity…” I say. More like I’m the founder. “Teachers Without Postcodes—ever heard of it?”
“Yeah, that’s the charity that sponsors my school.”
Call it destiny?
“Oh, which neighborhood?” I ask.
“Compton. The kids there are so smart…”
Once I’ve gotten her onto a subject she’s clearly passionate about, the conversation flows. Thirty minutes later, we’re enthusiastically discussing the need for a fairer education system when my phone pings.
Swap made
Keys under the front tire
Cheers
You’re so British sometimes O.o
Anyway, have fun with the Tesla
I sure will with the Ferrari
As I read Penny’s text, I grin and shake my head.
“Everything all right?” Lana asks.
“Yeah, the hall should be clear by now. Ready to go?”
“Sure, perfect.”
I get up and offer my hand to pull her up. When our eyes become level, a breath catches in my lungs.
Man, what kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?
***
To avoid getting recognized by anyone, I guide Lana through the service halls until we enter the underground parking lot. I’ve come and gone this way enough times over the years to navigate the corridors of the Peninsula without troubles.
In the garage, I head to the spot where I’d parked the Ferrari and eye my new ride. Penny bought me a red Tesla; not quite the Ferrari-red I’m used to, but still a nice color.
I stride to the driver’s side of the car and make a show of dropping my keys. This gives me the excuse to bend down and collect the new ones my PA has hidden behind the tire. Only, instead of a regular key, I find a key card on the ground that looks better fit to open a hotel room than a car. It has the Tesla logo on it, though, so this must be what I need.
“Wow.” Lana has come around to stand beside me. “This looks brand new.”
You have no idea.
“Yeah, I just got it.”
“Cool.” She walks around the car to the passenger door and waits for me to unlock it.
With the key card in my hands, I feel like a total moron. I have no clue how to get this car to open. Where’s the key card reader? Is that even a thing with cars?
Placing the card next to the door handle doesn’t work. With beads of sweat blossoming on my forehead, I search for other possible places to stick this key.
Where would they put the opening mechanism?
The shell of the car looks all the same, except for a lighter patch of glass between the two side windows. For lack of better alternatives, I press the card to the door frame and wait for something to happen. When the Tesla finally beeps and unlocks, I sigh with relief and get in.
Two seconds later, I’m in a panic again. There’s no start button near the wheel, or any other button or key slot; only a giant screen sitting in the middle of the dashboard.
How do I turn this thing on?
Pretending I have to check a message on my phone, I quickly pull up a user manual on the internet. The instructions say I have to place the key card near the cup holder and push the brake to start the engine.
Engine successfully started, I pull my seatbelt on and ask Lana for an address.
She gives it to me, and I try to work the screen to input our destination. The map is already there; how hard can it be? But after a few unlucky touches, I only manage to turn on the radio super loud, turn it off, and make the car tell me off with two angry beeps.
“Sorry,” I say to Lana, trying not to look too frazzled. “Car’s new; I still have to get used to all this”—I gesture at the screen—“technology.”
“No problem.” She smiles. “I can give you directions the old-fashioned way.”
“Great, thanks. Can you pass me the hat in the glove compartment?”
Whenever I drive, I always wear a baseball cap. Saves me from being recognized by the paparazzi, or anyone else, really. Penny knows. And I’m sure she provided me one.
Lana opens the compartment and hands me a black and white cap with a green peace sign printed in the middle. I’m unable to suppress a smirk as I put on the hat. Penny must have been cackling to herself as she picked it out; a literal Greenpeace hat. The woman knows how to be sarcastic.
As I merge into traffic, Lana directs me onto Wilshire Boulevard. From there, it’s basically a straight ride all the way to Westwood.
“My home is the one with the blue door,” Lana informs me twenty minutes later.
I pull up in front of a two-story townhouse, the bottom half white, and the upper floor painted a light blue. I kill the engine and stare at Lana, at a loss for words. What do you say to someone who’s just had her life ripped apart by the two people she trusted most in the world?
“Thanks for the ride,” Lana says.
“It was nothing.”
She bites her lower lip but makes no move to get out of the car.
“Is something the matter?” I ask.
“Sorry.” She hides her face in her hands. “It’s… I’m not sure if I’m ready to go in there alone.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“No, no. Thank you.” She looks up at me with big, scared blue eyes. “I’ve already abused your kindness too much.”
“Actually…” I massage my throat. “I’m parched. You wouldn’t happen to have some of that water left?”
She doesn’t; I saw her finish the bottle while we were in the closet.
I’ve given her the perfect excuse to invite me in, and her lips curl as her eyes go bright. It’s like a secret, inside-joke smile.
“My bottle is empty, but I have drinks ins
ide,” she says. “Would you like to come in?”
“Sure.” I put the key card in my jeans pocket and we both get out of the car.
As we enter the house, the bohemian-hippy clashing colors of the interior almost make my eyes water. The furniture is intentionally-scratched wood, colored textiles, and the odd bronze decoration. At first impact, Lana’s house appears messy, but after a closer look, I realize that it’s just filled to the brim with books, pillows, rugs, and little tables and cabinets that occupy every available corner.
Rather the opposite of my pristinely white, minimalist Trousdale Estates crib.
“Wow, lots of colors here,” I say.
“I know.” Lana shuts the door. “I can’t stand those soulless houses with all white surfaces and stainless steel appliances.” And she’s basically described my house. “I need to surround myself with furniture that has character.”
I take off the Greenpeace hat and follow her into the living room, where she points me to the pink-blue-orange-green couch. “Please sit here. Is water fine, or do you prefer something else? Iced tea? Pineapple juice?”
“Iced tea would be great, thanks.”
As I sit and wait for her to come back, I notice there’s no TV in the living room. When she said she doesn’t watch television, I assumed it meant she just didn’t turn on the TV much, not that she doesn’t even have one. Hence her having no inkling of who I am.
I haven’t been able to talk to someone who wasn’t biased by my job and fame for I can’t remember how long… fifteen years? Is this why I feel an inexplicable pull toward Lana? Is it the novelty of her seeing me like a regular person?
Two abnormally fat cats jump on the couch, interrupting my musings. The tabby kitties look like twins, both with lush, light-brown fur and big yellow eyes.
“Hello,” I say.
One cat walks over my legs to go perch on the left armrest, while his doppelganger sits on my other side. I tentatively scratch the cat to my right, my hand disappearing within the long fur. Maybe they’re not fat; they just have loads of hair.
The kitty seems to appreciate the attention because, after a while, he curls up against my thigh and goes to sleep. The other one is still seated and looking at me expectantly. I give him a scratch, too, and when he’s contented, he settles on the armrest.
“Oh, I see you’ve made friends.” Lana is back with my glass of iced tea. “Did they molest you?”
“Just demanded a scratch,” I say, then thank her as she hands me the glass and sits on a blue knitted pouf next to the couch. “You’ve had them for long?”
“Adopted them two years ago, but they’re a little older. Since they weren’t kittens, nobody wanted them, so I took them in. They’re brothers.”
“Yeah, I could tell. Do they have names?”
“Cengel and Boles,” she says.
“Wow, they sound like important names.”
Here comes the inside-joke smile again.
“Should I recognize the names from somewhere?” I ask.
The smile widens. “Only if you were a nerd and an engineer. Dr. Yunus A. Cengel and Michael A. Boles are the co-authors of the most widely adopted thermodynamics manual all mechanical engineering students have to face at one point. We all call the book ‘Cengel and Boles’ for short.”
I don’t have the faintest idea what a thermodynamics manual might contain, and for a second there, I’m overwhelmed by how smart this woman must be to be a rocket science professor at UCLA so young.
I never failed a class in high school, but I’m no genius. My scientific-savviness stops at what I was forced to learn in the 6th Form as my acting career took over before I could finish university, so… Not much of a scholar here.
“We thought it was funny.” Lana shrugs, and the smile disappears from her lips.
“Is your boyfriend an engineer, too?”
“Yeah, we fell for each other when we were paired for a group assignment in a robotics lab. But he works for an aerospace company now. Teaching has never been his thing.”
“Still planning on packing all his stuff before he comes home tonight?”
Lana lowers her gaze for a second, then trains those deep blue eyes on me with a new resolution sparkling in them. “Yeah, and I should start if I want to be done before he gets here.”
She stands up as if, decision made, she wants to get down to business right away. I sense it’s also my cue to go; she needs to do this alone. So I finish my tea in one long sip and get up as well. “I’ll leave you to that.”
We walk to the door and I step outside, awkwardly hovering on her doorstep. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”
She nods. “Thanks again for the ride.” Then she bites her full lower lip in a way I’m sure she doesn’t know could make a man lose his mind, and adds, “Wait here a second.”
Lana disappears inside the house and comes back a minute later holding a business card. She hands it to me.
Lana Voynich, Ph.D.
Associate Professor
[email protected]
I turn the card and notice with a thrill she has handwritten her phone number on the back.
When I raise my gaze again, she’s blushing and blabbing, “If you ever need an aerospace consultancy…”
“You’ll be the first one I call.” I smile, and before I know what I’m doing, I pull her into a hug and whisper, “Good luck with everything.”
We pull apart, facing each other even more awkwardly than before, and she nods. “Thank you, I’ll need it.”
“Gotta go now.” I put back on the Greenpeace cap and hop the few steps down to the curb and my brand new Tesla.
Still not used to the key card or the driving system, I pull away from Lana’s house in understated silence. The rumbling engine of the Ferrari would’ve made for a much more dramatic exit.
Three
Lana
I shouldn’t have given him my number.
“Call me if you ever need an aerospace consultancy.”
So lame. What was I thinking?
You were pissed and feeling a little vindictive toward your jackass of a boyfriend, so you gave the cute guy your number.
Cute. The guy isn’t cute, he’s trouble. Eyes too green, face too handsome, smile too dashing. Not to talk about the half British accent. Right, too much on my plate already.
Ah.
Fury mixes with bitterness as I yank another of John’s shirts off its hanger and curl it into a tight ball. When the fabric is all crumpled, I stuff the shirt in the open suitcase on the bed.
Johnathan likes his work shirts to be starched, pristine, and crisp. No one hates creases more than he does.
Aha.
Vengeful delight fills me as I grab the last dry-cleaned shirt and cram it messily next to the others in the case.
Never had more fun packing! Right! Tears threaten to start spilling again, but I fight them back and focus on taking out my rage on John’s clothes.
Cengel must’ve sensed something is wrong, because he appears in the bedroom and jumps on the bed with a long meow.
“No, darling, Mom’s not okay.”
He bumps his head against my thigh and I scratch him behind the ears. But feline empathy only goes so far. Cengel soon loses interest in me and eyes the open suitcase with keenness.
If there’s something John hates more than wrinkled clothes, it’s clothes coated in cat hair. We used to have countless arguments about keeping the cats out of the bedroom—and the bedroom closet in particular. Especially when we were packing for a trip and unattended, open suitcases were left lying around. Apparently, luggage, like boxes, is a premium napping location for kitties, even more so once they sensed case-sleeping was a big no-no for their humans.
“Go ahead, then,” I tell Cengel.
He eyes me surreptitiously.
“No, it’s not too good to be true. Mommy is being serious; you can sleep in the case.”
As if
to test me, the cat places both his front paws on the brim of the suitcase. When I don’t protest, he dives in, kneads Johnathan’s clothes, purring loudly, and finally settles down.
His twin, probably sensing a great injustice was taking place, hops on the bed only a few minutes later. He throws his brother a dirty look and then stares up at me accusingly.
“You can sleep in the case, too,” I reassure Boles. “Let me pad the other side for you.”
I snatch a row of John’s carefully folded sweaters out of a drawer, crumple them a little, and lay them at the bottom of the case as bedding.
I pick up Boles and drop him on top. “Here you go.”
He seems undecided at first, his feline nature probably telling him that if his human wants him to sleep somewhere, then he shouldn’t. But suitcase-naps are too inviting to pass up, so in the end, he curls up next to his brother.
Once the closet and dresser are taken care of, I move into the bathroom and unceremoniously throw John’s toiletries into a gym duffle bag. By seven p.m., I’ve packed all his things and, except for the array of suitcases waiting in the living room, it could be as if Johnathan never lived here.
The bastard, however, doesn’t get home at the usual time. Guess that with the extended lunch break, he had to pull long hours at the office to make up for it. The app is telling me he’s still at work.
When his dot finally starts moving, I sit on a stool at the kitchen bar and wait for him, eyes glued to the front door. The more time passes with no sign of Mr. Cheater, the angrier I get. Emotions range wild in a rollercoaster of betrayal, rage, sadness, anxiety, uncertainty, pain… until the cycle starts anew.
When I finally hear the key turn in the lock, I’ve chewed my nails to shreds and I’m exhausted. Still, my heart starts beating super-fast as a fresh rush of adrenaline floods my veins.
I watch Johnathan walk into the house as if it was any other night.
“Hi, honey,” he says. “Sorry I’m so late. Had a terrible day at the office.”
Whoa, what a performer.
A sneaky, cheating, lying bastard. How can he act so naturally after having spent the afternoon screwing the brains out of my best friend?
How?
“I had a pretty horrible day, too,” I say.
A raging understatement.
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 2
