Should I ask Penelope to take me home, or drive me to Christian’s place?
Normally I’d be nervous to see him for the first time after we spent the night together, but add everything else into the mix, and my anxiety has spiked. But the face-to-face has to happen at some point, right? And regardless of the complications, I want to see Christian, to kiss him, and do… other stuff with him… and I need… clarifications.
At ten to five, I’ve finished my explanation of the enthalpy equation, and it’d be silly to start with the temperature equation when there’s no way I could finish in time. So, to the joy of both me and my students, I dismiss class ten minutes early and brace myself for what’s coming.
I walk out of the engineering department and across campus, skipping the usual post-lecture stop at my office.
Emails can wait.
When I reach the parking lot, Penelope is already waiting in the same spot where she dropped me off earlier. I wave at her and slide into the Tesla.
“Hello, Miss Voynich,” she greets me as soon as I’m settled. “Did you have a nice day? Any trouble?”
“Not a peep from the press, thank you, and please call me Lana.”
“Okay, Lana, where should I take you? Home, or to Christian’s?”
“Does he want to see me?”
“Oh, he’s dying to.”
“But why didn’t he call?”
“The boss wanted to give you space.”
“Okay, then, I’d like to go to his place.”
“Perfect.” Penelope starts the engine and we pull away.
She drives through the Northern exit, then merges onto Sunset Boulevard to head northwest toward Beverly Hills.
Where does Christian even live? A mansion? That’s where movie stars usually live, isn’t it?
I get my answer as we keep driving northwest until we enter Trousdale Estates. We drive past rows of fenced-off mansions, their ultra-modern roofs barely visible behind the high hedges.
The gate we stop in front of isn’t much different from the others we cruised past: solid, dark gray metal with twin security cameras atop and an access keypad column. Penelope lowers the window and enters a code to let us in.
“No press,” I note aloud as we wait for the heavy-looking gate to slowly open.
“Yeah, managed to clear them out by mid-morning,” Penelope informs me. “And I checked your place, too, before coming to pick you up. It was clear as well.”
“Thank you.”
“No worries, it’s my job.”
I can’t help but ask, “Do you often have to check for rogue paparazzi near the houses of Christian’s girlfriends?”
“No.” She smiles in a “busted” sort of way. “They usually have their own version of me to take care of that.”
Right, because guys like Christian don’t date girls like me.
The gate finally opens and we slip inside, where a guard in a black uniform greets Penelope.
“Hi, Penny.”
“Andy.”
“Do I have to log your guest in?” the guard asks.
“No, the boss’s expecting us.”
“Go right ahead, then.”
Penelope nods. We continue up the driveway to the house, and I do my best to prevent my jaw from dropping.
Christian’s modern designer house sits on a terraced lot with a view of the city below. It’s as white, glassy, and squared cut as I’ve always imagined houses in this neighborhood to be. It’s the kind of house that would display well on an interior design magazine’s cover—which, for all I know, it has already. And the pool is so big it could host an Olympic competition.
I’m stunned.
How much does a house like this cost?
It’s intimidating.
“You must think I’m really dumb not to have known who Christian was,” I tell Penelope as she parks.
“Aren’t ‘dumb’ and ‘rocket scientist’ mutually exclusive?”
“Come on, you know what I mean.”
“I think you’re… different,” she concedes. “And not in a bad way. The boss had a lot of the same pie and never quite bit into it. I’ve never seen him so taken by someone…”
“Yeah, the weirdo who had no idea who Christian Slade was.”
“No.” Penelope’s aquamarine eyes peer into mine. “The girl who liked him without knowing he’s a famous actor.”
I hope she’s right. Anyway, I’ve procrastinated enough.
Time to go face the man.
“Shall we go?” Penelope says, apparently reading my mind.
I nod and exit the car.
Penelope also climbs out, and tilts her head toward the house, saying, “This way, please, follow me.”
I do, and we enter what could only be described as an atrium. The ceiling is double the height of a regular house, and the room stretches out in a gigantic open space that ends in a wall made entirely of glass with a magnificent view of the city below.
The décor is not my style, but I admit it has its charms. A bit cold and minimalistic, but with clean lines and a few warm touches that brighten the place up, like an abstract red painting that takes up almost the entire left wall, several vases filled with lush green plants, and golden and bronze metallic art sculptures resting on a cabinet near the couch.
I’m distracted from my scrutiny of the house by the light sound of footsteps coming down the stairs to the far right end of the room. My heart leaps in my throat as the homeowner makes his appearance.
Christian hops down the last few steps and walks into the living room dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, in a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants.
He stops when he sees me, and we immediately lock gazes. Staring into his blue-green eyes is enough for the palpitations to start, and we aren’t even breaking up. What would happen to my heart if we were?
The jitters worsen as Christian takes a few tentative steps toward me, then nods to Penelope. “Thank you, Penny, I can take it from here.”
“All right, Boss, I’m in the office if you need me,” she says, then turns to me and gives me a supportive arm squeeze. “Lana, it was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Me, too,” I say sincerely.
Penelope nods and disappears behind a door opposite to the stairs.
“Hi,” Christian says, closing the distance between us. “Thank you for coming.”
He runs a hand through his thick hair, prompting a memory of me doing the same in a moment of passion last night, which only destabilizes me further.
“You must be really mad at me,” he adds.
I swallow the emotions threatening to choke me. “More confused…” I say. “I had no clue. I feel so stupid…”
“Don’t say that.” He takes another step toward me so that we’re only standing a foot apart now. “Never doubt yourself. You’re the smartest woman I know.”
“Academically, maybe, but I’m not street smart. Without Penelope’s help, I wouldn’t have been able to leave my house this morning.”
“I’m so sorry for the ambush,” he says earnestly. “It’s all my fault. I never wanted for you to find out like that.”
Johnathan’s words from when we broke up ring in my ears: “That’s not how we wanted you to find out.” No one ever wants me to discover things the way I do.
Count to ten, Lana.
I take a steadying breath, so as not to throw anger at Christian that’s not entirely directed at him.
“So why not tell me?” I ask. “I can understand you’re not used to having to tell people about”—I wave at the surrounding mansion—“all of this. But after the way we met, you must’ve known I value honesty above all else.”
“I do, and I never wanted to lie to you.” He gently grabs my hand, sending light tendrils of electricity coursing up my arm. “That’s why I brought it up last night. I know you saying it was okay to wait didn’t really make it okay for me not to tell you, but…�
� He takes a look at the room. “Can we please sit so I can explain?”
I nod and let him guide me to the angular white couch in the center of the room. We sit next to each other and I wait for him to talk.
“The last girlfriend I had who I was sure was only interested in me for me was in high school. I did my first movie when I was eighteen, and ever since then, I’ve been part of this glittering, smoke-and-mirrors world that is Hollywood. I’ve tried, but I’ve never been able to trust a woman one hundred percent since I made it big.”
“Why?”
“It’s like being a rich guy and wondering if the woman you’re with is only in it for the money. Except I’m both rich and famous, which is ten times worse.”
I can’t help but smirk a little at that. “Poor you,” I say.
Christian grins. “Yeah, I guess I sounded like a major ass right there. And I’m not saying I’d rather not be rich or famous—acting has always been my dream, and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. I’m only saying that, when it comes to relationships, I always have to wonder if a woman would still date me if I was a regular guy. With you, I never had to question your motives. And, as wrong as it was, I wanted to hold on to the sensation.”
“But if we start playing the second-guessing game…” I frown and voice the doubt I’ve been keeping locked deep inside me since this morning. “I might begin to wonder if the only reason you’re interested in me is that I didn’t know who you were. For the novelty alone.”
Christian reaches for my hands and presses his lips to my knuckles, sending my heart into a fast-beating frenzy. “That’s not true,” he says. “I like you for how beautiful and smart you are. Because you know how to be both serious and fun. For the secret smile that plays on your lips whenever you’re thinking something the rest of the world doesn’t know. For the blue of your eyes; I could get lost staring into them for hours. And, yes, also because you’re as detached from Hollywood as a person could be.”
Can I say he had me at not true?
When Christian delivers the final blow, I’m already a blushing, palpitating mess.
He scrunches his face into that mischievous, cute frown I love so much, and asks, “Can you forgive me?”
I’m about to say yes, to yell it so the whole city can hear, when we’re interrupted.
“Have you decided on dinner, Mr. Slade?” someone asks.
I turn to look behind me, and…
“Chef Jeff!” I exclaim in surprise.
“Miss Lana. I mean, Lana—I—err—”
Christian’s nostrils flare. “It’s okay, Jeff, you can go. We can discuss dinner later…”
Looking crestfallen, Chef Jeff does half a bow with a nod at the end, then flees the room.
I look at Christian with a question mark stamped on my face.
“So.” He grins devilishly. “There might be another small confession I have to make…”
Thirteen
Lana
“Stay,” Christian asks.
We’re in bed, my chin resting on his bare chest as he draws circles on my shoulder with a finger.
After our talk, it didn’t take long for us to start making out on the couch, and one thing led to another…
Two hours later, I can certify that making love to Christian Slade the world famous actor is no different than making love to Christian Slade the Hollywood wannabe. I felt no extra thrill, mostly because I think it’d be impossible to feel more. I swear I’ve reached the highest level of satisfaction a human being can achieve.
Although I have to say, having sex with other people present in the house—personnel—was weird. Christian’s wealth still feels intimidating and makes me more uncomfortable than keen.
“I can’t,” I say, even if leaving my spot nestled in his arms is the last thing I want to do. “I have work tomorrow, and I have to feed the cats. Cengel and Boles are probably destroying the house already.”
“Penny can go to your house, feed your darlings, and grab a change of clothes for tomorrow. And she can drive you to campus again in the morning.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience her. It’s late.”
“Don’t worry, it’s her job.”
“To feed your girlfriends’ cats?”
Oops, I said girlfriend. Too soon?
As usual, I blush.
But Christian immediately puts me at ease.
“Girlfriend, singular,” he says, tapping my nose with one finger.
“Are you sure it’s no trouble for her?”
“Penelope is very well compensated for her efforts, and she knew this was a no-fixed-hours gig when she signed up. Trust me, she’s happy to help.”
“I’m not used to having people do things for me.”
“So allow me to spoil you a little.” Christian kisses my shoulder. “Being with me will have plenty of downsides; you witnessed some of those already. At least try to enjoy the perks.” The cute frown that has become the bane of my existence makes an appearance. “Please, stay…” Christian whispers again.
How can I say no to that face?
Easy. I don’t.
***
I end up staying at Christian’s house the whole week. I still go to work, obviously, but afterward, it’s right back to the mansion and into Christian’s arms. So it’s Friday night by the time I walk back to my house. I miss my cats, and they—well, they probably don’t miss me, but they must have at least started fussing over where I’ve gotten myself off to. Penelope looked a bit frazzled the last time she returned from feeding them.
Christian offered to have Penelope give me a ride again, but I decided to do without the private chauffeur. To have an assistant by extension is weird. As is having a personal chef. And two maids, a gardener, pool boy, garage manager, and three rotating security guards. All those people at our beck and call. It’s enough to make my head spin.
Also, I never imagined a house could require so many staff members to run. Being at Christian’s feels more like staying at a hotel than visiting a boyfriend.
But at least there were no paparazzi.
Before getting home, I stop at the grocery store to grab something to eat tonight—what with not being able to order a custom dinner from the in-house chef—and loads of treats for Cengel and Boles. I expect the kitties to be epically mad at me for letting a stranger care for them for so many days without ever showing my face.
What I don’t expect as I round the corner to my street, laden with grocery bags, is to find Johnathan seated on the front steps of the house.
I stop in my tracks, debating if I should duck around the corner and call Penelope to come pick me up. A confrontation’s the last thing I want. But I’m too slow; John raises his gaze and spots me.
No backing down, then. I sigh and, bracing myself, I reluctantly close the distance between us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, skipping any form of polite greeting. The bastard gave up the right to even basic good manners when he cheated on me with my best friend.
“Is it true?” John brandishes a flashy magazine at me—it appears he, too, is in favor of skipping all social graces.
I drop the grocery bags on the landing to fish my keys out of my bag. “Is what true?”
He waves the cover of the magazine in my face. “You and that actor?”
My jaw drops as I stare at the patchwork of photos printed on the cover: a headshot of Christian, a picture of him leaving my house, one of me taken last Thursday morning about where I’m standing right now, and finally me and Penelope in Christian’s car exiting his house two days ago. The title is printed in bright yellow all caps characters across the page:
THE PROFESSOR WHO STOLE CHRISTIAN SLADE’S HEART
Christian warned me stories about our relationship were bound to hit the news sooner or later. And I thought I was prepared, but it turns out that seeing my face on a magazine cover still feels surreal.
I snatch the m
agazine from my ex and flip to the feature’s page.
Hearts broke all over the world this week as news spread of six-times-in-a-row Sexiest Man Alive Christian Slade abandoning his bachelor life. It’s official, girls, Christian Slade is in a serious relationship with UCLA Professor Lana Voynich.
Voynich is a thirty-one-year-old Westwood resident with no previous ties to Hollywood.
They lifted my headshot from the UCLA website and printed it side by side with another picture of Christian. I keep reading the article.
How the two love birds met remains a mystery, as neither Mr. Slade nor Miss Voynich were available for comment at the time this article was written.
Let’s hope this is it for America’s number one heartthrob. Too often in the past, we’ve seen his heart get broken…
The article continues with a recap of Christian’s past relationships. The right side of the page is another collage of broken-hearts photo frames of him with other women. Many other women. I count nine.
Are these all of his exes, or did they only choose to show the most significant ones?
How many women has he been with?
Again, I’m hit by how different we are. By how seasoned he is, and how inexperienced I am by comparison.
“So, is it true?” Jonathan’s angry voice forces me to look up from the paper.
“What do you care?” I hiss.
“Wow, Lana, you were quick in moving on, huh?”
“What?” I bristle with indignation. “Should I remind you that you moved on while we were still in a relationship?”
A bright flash interrupts his reply.
“Trouble in paradise, Lana?” a guy holding a camera shouts from across the street holding a camera. “Jealous ex-boyfriend?”
Another flash of the camera.
And as much as I don’t want to, I’m forced to let Johnathan inside to avoid a public scene.
“Come in,” I order, grabbing my groceries and elbowing my way through the door. “We can’t do this outside.”
“Wow, look at you,” John says, following me inside and slamming the door shut behind him. “Already all VIP.”
I drop the heavy bags on the kitchen floor and entrench myself behind the bar. “What do you want from me?” My voice rises higher than I’d like it to be. “You cheated on me with my best friend and made it perfectly clear you had no remorse about it. You were relieved I’d found out, Johnathan. Relieved.”
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 10
