“So? What if I was wrong?”
“About what?”
“You… Us…”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I know, but seeing you with that guy…” He grimaces.
“What?”
“I hate the idea of you dating other people. I don’t want you to.”
I used to love the way John said exactly what he was thinking without any filters. I thought it was brave. Now, it just comes off as selfish. And in this case, wildly deluded.
“Well, sorry, buddy,” I snort. “You lost that privilege when you slept with Summer.”
“I made a mistake, Lana. One mistake in ten years. One.”
“One too many, I’d say. Why are you here, Johnathan?” I ask again. “What do you want?”
“Seeing that article made me think… Maybe we were too quick in throwing away ten years after only a small bump in the road.”
“Small bump?” I grab a hold of the kitchen island to stop my hands from throwing things at his stupid face. “You call having a two-month affair with Summer a small bump? You really must be confused if you think there’s even the slightest chance I’d get back together with you.”
His expression darkens. “Of course, why would you, now that you have a celebrity boyfriend? How long do you think it’ll last before he gets tired of you and goes back to dating someone in his league?”
“Wow, John, are you actually trying to win me back by insulting me? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel sorry for Summer; she deserves someone better than you.” A horrible thought hits me. “Wait. Does she even know you’re here?”
The flash of guilt that crosses his eyes is my answer.
“Oh my gosh, you’re the worst,” I say. “So now you’re sneaking behind her back, too? I’m sorry my best friend threw away a lifetime of friendship for you. And I’m sorry I wasted ten years of my life on you.”
“I left you, remember that,” he spits.
“Best thing that’s ever happened to me.” I fix him with the coldest glare I can muster. “So, I’ll ask you again—what are you doing here?”
“Nothing, my bad,” he says. But as he turns to leave, he mumbles something about a magazine. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist—which I am—to figure out where his mind’s at.
“Don’t you dare go to the press with any of this,” I warn.
“Or what?” Johnathan retorts. “What are you going to do?”
I have no answer for him. What am I going to do? What even can I do? It’s not against the law to talk to the press, last time I checked. Even if it’s my life he’s talking about.
“That’s what I thought.” The bastard sneers and storms out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him.
I run to the window to check what he’ll do next and, to my horror, I see him handing a business card to the photographer still stationed outside.
What a jerk! Johnathan has never been perfect, but I never imagined him to be spiteful or vindictive.
I go back into the kitchen to feed the cats who, after witnessing the shouting match, are keeping a low profile. Cengel and Boles will save their complaints at my prolonged absence for another time. Once their bowls are full, I grab my phone and call Christian.
“Evening, beautiful. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We might have a problem,” I say.
Christian
As soon as I hear Lana’s agitated tone, my heart drops.
I set aside my empty dinner plate and move outside to talk in private without the chef overhearing.
“What happened?” I ask.
“My ex saw an article in a magazine about us and went nuts. He came to my house to yell at me—”
A surge of protectiveness swells in my chest. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that; he just wanted to rant. I’m not sure he even knew why he was here. He was confused; jealous, but confused. Anyway, we had a big fight, and there was a photographer outside the house. When Johnathan left, I saw him give the paparazzi his business card. You think the press would be interested in interviewing him? Can he cause trouble for you?”
The more I listen, the more I want to kick that bastard’s ass to the curb.
“No, I’ll make sure he doesn’t go public,” I say, and start to pace beside the pool.
“Are you sure?” Lana asks.
“Yes, I’ll have my people sort it out. Don’t worry, that bastard won’t hurt you anymore, I promise. You want me to come over?”
“No, better not. I don’t want the paparazzi to think you hang out here regularly; they’re never going to leave me alone if you do.”
That stings a little. “I can send Penelope to pick you up, she’s still here.”
“I’d love to, but I’m exhausted. I could use a quiet night in…” I immediately worry that being in the limelight is already getting too much for Lana, when she adds, “Plus, we have a big night tomorrow.” I hear the smile in her voice and relax. “I wouldn’t want to make my public debut with bags under my eyes.”
“Thank you for coming to the movie premiere with me. I know red carpets are not your thing.”
“Christian, you’re my thing,” Lana says, “and that’s all that matters.”
And I swear I’m this close to telling her I love her, but I hold back. I can’t do it over the phone.
“I’d better go now,” Lana adds. “I need to convince Cengel and Boles I still love them, and that they still love me.”
“All right. Penelope will pick you up tomorrow at three. You’re getting the VIP treatment. And don’t worry about your ex; I’ll take care of Johnathan.”
“You sound like a Mob boss,” she jokes. “Please don’t murder him.”
“I’ll do my best not to. Can you give me his full name and address?”
“I don’t know where he lives now. I haven’t asked, and no one has told me. But I can text you his phone number, if that’s okay?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Can’t wait.”
“I’m going to miss you tonight.”
“Me, too.”
Her reply comes out in a low, sensual voice that makes me want to grab my car keys and race to her. But she asked for space so I give it to her. We hang up, and I move into my home office and summon Penny via text. She’s using the gym before going home.
She pokes her head in twenty minutes later, droplets of water still glistening on her hair. “You called, Boss?”
“Yeah, please sit.” I gesture to the chair in front of me. “I need you to deal with something for me.”
“When do you not…” She sighs, sitting. “What is it this time?”
“Lana’s ex is proving to be… difficult. He threatened to go to the press. I’m not sure with what, but I want to avoid any blowbacks on Lana.”
“So what’s our strategy?”
“Pay him off,” I say. “Alert the legal team and tell Addison to draft a non-disclosure agreement that covers his entire relationship with Lana: all ten years of it, plus recent events. I don’t want him to be able to even speak her name in a public space.”
“Okay. You want to review the agreement before Addison presents it to him?”
“No.” I cross my hands over the desk and lean forward on my elbows. “Penny, I want you to handle the ex in person. Make sure he signs.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Double the offer. I trust your negotiation skills.”
“All right,” Penny says, although her expression remains uncertain.
“You don’t sound all right.”
“It’s just… Have you cleared this course of action with Lana? Is she okay with the payoff?”
“I told her I’d handle the situation, and that’s what I’m doing. Why?”
“Yeah, but she might not be comfortable with your solution.”
“Why not?”
>
“I don’t know, Boss, we’re used to these kinds of deals. But maybe for other people, it isn’t so normal to buy someone’s silence.” Penelope bites the end of her plastic pen. “And I’m not positive Lana would want her ex to get paid for cheating on her.”
“If he goes to the press, they’ll pay him anyway. But the affair will become public knowledge. You think Lana would prefer that?”
“I don’t know, Boss. I think she’d prefer neither option.”
“Well, unless you have another brilliant solution, please do as I say.”
As Penny leaves, I dig my fingers into the chair’s armrests. I hate how much the fame halo is already hurting Lana.
Hate it.
Fourteen
Lana
At three on the dot the next day, Penelope parks in front of my house. Equally scared and excited about my first Hollywood outing, I get in the car and greet Christian’s assistant with a big smile. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Penny beams back at me for a moment, then starts the car and sets us in motion.
“Is it really necessary to get ready all these hours in advance?” I ask, fastening my seatbelt. “Just for a night at the movies?”
“Every spare minute. You’ll see.” She nods without taking her eyes off the road. “You’re gonna love the special treatment.”
I hope she’s right, because I’m the kind of person who cuts her hair once a year and finds even that tedious. How am I going to deal with hours of the “special treatment?”
And what is the special treatment, anyway?
I find out when we arrive at Christian’s house. I barely have time to kiss him before I’m introduced to a stylist, a fretting-but-efficient-looking brunette with a tight chignon and a black pencil skirt suit.
“We’re going to move to one of the guest bedrooms and choose the dress first,” she informs me after introducing herself as Justine.
I turn to Christian, scared to be left alone with this clearly hyper woman. “You don’t want to help pick a dress?” I ask hopefully.
“I can if you want,” he says, “but I was kind of looking forward to it being a surprise.”
And here comes the cute frown I can’t say no to.
I nod. “Surprise it is, then.”
Christian pulls me close and kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll see you later.”
With a sigh, I follow Justine to one of the seven guest rooms, where she hands over a white robe for me to change into.
Once I’m in the robe, I sit on the bed and wait as she rolls a rack of gowns to the center of the room.
“So,” Justine says, clapping her hands. “Designers jumped at the chance to dress Christian Slade’s new mystery woman, so you have a lot of options to choose from…”
I want to point out there’s really nothing mysterious about me, but Justine doesn’t seem the kind of person who likes to be contradicted, so I purse my lips.
She introduces each garment with a flourish, beginning the description by name-dropping the designer. I try to arrange my features in an impressed expression, even if I don’t recognize any of the big brands she seems so smitten with. So I pay more attention to the description of the dresses for themselves.
“Black is a classic,” Justine says about the first dress. “Always flattering, looks good on anyone… although, admittedly, not the most daring choice.”
She puts it back on the rack before I have a chance to formulate an opinion one way or the other.
I have a feeling she’s already picked a gown, and this presentation is a pro forma. I’m tempted to tell her to stop right there and just tell me what I should wear, but she seems intent on saying her piece, so I keep quiet and nod as required.
“Blush is the second most obvious choice; this gown is amazing, of course, but the color is no statement. Now, this pale yellow one would put you on the fashion map for sure, but maybe not for a first appearance. And then we have this gold one, a real show stopper. And, finally, a pastel blue marvel. It’d do wonders to bring out your eye color.”
If I’m following this right, she wants me to choose either the gold or the pale blue. Taking a chance, I say,
“Can I try the last two on?”
“Excellent choices,” Justine says, who had already started to unzip the golden gown before I’d even made my request.
After a lot of fabric shuffling and zipper pulling, I change into the gold dress. It’s gorgeous, but too ostentatious for my liking. So I try the blue one instead.
There’s no contest.
I love the deep V neckline and the draped ruffles adorning the bodice, sleeves and front slit skirt. And the color―periwinkle is the right name, Justine informs me―is adorable.
I stare at myself in the mirror wearing the pale blue gown and know we have a winner. The gold dress was amazing, but this one seems tailor-made for me. The organza hugs my body in all the right places and flows to the ground as light as sea foam.
“Yeah.” Justine appraises my reflection with a professional eye. “I had my money on this one, too. And we don’t even need much tailoring. TERESA!”
A woman in her fifties hurries into the room carrying a sewing kit.
“Teresa will take your measurements and make a few adjustments,” Justine says.
“Hi,” I say to Teresa.
The seamstress nods at me in acknowledgment and asks me to stand on a small pedestal in front of the mirror. Everyone is so efficient and professional, it’s kind of freaking me out.
“Have you already picked the shoes?” Teresa asks briskly. “I need to know for the hemline.”
“Oh, each dress came with its match,” Justine says. “You’re a size eight, right?”
Where she got this information is beyond me. I swear I never discussed shoe sizes with Chris.
I nod and goggle my eyes as she pulls out a pair of stunning-but-impossible-to-walk-in silver sandals.
“Mmm,” I say. “Isn’t there a pair with a lower heel?”
“Oh, darling, don’t worry. You only have to walk the red carpet; you’ll spend the rest of the night of sitting. It’ll be so brief, you won’t even notice you have heels on.”
I’m not sure I can manage even a short walk in those stilts, but, again, I keep my doubts to myself. I try the shoes on and do my best not to fall off the pedestal while Teresa shortens the hem of the dress and takes in the waist an inch.
Once the seamstress is done, Justine helps me take the gown off, puts me back into the white robe, gives me slippers, and sends me off to the beauty team.
When I enter the next bedroom-turned-spa, I’m relieved to find Christian there, sprawled on a salon-like armchair.
“Hey, you,” I say, smiling.
“Hey,” he says, returning the smile. “Found a dress?”
“Yes. Thank you for all this.” I gesture at the empty chair beside him, then sit down.
“Trust me, the pampering has only just begun.”
We both get a foot massage, a facial, and a complete mani-pedi. Apparently, even male actors need to have perfectly manicured hands. By the end of the treatment, I’m so relaxed I feel more like curling into bed with an herbal tea and my cats than going out. But, instead, I have to move on to hair and makeup. Who knew a night at the movies could involve so many preparatory steps.
The makeup artist doesn’t consult me on what I want; instead, he checks a paper sheet Justine handed him and proceeds accordingly, as does the hair stylist. But I can’t complain; the makeup is so subtle my face looks like I’m not wearing any, while the light retouches make all the difference. My cheekbones have never looked this sharp, and the blue mascara is making my eyes seem so big.
Same for the hair; it has never been so shiny, and looks super lush in the loose, one-sided updo they’ve styled it into.
Once Justine declares me ready—a mere four hours after arriving at Christian’s house—I stare in the mirror and almost don’t recognize myself.<
br />
I thank Justine for all her work and, with a pounding heart, exit the room to go meet Christian down in the living room.
He’s standing at the foot of the stairs, and my heart positively stops as he turns around, his eyes widening as they meet mine.
In his sleek, dark tux, he’s a sight to behold. And I don’t care if he’s famous, rich, or whatever else, because that blue-green gaze would always burn a hole through my soul no matter what.
His lips move in a silent “Wow” as he looks me over, and I hope the foundation they used is covering, because my face flames tomato red.
I walk to him, and he pulls me close to give me a soft kiss on the mouth. “You look stunning,” he breathes.
My heart is getting lost in another palpitating frenzy, so I try to make light of the situation. “It’s what four hours of pampering will do for you.”
Christian frowns. “Did you have fun?” he asks. “It wasn’t too much?”
“I’ve never felt so spoiled in my whole life,” I say. “In a good way.” That being said, I wouldn’t want to sit through the whole shebang every weekend; hopefully, these red carpet events aren’t that frequent for Christian.
His face relaxes, and he says, “Shall we?”
I nod, and, with a hand on my lower back, he ushers me toward the door.
There’s a limousine waiting in the driveway. Apparently, celebrities don’t go to movie premieres via Tesla. I bite my lip and don’t complain about the carbon footprint, not wanting to spoil the atmosphere. But as I get in the car, I make a silent vow to enroll in the next beach clean-up volunteering event the city organizes to compensate.
Inside, the limousine is accessorized with a champagne bottle stored in a silver cooler, and glasses. Christian pops the cork and pours us a glass.
“So, is this your first movie?” he asks, clinking his flute against mine.
“Not ever,” I say. “But the first in many years, yes. So, what’s the story about?”
“Any chance you read comics?”
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 11
