“No.” I laugh, thinking Marjory would be so jealous.
She loves comics and is a huge fan of Christian. I keep promising to introduce them but haven’t had the chance yet. Plus, I’m worried she’ll pass out from sheer excitement when she finally meets him for the first time.
I spend the rest of the ride getting a crash course on superheroes. Turns out they’re a huge deal. Who knew? Christian claims his face is on cereal boxes. I need to go grocery shopping, stat.
The lesson ends when the limo stops in front of the Chinese Theatre, and we step out right onto the red carpet. Cameras flash at us from all directions, turning the dark night into glittering day. Shouts of “Christian, this way please!” and, “Lana, look at me!” echo from all around us.
And, standing there in my beautiful dress, with a man who looks like a real-life prince, I feel like I’m living in one of the fairy tales I love so much to read.
I’m a nerdy frog turned princess.
I’m finally starting to get what all the fuss about Hollywood is. The glamor is already going to my head, making me excited and afraid at the same time. But I’m too busy smiling and trying to walk in these shoes without falling to dwell on what’s happening.
Christian gives my arm a gentle tug and leans down to whisper in my ear, “Time to go. They’ve had enough.”
I nod and follow him inside the theater. We stop in the entry hall, and he asks again, “Are you sure it’s not too much?”
“Positive. I’m having fun, I promise.”
“You’re a natural,” he says, his voice full of pride. “And you’re so beautiful.”
Christian steals a kiss, and we walk into the main theater, where an usher guides us to our reserved seats.
Three hours later, we’re still parked in our seats in the front row; the movie is still going. I’m having trouble keeping my back straight. The boning of the dress helps; it pokes me in the ribs whenever my shoulders sag. I try to covertly shift positions on the chair to give my butt cheeks a reprieve.
“It’s almost over,” Christian whispers.
His warm breath sears a path down my neck, making me want to slip out of this dress even more—and not just to get a break from the boning.
As promised, the movie soon ends. I can’t say I enjoyed the plot, but seeing Christian in a tight spandex costume had its pluses. The audience seemed to love it, though; they burst into applause as soon as the end credits start to roll. Christian stands up and gives them a cheeky wave, which provokes laughter and more applause.
To leave the theater, we’re ushered out a side door and into a back alley where the limo is supposed to pick us up. The paparazzi must not know about this place, or possibly don’t have access to it. Either way, I’m glad to avoid another encounter with dozens of flashing cameras.
As we wait, a thought suddenly pops into my head.
“Hey,” I say. “I forgot to ask you. How did you handle things with Johnathan? Was he trouble?”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s solved.”
“Yeah, but how?”
“My people made him sign a non-disclosure agreement. He’s legally bound not to speak about your relationship in public.”
“And he signed it? Just like that?”
From the way John left my house yesterday, he didn’t exactly seem open to being reasonable.
“He’s agreed to,” Christian says, his jaw tightening. “It’s all that matters.”
My heart sinks. “How?” I ask. “How did you convince him?”
Christian stares at me but keeps quiet.
So I prompt him. “I have a wild imagination.” I try to phrase my mounting anxiety as lightly as possible. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll conjure up the worst scenarios…”
“I offered him money,” Christian says at last.
“You paid him off? How much?”
“The same he’d get from a magazine for the story.”
“Is it already done? Can you take the money back?”
“My lawyers are finalizing the papers over the weekend. He should sign them on Monday.”
“Good.” I kick a small pebble off the curb and almost lose my balance. “I want you to cancel the deal.”
“Why? The money is nothing for me, I—”
“If you have so much cash to throw away, give it to charity,” I interrupt.
“I already give a lot to charity,” Christian snaps. “Why are you so mad?”
“Because…” I try to steady my breath and not kick anything else. “Excuse me if I don’t want my cheating ex to receive a cash bonus as a reward for lying to me for months and for stealing my best friend.”
Christian’s hands cup my cheeks. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry,” he says. “But paying him is the only way. If he doesn’t sign the agreement, your ex can go to a newspaper and sell the story. He’d get the same amount of money anyway, except he’d also drag your name through the mud in the process.”
“Drag me through the mud, how? I’ve done nothing wrong; he’s the shady one. If he wants to confess his affair in front of the entire world, he can be my guest.”
Chris sighs. “That’s not how it works. You’re assuming he’ll go to the papers and tell the truth. Most people don’t. Especially not the ones holding a grudge. He could tell a magazine all kinds of lies.”
“I don’t care. I want you to cancel the deal.”
“Are you sure? If he goes to the press… Once something has been printed, there’s no way of burying the story. And even if you go public with a different version, there’s no guarantee people will believe you over him. The blowback could get ugly with social media and all that stuff… It might even affect your job…”
The thought of Johnathan spinning lies on the news makes my blood boil, but I refuse on principle to let my boyfriend pay him off. He won’t get a cent from Christian, end of story.
“I’m sure,” I say, gathering my hem up as the limo pulls up next to us. “Whatever lies John feeds the papers, I can deal with it.”
“As you wish,” Christian says, leaning down to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll call the legal team tomorrow and make sure they cancel everything. Now, let’s go home.”
I lean into his reassuring warmth for a short moment before we get into the limousine.
***
“Join me for a drink?” Christian asks as we step out of the limo at his house. “The view is amazing at night.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Wait here.” He guides me toward the plush chairs lining the pool. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
I gladly take the chance to sit and give my feet a rest. True, I’ve spent most of the evening seated, but these shoes are real killers. I massage my ankles and take in once more the massive house, glittering pool, and landscaped garden… Could this really be my life? Would I want it to be?
I don’t know. The argument about Jonathan added a sour note to an otherwise perfect night, reinforcing my theory that I’d like Christian better if he weren’t a famous actor.
The stress from paparazzi trailing our every move. The thought that, for him, having a legal team buy the silence of my ex is par for the course. It’s all just so outside my quiet life as a professor. Could I ever get used to this lifestyle? No, I’m pretty sure I’ll never find this life normal. But for him, I can try to cope.
“Want a glass of champagne?”
I look up to find Christian towering over me, a dark green bottle and two glasses in his hands.
I smile. “What could ever go wrong with that?”
Christian grins back. “Oh, several things.”
“Like what?”
“I could pull a ‘Sabrina’ on you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sabrina—the movie, with Audrey Hepburn?”
“Sorry, I don’t—”
“—watch TV,” he finishes for me. “But Sabrina is a classic; yo
u have to see it. At least once.”
“All right. So, what happens that’s so terrible to this Sabrina that involves champagne?”
“To her, nothing. But the poor fella forgets he’s put glasses in his pockets, and sits down on the tennis court, and…”
“Ouch!”
“But no tennis courts here, so we’re safe. Come see the view?”
I push off the chair and, as we come face to face, I have to steady my legs—and not because of the heels. Even in the semi-dark, Christian’s eyes are so intense…
Too soon to feel so much, Lana. Definitely too soon.
But when I’m around him, my heart swells in my chest until my rib cage seems too small, while a dark snake of fear coils in my stomach and hisses a silent question over and over again:
How much are you going to hurt me?
Fifteen
Christian
I lead Lana to the open terrace and, using the concrete railing as a makeshift table, I pour the champagne and hand her a glass.
Somehow, I sense the atmosphere has shifted; it’s suddenly laden with meaning. Serious. This thing between us is progressing at a speed I wasn’t prepared to follow. A pace I can’t slow down.
And why should I?
As her intelligent sapphire eyes fix on me, I find I have to keep my tongue in check so as not to make a complete fool of myself. Instead of offering her a drink, I almost came out and told Lana I’m in love with her.
Way too soon, mate, to even be thinking along those lines.
Right. But with Lana, it’s impossible not to burn the stops. I’d forgotten how exciting the chase could be. For the first time in forever, I don’t have the upper hand in a relationship. My career, fame, and money mean nothing to her. It’s refreshing, exciting, unsettling, and, yes, a bit scary, to be honest.
“What are we toasting to?” Lana asks.
“To a perfect evening with a perfect woman,” I say. “Thank you for coming with me tonight.”
“I’m not perfect.” I watch her cheeks redden in the cutest possible way. “And, thank you. This whole day has been incredible. Surreal, but amazing.”
“Cheers.”
We clink glasses and I pull her closer, hugging her from behind as we stare at the city lights sparkling below us.
I press my lips to the side of her neck. “You’ve gone awfully quiet,” I say.
I almost expect her to tell me something grave, but she surprises me by saying, “I was trying to remember what the view from your bedroom is.”
I hear the smile in her reply, and imagine her mouth curled into that secret grin of hers. Her actual words set me on fire. “I also seem to be suffering from a case of amnesia,” I say. “’Cause I can’t remember, either. Should we go check it out?”
She turns in my arms, her smile fading only when she kisses me and whispers, “Sure.”
***
The next morning we wake up late and linger in bed—not sleeping—longer still. We eventually venture downstairs for a lush brunch, courtesy of Chef Jeff, when Penny arrives carrying her tablet with her.
“Morning, Boss, Lana.” My assistant sits at the kitchen island with us and helps herself to a slice of French toast.
“Don’t you ever get a day off?” Lana asks. Slanting her eyes at me in a teasing manner, she adds, “You’re a slave driver.”
“Am not,” I defend. “She gets plenty of days off.”
“Do I?” Penny asks jokingly.
“Yeah, you get Christmas every single year, and I think I gave you Thanksgiving off that one time.”
Lana shakes her head, amused, and keeps enjoying her cinnamon roll.
Penny sticks out her tongue at me. “You deserve all the mean tweets you get. Want to see the Jimmy Kimmel replay? It aired on Friday.”
“Sure,” I say.
Grabbing the remote, she screen-mirrors her tablet to the kitchen TV and shows us the clip.
My face appears on the screen with a brick wall in the background as I read the mean tweet: “Christian Slade has the face of a dude who’d request She Bangs at a wedding and then try to salsa dance with the bride when the music isn’t salsa and he can’t even dance.” In the video, I scoff/smile, and say, “You’re right, mate. I can’t salsa dance.”
We all laugh, and Lana asks, “Do people really waste time writing stuff like that?”
“You’ve no idea,” I say.
“At least they’re original,” Penelope adds.
“And how’s the coverage from last night?” I ask Penny.
“Mostly positive.” She scrolls through various news pieces about the movie premiere. There are pictures of me and Lana on the red carpet—she’s even more stunning than I remembered—and the headlines are a variation of the same Christian Slade’s new movie/new relationship.
Penny stops the slideshow and I see her looking at me, uncertain.
“What?” I ask.
“There’s one final piece that isn’t exactly flattering.”
“Show us,” I prompt.
She swipes left on the tablet, and a picture of me and Lana in the back alley waiting for the limousine appears. Lana looks angry and ready to cry and I look, well, like I swallowed ten lemons. The headline reads: “Is the fairy tale over already?”
“Wow,” Lana says next to me. “How did they get that? Wasn’t that alley off limits for the press?”
“It was,” I confirm. “But the paps would go to any lengths to steal a money-making shot. From the angle of the picture, it looks like the photo was taken from above; they must’ve been perched on a nearby roof.”
“Is a shot like that really worth a lot?” Lana asks.
“Ten K at least,” Penny says.
“What a waste of money. Do people really care?”
“Gossip sells.” I shrug. “And bad news sells more than happily ever after. This is what I was trying to tell you yesterday; the press doesn’t care about the truth. They take a moment like that and turn it into whatever crap they feel like spinning that day.”
“You want me to respond, Boss?” Penelope asks.
“No, I don’t think so.” I turn to Lana for confirmation, and she shakes her head in agreement with me. “Are you sure you still want to cancel the Jonathan deal?” I ask.
“One hundred percent,” Lana confirms immediately. “He’s not getting a cent out of you, and if someone else wants to pay him to badmouth me, at least it won’t be your money. He can tell all the lies he wants; I know the truth, and I don’t care.”
I take a sip of coffee and try to phrase my doubts in a tactful way. “But your family, your friends, your colleagues, your students… They won’t know who to believe. Are you sure you want your private life put on display like that? I can make it all disappear. Why not let me?”
Her features set in the most adorably serious pout. “Johnathan isn’t getting any money from you, full stop.”
“All right.” I sigh. “Penny, can you have Addison cancel the deal, please?”
Penelope’s lips curl up into the slightest I-respectfully-told-you-so grin, and she nods once. “Consider it done, Boss.” Then she turns to Lana. “You think your ex would really go public with the story?”
“I’d say no.” Lana shrugs, taking a sip of coffee. “But a month ago I would’ve also told you he’d never cheat on me with my best friend, so…”
Lana
Johnathan’s interview goes public two weeks later, and on my birthday, no less.
Worst timing ever, as I’m home celebrating with my family when the scandal breaks. Usually, our middle-aged neighbors in the Pasadena suburb where my parents live don’t bother to read trashy magazines. So my relationship with a Hollywood A-lister had escaped their notice so far. But with two families on the block involved, Jonathan’s piece cracks the suburban indifference wall, leaving me to deal with the fallout completely alone.
Of the two people mentioned in the article, I’m the o
nly gossiped-about daughter present. Summer, as an excuse not to attend my birthday party—a first in over twenty years of friendship—claimed to be on a business trip. The excuse was given not to me—I still haven’t heard a peep from her—but to her family.
Not that they believed her.
When Winter and I arrived home Friday night, Mrs. Knowles, the twins’ mom, interrogated us about Summer’s absence. But we both maintained a code of silence, not giving away anything of what had transpired in LA. Little did we know the topic was about to become public knowledge.
One housewife recognizing my picture in a magazine Saturday morning was enough for the juicy story to spread like wildfire until the whole neighborhood became versed in my personal life.
And it’s a disaster.
The Knowles still live next door to my family. And while Summer’s mother gave her daughter a tongue-lashing in private—Winter overheard them and told me—she still felt compelled to defend Summer in public. Which resulted in a major argument between her and my mother. The moms’ showdown took place at the annual charity bake sale on Sunday in front of the entire community.
Afterward, Mom kindly thanked me for ruining her favorite event of the year.
So now the neighborhood is split into factions. While no one condones cheating, it’s clear some of my parents’ neighbors believed Jonathan’s version of our breakup. In the article, he depicted me as a workaholic ice queen, while he described himself as a starved-for-affection man who’d made a mistake. The wording made it sound as if he was the victim.
Mom, besides blaming me for the bake sale fiasco, claims all the attention to be impossibly harassing. Personally, I think she loves being in the spotlight, especially since she’s fighting from the moral high ground.
But, honestly, they are all a bunch of old gossips who have never enjoyed themselves more. They revel in the scandal, and everyone likes to play at devil’s advocate and give their two cents—to me, unfortunately.
The mayhem of these two days makes me reconsider my decision of stopping Christian from blocking the story. But I stand by my choice; the idea of Johnathan getting money from my boyfriend remains more disturbing than the scandal.
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 12
