To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4)

by Camilla Isley

  “Immensely so.”

  “Consider it done.”

  I hug her tight, thinking I really don’t deserve this woman. When I try to let her go, Lana pulls me back into a kiss, peace made.

  “So,” she says with a smile. “What is this other incredibly cheesy and soppy present you were talking about?”

  “Ah, it needs a special setting to be delivered properly. You still want to have dinner with me?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then I’ll get the Tesla’s keycard from Penny and we can go.”

  “I have to say.” Lana pats me on the shoulder. “For someone who buys twenty thousand dollar bags, you have a pretty sensible taste in cars.”

  My smile falters.

  To tell her, or not to tell her?

  I decide honesty is the best policy here. “About that.” I run a hand through my hair. “The Tesla might be one of the cars I own.”

  Lana frowns. “How many do you have?”

  I use my cute face as a shield. “It’s double digits.”

  “Ten?” Lana asks, astonished.

  “Uh… try twice that?”

  Her mouth forms the cutest O of surprise. Then she shakes her head in a you’re-impossible way. “What’s your favorite?” she asks.

  “Definitely the Ferrari.”

  “You own a Ferrari?” Her eyes shine.

  “Err, if you want, we could change the ride? Leave the Tesla just for tonight?”

  “Aww.” Lana bites her lower lip. “You’re corrupting all my principles here. It’s hard to resist the seduction.”

  And like the devil I am, I whisper in her ear, “It’d be only this once. It’s your birthday; you deserve to have fun.” She still seems undecided, so I add, “I promise I’ll do something environmentally friendly in return to balance out your transgression.”

  “Like what?”

  “I could challenge all my followers not to use their cars for a day.”

  “And they’d do it?”

  “Not all, but some, for sure.”

  “How many followers do you have?”

  “One hundred thirty-five million…” I don’t even try for faux-modesty. “Give or take.”

  Her jaw drops. “That’s a whole nation, and not even a small one.” I can almost hear the cogs in her brain turning, making calculations. “Even if only one percent accepted your challenge… that’d still be over a million people not driving for an entire day.” And finally, with a big smile, Lana says, “Now I have to try the Ferrari, for the good of the environment.”

  I grin back. “You basically have no choice. I’ll ask Bill to bring it out.”

  Five minutes later we’re standing in the driveway next to the Ferrari. Lana approaches it almost reverentially.

  She wrings her hands nervously. “Would you mind if… I mean, could I have a look inside?”

  The question puzzles me. Aren’t we getting in, like, right now? But I nod and unlock the car for her.

  Lana opens the driver’s door and… I’m startled as her head disappears below the steering column and I’m presented with a view of her behind sticking up in the air. Not that I’m complaining.

  Lana must’ve found what she was looking for, because she straightens up and circles to the front, lifting the hood to then stare at the engine in awe.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asks.

  I come next to her and eye the double black aluminum tubes ending in a red hatch, not sure what to say. So, I guess when an engineer asks you to see the “inside” of a sports car, this is what they mean. Good to know.

  “And you haven’t heard it roar yet,” I tell her.

  Lana throws one last stare at the mechanics, then shuts the hood, saying, “Let’s hear it, then.”

  ***

  The ride is so much more fun in the Ferrari. Lana squeaks with delight every time I speed up, and when I open the convertible roof, she tilts her face up to enjoy the sunlight’s kiss on her skin.

  I’ve never seen her so beautiful: rosy cheeks, head thrown backward, hair flying behind her in a golden-brown halo… I could stare at her for hours. Pity I have to focus on the road instead.

  When we reach our destination—Griffith Observatory—thirty minutes later, it all seems too soon. We get out of the car and stop outside the iconic building to admire the Hollywood sign as the sun sets behind the mountains.

  “I love this place,” Lana says, leaning against the railing. “Best view in the city.”

  I’m glad LA has decided to help make the evening more romantic: the skies are clear, and even the usual pall of smog has magically lifted, leaving us with an unobstructed view all the way to the ocean.

  We kiss and enjoy the panorama a little longer, until Lana asks, “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Dinner first, and then I’ll show you your present.”

  I need the sky to be completely dark before I do.

  “Dinner, here?” She looks around, perplexed. “Hey, it’s quiet today. Usually, the lawns are full of people.”

  “Err… they might be closed to the public on Mondays.”

  “Might, huh?” Lana is smiling in a pretend-reproachful way.

  “And I may or may have not rented the entire place for us.”

  Lana keeps the same mock-scolding expression. “And all for under a hundred dollars. What a deal.”

  “Okay, location costs were not factored into the budget, but I promise your present is dirt cheap.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you what a charmer you are?”

  Laughing, we head toward the entrance, where an attendant is already waiting for us. I asked for the dinner table to be set outside on the upper terrace, and I’m very pleased with the result. The setting couldn’t be any more romantic.

  No wonder Richard proposed here, and no wonder Blair said yes. My best friend is a lucky man. And even if I’m not proposing tonight, I’m still super nervous. Maybe because Lana was so tense earlier and, for the first time, she seemed overwhelmed by my lifestyle.

  But, as the date progresses, Lana visibly relaxes. I charm the tension of the weekend scandal and bag debacle out of her, mercilessly flirting until she goes back to being the smiling, carefree woman I love.

  Did I say “love?”

  Yep.

  Because I do love her. Lana made me fall harder and faster than a teenage boy with his first crush.

  Should I tell her now?

  Better to wait until the real kick of the evening, which comes after dinner.

  Once we’re done eating, a volunteer—a tall, gangly man in his forties with a scholarly look—gives us a private tour of the observatory. The visit, as per my request, ends at one of the high precision telescopes. There, he lectures us about the star systems and the galaxies for a good half hour, until finally, he gets to the good part.

  The man positions the telescope at a particular angle, and says, “Now, Lana, if you could look through the lens, I’d like to show you something special.”

  Lana obliges him and presses her eye close to the small viewing circle. “What am I searching for?”

  “You see the star resting in the center of the constellation? The one sitting a little further apart from the others?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Lana says, eyes still glued to the lenses. “Why?”

  “I present to you: the Christiana.”

  “The what?” Lana straightens up, looking perplexed. Then she catches my gaze and beams brighter than any star I’ve ever seen. “You bought me a star?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I named it for us.”

  Lana throws her arms around my neck and gives me a quick peck on the lips. “It’s the best present ever. I love it.”

  I love you, I think. But still, I don’t say the words out loud. To declare for the first time in front of Mr. Gangly here would be awful. Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Why is it taking me so damn long
to express my feelings?

  Probably because the last person I gave my heart to crushed it without mercy. Or maybe I’m just scared Lana isn’t there yet.

  So, instead, I pull her close into a—wordless—kiss.

  The volunteer tut-tuts behind us, prompting us to break apart, and informs us the tour is over and that we must leave the premises in half an hour. We thank him, say goodbye, and take turns in looking through the telescope.

  “She’s beautiful,” Lana says, referring to the Christiana. “How will I find it again after tonight?”

  I pull out of my jacket the certificate with the celestial address of the star and its constellation.

  “Here are the coordinates,” I say. “And if you download the app, it’ll show you where the star is, no matter where in the world you are.”

  After more star-gazing and kissing, our time at the observatory runs out and we’re forced to leave.

  Lana stops next to the Ferrari instead of immediately getting in. I go to her, and she gathers both my hands into hers, saying, “Thank you for tonight. It’s been magical.”

  I read the unspoken message in her blue eyes: “Thank you for turning a crap birthday into a beautiful evening.”

  As we get into the car and leave for home, I feel like I’m flying.

  Eighteen

  Christian

  Fly too high, and you’ll burn.

  On the drive home, I avoid the shorter but more crowded route through Sunset Boulevard and take the long way up and around the park. But halfway down the hill on Coldwater Canyon Avenue, I notice a black sedan in the rearview mirror getting suspiciously close. I speed up to test my hunch, and the car matches my acceleration, keeping right on our tail.

  I curse under my breath.

  “Is something wrong?” Lana asks.

  “Paps, following us.”

  She turns back to stare at the sedan just as the idiot driving, in a reckless maneuver, pulls up next to us, invading the adjoining lane. The man in the passenger seat snaps a series of photos in quick succession, and they fall back again.

  I’m half-blinded by the repeated flashes, but I keep my eyes on the road, pushing down on the gas to lose the paparazzi. Their ride is no match for the Ferrari. And I didn’t have Sebastian Vettel show me how a Ferrari should be handled at last year’s Grand Prix in Austin for nothing. I should be able to shake them off quickly.

  “Christian,” Lana says, “you’re going too fast.”

  “I’m trying to get rid of them.”

  I cut a turn at a sharp angle and Lana grabs at the passenger door in fear.

  “Slow down!” she half-screams.

  “I can’t,” I say, checking the rearview mirror. The sedan is losing ground, but its headlights are still visible. “The paps are still behind us.”

  “I don’t care,” Lana says, agitated. “You’re driving too fast. Slow down.”

  “I don’t like it when they ambush me like that—”

  “And I don’t like you driving way over the speed limit. Who cares if they take our picture! Let them. Christian, you’re scaring me.”

  A quick glance at the gauges on the dashboard confirms Lana is right; I’m well over the limit. But with the Ferrari, all it takes is a small push. I still want to lose those bastards, but the pleading note in Lana’s voice makes me lift my foot from the gas. Scaring her is something I never want to do.

  She breathes a sigh of relief as the Ferrari loses momentum, and I take the next turn nice and easy.

  Headlights appear in my rearview mirror, getting too close too fast. Those idiots are still racing to catch up with us.

  Are they going to slow down, or what?

  But those lights keep on growing bigger and brighter until they seem to be bearing right into us.

  A fraction of a second passes from the moment I realize they’re going to hit us and when they do, crashing the hood of their sedan against the rear-end of the Ferrari.

  I lose control of the wheel, and we’re pushed off the side of the road. I try to steer the car back up, without success, and our skid only ends when we crash head-on into a tree.

  ***

  I blink, opening my eyes, and for a moment I don’t know where I am or what happened. My neck hurts, everything hurts, and there’s a giant white balloon in my face. I try to straighten up, but something holds me firmly in place… A seatbelt.

  And this thing in my face must be the airbag.

  Lana!

  “Lana,” I call aloud, struggling to get the white fabric out of the way. “Are you okay?”

  She moans next to me.

  With the airbag taking up all the space, I can’t see anything, and it’s impossible to reach across to Lana to check on her.

  In a panic, I unbuckle the seatbelt and struggle with the car door to shove it open. I push, push, push until it gives way, and I tumble out of the seat, collapsing to my knees on the ground. I take two deep breaths of fresh air and then, on unsteady legs, I circle around the car to reach Lana.

  The front of the Ferrari is hugging a tree, the metal of the hood all crumpled like red aluminum foil. The only illumination comes from the car’s headlights that, miraculously, are still working. But the dense steam cloud coming off the engine doesn’t allow me to see through the windshield.

  I need to get Lana out. I hurry around the tree to her side.

  The passenger door is stuck as well; I fight with it until it gives way and tears open.

  “Lana,” I repeat. “Can you hear me?”

  I push the passenger airbag back, away from her face.

  She opens her beautiful eyes and stares at me in confusion for a few long seconds.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  She’s conscious. A breath of relief I didn’t know I’d been holding since I came to my senses leaves my lungs.

  “We were in an accident,” I say. “Are you okay?”

  I watch her turn her neck and wince in pain. “I think so.”

  “Can you move? Can you get out of the car?”

  Lana nods, so I unbuckle the seatbelt for her and help her out of the seat.

  She takes a few wobbly steps, holding on to my arms for support.

  “Are you hurt?” I ask.

  “No, nothing serious.” Then her gaze turns to the edge of the cliff. “What about the other car; are they okay?”

  Give it to Lana to worry about others first.

  Looking up, I’m blinded by the sedan’s headlights. “Looks like they were able to stop on the road.”

  “Good,” Lana says. “Good.”

  She begins trembling in my arms, her wide, panicked eyes searching the night.

  “Good,” she repeats. “Good.”

  The last one comes out in half a sob. My chest tightens at seeing her like this. I try to pull her to me to stop her shaking, but she resists me.

  “I can’t,” she says, taking a few steps backward and stumbling on the underbrush.

  Her chest starts heaving, and the trembling worsens.

  All the signs are there: she’s having a panic attack.

  “It’s okay,” I try to reassure her. “You’re in shock. It’ll pass.”

  “No.” She keeps shaking her head. “I can’t.”

  “Lana, let’s get back to the road. You need to sit down. Everything will be all right.”

  “No, it won’t.” She looks back up the cliff at the other car. “This life,” she says, still breathing heavily. “It’s too much. I—I can’t do it.”

  “Lana, I get it. You’re scared, but nothing happened, really.”

  “Nothing?” she repeats, glaring at me. “A car chased us off the road…” More heavy breaths. “We’re standing in a ditch, alive by a miracle. We could’ve died!”

  “But we didn’t. No one got hurt.” I take a step toward her. “We’re fine.”

  “I’m not fine!” she yells. So I stop. “I don’t know how you do it.” He
r hair is wild, sticking out in all directions, and she’s fumbling her arms like a crazy person. “The constant scrutiny,” she continues, “people following you everywhere you go, everyone asking for a piece of you… always. It’s relentless. I’m not cut out for this.”

  “It was just two idiots trying to make a few quick bucks. I can’t control them.”

  “But you can control how you drive,” Lana fires right back. “The paparazzi wouldn’t have gone so fast if you didn’t try to lose them.”

  “Okay, I made a mistake,” I say, even if I don’t really think what happened here tonight is in any way my fault. “It won’t happen again.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Lana leans against a tree for support. “You said you can’t control what happens.”

  “Like no one can. Car accidents happen every day—”

  “Not to me.” She coughs. “I don’t drive, and especially not in fast sports cars. And I don’t have to run away from every moron with a camera who wants to take my picture.”

  “What do you want me to say? I can’t change who I am.”

  “No, you can’t,” Lana says, her voice carrying the ring of steel. “But neither can I.”

  It’s not the hardness in her tone that punches me right in the solar plexus, but the deep sorrow in her eyes. That’s the look of someone saying goodbye.

  “You’re shaken,” I say, trying to scale back the fight. “We need to burn off the adrenaline. I’ll call Penny, she can come to pick us up, and we can discuss everything at home.”

  “I can’t come with you,” she says, confirming my fears. “Sorry.” Lana breaks out in heavy sobs. “I can’t do this. This life… it’s not for me.” She seems to make the realization as she speaks, like even she is caught by surprise. Eyes wider still, she looks up at me and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t be with you.”

  “Lana, don’t say this,” I plead. “You’re overreacting.”

  “And you’re not listening,” she says as tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m a quiet person. I love my reserved life, teaching my students, reading a novel in my free time… and my idea of an adventure is to hike a new trail in the hills. This”—Lana does a swipe of her arms toward the crashed Ferrari—“this is not me. I tried to pretend it didn’t matter, that I was fine with it because I—”