I Loved You First

by Suzanne Enoch

  It was definitely a weird life, and however much she enjoyed the acting, the slipping into other people’s heads and other people’s lives, she wasn’t entirely convinced she was cut out for all of it. Actors were supposed to be extroverts, feeding on the energy of their audience. Public appearances, though, made her nervous as hell. Who were these strangers expecting to meet? Tori from Primitive, capable of escaping jungle plane crashes with Daniel Craig? Jen from Mating Dance, who went to Hallmark stores to cry over the sympathy cards? She certainly had next to nothing in common with either of them, except for Jen’s dislike of tuna.

  Well, this was getting her nowhere. Cafferty—Brian—would be back soon, and she would ask him for some small talk like he’d excelled at the first time they’d met. Then she would feel safe again, and calm, and tomorrow would make much more sense than today had. And she would stop remembering what a good kisser he was, because that didn’t help anything.

  4

  The pickings at CVS as far as deodorants and toothpastes were concerned was exceptional. Their selection of clothing, though, had Brian wondering if he could purchase a dozen emergency sewing kits and throw something together using all those frilly pillows and curtains back at the B and B.

  El had thanked him for performing another rescue. She was always polite and genuinely grateful, which definitely set her apart from some of her fellow A-list coworkers. He hadn’t fallen for her five years ago because she was polite, though. Eleanor Ross, unlike some of the characters she played, was kind, generous, whip-crack smart, and funny to boot. She knew exactly what kind of odd, wildly unpredictable career she’d chosen and delighted in both its flaws and its surprises.

  At the same time, she frustrated the hell out of him. When had learning someone’s likes and dislikes and attempting to see that person happy come to mean that he was—how had she put it—too intuitive? “Intuitive” hadn’t been what she meant. No, she’d meant that he was some sort of weird spy going through her underwear drawer to discover all her secrets and then using them to woo her. As if understanding her automatically made him wrong for her.

  Had he gone overboard with making sure she was happy? Maybe. But then when they’d first met she’d been fleeing fans who’d been so rabid at seeing her trapped on the street they’d scared him a little. It had been like a horde of zombies yelling “Eleanor” instead of “brains.” She’d been shaken, and he didn’t want to see her that way again, especially after they’d begun dating.

  But after she’d called off their engagement, she’d unfailingly gone for pretty, confident asshats who only noticed that other people existed because those people went to the movies and made them money. Rod the Bod was only the latest of them, and yeah, probably the worst. Nice guys seemed to be stuck in last place in Eleanor’s world.

  Brian parked the Jeep outside the Starlight and grabbed the pair of bags he’d filled with the best of the crap available after midnight. As an employee, he was supposed to keep her happy. And she felt comfortable with that arrangement because she was paying him to be nice. And he stuck around because… Because he still loved her. Yep, he was an idiot. A hopeless one.

  What was the saying about insanity? Repeating the same action over and over and expecting a different outcome? He tried not to be an idiot, but taking action meant taking a chance. She’d fired him before when he’d tried pushing her a little toward things that made her uncomfortable. Until now, she’d hired him back, and he’d been grateful to have more time in her company.

  Was that enough, though? Holding her car door and buying deodorant, keeping her calendar and watching her go out with losers who wouldn’t try getting inside her head because they were too concerned with their own egos?

  Brian blew out his breath, locked the Jeep, and climbed the trio of steps to the front door. In a way he was fortunate—he had three choices, after all. Status quo, which was silent torture but meant he could still see her daily; quitting before she fired him this time and going back to the firm and finding someone else; or being who he truly was, not putting up with her shit, and risking her turning him away for good this time.

  Yeah, it was probably really bad timing, but sitting back and watching her find someone else, someone who wouldn’t challenge her or expect anything more from her than a pretty picture for the cover of The Inquirer was worse.

  “Okay,” he muttered, using his key card on the front door of the Starlight, “no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

  He climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, because even if he was finished with being nice, he’d still been raised to be polite. Without the noise of televisions, the place felt practically Amish. That could be really fortunate, though, as long as none of the guests used Twitter or Instagram or Facebook. They might not know what had happened. Hell, they might not know who El was, though the proprietor Phillip had seemed to recognize her.

  The room he shared with Eleanor was dark when he slipped inside. Halfway across the floor, he bumped his shin on the edge of the coffee table. “Fuck.”

  “Cafferty?” Her voice came from the direction of the giant bed. A moment later the nightstand light went on, the brightness searing into his brain.

  “I have supplies,” he said unnecessarily, hefting the bags. “Not much in the way of fashion, but they’re clean.”

  She’d shed her slacks and T-shirt and lay beneath the covers presumably in just her bra and underwear. “Thank you for doing that. I put one of the bed pillows on the couch for you.”

  Brian cocked his head. Do it, he ordered himself. “What happened to you taking the couch or the rollaway bed or whatever they have?” he asked aloud.

  “I was stressed out,” she returned, propping her head up on one arm and looking very comfortable. “I didn’t want to keep driving around looking for someplace safe.”

  “Well, you’re not stressed out now, but I’m still six-two. I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

  At that, she sat up. “My business is paying for this room.”

  “I’m paying for the room, as per our usual secrecy procedures. And I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

  Whether this was the ideal approach or not, it helped that he was tired, worried, and still kind of pissed off that she’d ignored his advice about Rod Bannon. Anyway, he’d drawn his line in the sand, and he was okay with that. Sleeping on that unicorn-barf couch would give him nightmares.

  “I don’t like this,” El stated. “I’m the boss. I get the bed.”

  “I’m not the one whose phone had the photos on it. I am the one who was off work for the night and then had to drive downtown, bribe a boutique lady and a hostess, and then flee with nothing but the clothes on my back. And I’m still too tall for the couch.”

  For a long moment she glared at him. “Fine,” she finally snapped, flinging off the covers and standing. “You take the bed.”

  “Thank you.” He tossed her a bag, partly so he wouldn’t stand there staring at her in her cute pink bra and matching panties. “There’s toothpaste, deodorant, a pair of sweatpants, and a Hello Kitty T-shirt that might fit you. I’m going to take a shower.”

  “I—Fine. I’m going to sleep. Don’t wake me up.”

  She hauled a blanket off the bed and dragged it over to the couch, then punched the pillow there a couple of times so he’d know she wasn’t happy with the arrangement. But she hadn’t threatened to fire him, and she’d given ground. It might mean something, but then again, she’d had a really bad evening and might be averse to losing an ally. And maybe he wasn’t above using that against her tonight.

  Or maybe they were both just tired and cranky, and tomorrow they’d both fall back into their old, comfortable roles. Brian regarded himself in the bathroom mirror as he shed his T-shirt. No, he didn’t think that would be happening. Things had shifted tonight, and he wasn’t going to let them shift back, whatever the consequences.

  El in ordered isolation didn’t happen very often. And nobody but him with her? Even more rare. Which made it literally now or
never. And never was too damned far away.

  Eleanor awoke from a dream that she was taking orders at McDonald’s for some customers who wanted everything custom, and that she was doing it while wearing her awesome superhero outfit—except that everybody behind the counter was wearing an identical uniform.

  For a moment she blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to remember where she was. Not Brussels yet. Maybe not Brussels at all. No, she was a couple hours north of L.A., sleeping on a psychedelic Victorian couch while Cafferty snored six feet away on the giant, comfy bed.

  She sat up. Yep, there he was, black hair tousled and handsome face relaxed as he snored away. God, he was gorgeous. She wasn’t the only one to tell him that he could find himself starring in Syfy Channel crocodile-versus-anaconda movies without ever taking an acting lesson just because of his looks.

  It hadn’t been his appearance that had appealed to her, though. It had been his kindness and the way he’d known she wasn’t up for talking or being clever the day he rescued her from some really aggressive fans. He’d just…chatted until she’d found her footing again. And he hadn’t hit on her but had just treated her like a normal person. No one had done that for a while.

  He’d done the normal-person thing again last night, though, and she hadn’t appreciated that at all. But fine, if he wanted to be cranky and take the bed out from under her, she could live with that. Whether it had been his job or not, he had rescued her. Really efficiently too.

  The room had blackout curtains behind the frilly burgundy bordering the windows, but she could still see a crack of light along one edge. Sunrise, or close to it on one side or the other. Glancing at Cafferty again and refusing to imagine what it would be like to be there again, lying beside him, she picked up her phone.

  It remained on mute, but she still had nine phone calls and thirty-one messages. Scowling, she hesitated with her finger over the icon before she opened up Twitter. Immediately she wished she hadn’t.

  She was trending. Four times over. #EleanorRoss, #Superheroine, #CostumeMalfunction, and #RossMalfunction. And photos of the costume were just…everywhere. That cat was so far out of the bag it couldn’t even see the bag anymore.

  Okay, she needed to work with what she had, not what she wanted. Clenching her jaw, she started reading through the hashtags. Paramount would be, and so would Machinak and Valenti. According to various musings such as @snowleopard37 and Variety’s @JoeNesco, Prosecutor looked to be approaching its superhero in the right way. Variety even speculated that Teresa Woodward might be a realistic heroine to whom today’s women could relate.

  At least there was some good news, then. Of course the other half of Twitter was full of speculation about whether the notoriously cagey Enrique Vance would leave the project now that the costume had leaked, or if Paramount would pull the plug on its first big-budget superhero film if it was plagued with leaks before cameras had even begun rolling. And of course the Basement Boys were out in force, angry that a stupid girl would be attempting to move focus away from the next Batman and Superman movies, and arguing about how a female’s tensile muscle strength was simply less than that of a man’s, so any male superhero could easily overpower a female one. Jerks who lived in their parents’ basements or not, the Basement Boys were loud and demanded to be listened to.

  “You dove into Twitter, didn’t you?” Brian’s voice came from the bed.

  She looked up. “Four hashtags. Including hashtag Ross Malfunction. I’m a girl and so shouldn’t be attempting to play with the big boys.”

  He put both hands over his face then ran them through his tousled hair. “Oh, God, not the Basement Boys.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, you’re braver than I am, because I’m not even looking at my phone until I’ve had some coffee. What time is it?”

  She closed Twitter to check. “Seven eighteen.”

  “Breakfast is ready, then.”

  Shoving aside the covers, he rolled to his feet. Damn. Wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxers, Brian Cafferty didn’t exactly scream “lawyer.” Beach bum, maybe, one of those guys who surfed from dawn to dusk. Or soccer player, because he just looked…fit. Not with the bulgy pecs actors went for—something to give them the appearance of fitness rather than actually being fit—but just active. Well-toned.

  “What?” he asked, lowering his hands to look at her.

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay.”

  “You look good.”

  His lips curved just a little. “Thanks. So do you. You want the bathroom first?”

  Eleanor shook herself. “Yes. Thanks. I won’t be long. I have no make-up.”

  “I put some lipstick in your bag. It looked close to your color, I think. There’s some eyeliner in there too.”

  And there he went, anticipating her needs again. She picked up the plastic CVS bag and headed into the bathroom. A quick shower, a good toothbrushing, and a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt and blue sweatpants later, she felt a little absurd—and a little more ready to face the day. The lipstick and eyeliner served adequately as warpaint, and if she didn’t feel terribly composed on the inside, at least she looked it on the outside. Kind of.

  “Anybody who takes my photo today is going to make some money,” she commented as she emerged into the bedroom again.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Brian returned, hefting his own bag and moving around her into the bathroom. “You would make these curtains look good.”

  That was probably an exaggeration, because they were hideous in daylight, but she appreciated the compliment. Especially this morning. But a picture of her this morning wouldn’t hurt because of the silly clothes. It would hurt because once a photo of her got out, the press would figure out where she was, and the wagons weren’t circled yet.

  When Brian emerged fifteen minutes later, he wore matching sweatpants and a black T-shirt featuring a unicorn farting a rainbow. She laughed. “Wow.”

  “Just be glad they didn’t have one of these in your size,” he commented, tugging down the front of the shirt and rubbing his palm over the unicorn. “Ready for breakfast?”

  She heaved a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

  He trotted down the stairs in front of her so that she had to hurry or be left behind. Whatever the hell had started with him demanding the bed last night seemed to be over with, or so she’d thought, but as he pulled opened the doors to the big dining room, she abruptly wasn’t so certain.

  “Good morning,” Cafferty said to the room. “I’m Brian, and this is El. We’re in hiding.”

  “Good morning,” a chorus answered, followed by a good dozen pairs of eyes doing double takes as they spied her in the doorway. Great. Anybody who might not know who she was at least knew something weird was going on. In hiding. If he kept this up, she was going to have to…do something.

  “Coffee, El?” a smiling older woman with her purple-streaked gray hair in a ponytail asked.

  “Please. Lots of creamer.”

  “Of course. I’m Joan, Phillip’s wife. You met him last night, yes?”

  “Yes. This is your place?”

  When Brian gestured at her, she frowned. She knew how to make polite chitchat. She just didn’t like it very much. But she fell in behind Joan Eaton, who led her over to a large Keurig setup. Hmm. She’d half expected the coffee pot would be hanging in the large fireplace, rustic fashion.

  “Just pick your brew of choice,” Joan said, pointing at the rack of coffee pods, “pop it in here, and press the middle button since you want to add creamer. And you’ll find that over there.” Turning, she indicated the closest end of the long sideboard, where the coffee accessories led a trail of stacks of pancakes, trays of bacon and sausage, toast, jams, honey, bowls of fresh fruit, and some cannisters of what looked like cereal and granola.

  “Thanks. Everything smells delicious.”

  Joan smiled. “It had better, or we wouldn’t be in business.” The proprietor handed Eleanor a pretty m
ug decorated with hummingbirds and fuchsias. “You can eat in here, or we have some tables out on the patio overlooking the pond. It’s very pretty this morning. Phillip says he spotted our herd of deer an hour or so ago back in the pine trees.”

  Wow. Here there were pancakes and deer and hummingbird coffee cups, while two hours south there would be board meetings and crazy, yelling phone conferences, and probably some serious groveling going on. Groveling she would no doubt have to participate in later. “Thanks,” she said again. “Outside sounds wonderful.”

  Brian was busy gathering food, so she poured herself a cup of coffee, added the creamer and sugar, then headed out through the patio doors to go sit at one of the tables outside.

  The air was crisp, cold by Southern California standards, but for the moment, at least, she liked it. Hollywood felt very insular and bottled-up, especially at times like this, and the Starlight Bed and Breakfast Inn was its exact opposite. Eleanor sipped at her coffee and watched a pair of birds playing tag over the small, reed-rimmed pond.

  Brian set down a coffee cup, a heaping plate of food, and then himself opposite her. “It’s pretty here,” he commented and took a tentative drink of coffee.

  She looked from his plate to the empty spot in front of her. “Did you forget something?”

  Setting down the cup, he picked up his fork. “Don’t think so. Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “But—”

  He took a big bite of pancake. “I’m not your butler, El,” he said around it. “I do the calendar, remember?”

  “You’re not still mad about that, are you? I just didn’t like you sharing your opinion of who I should or shouldn’t be dating. Don’t be a baby.”

  Swallowing, he pinned another bite with his fork. “Fine. No opinions, no fetching. I’m either your secretary, or we’re going to have to make other arrangements. You don’t get it both ways.”