I’m not sure how being blinded by flashbulbs is supposed to be fun, but three steps onto the red carpet, I have a new appreciation for Greyson’s calm under pressure. He smiles at everyone and doesn’t seem fazed by the death grip I have on his arm when my hand moves to his elbow. I attempt a smile, but I’m not sure if it takes until Greyson’s lips brush my hair and he says, “The woman coming up is with one of the big radio stations, and if you want to practice saying something, she’s probably the nicest person here tonight.”
My smile is all relief. I can talk to the nicest person here. Can’t I? Either way, I’m about to find out as Greyson steers us her way. Little Miss Nice is older—I see telltale creases in the make-up around her eyes—and she wears a short white coat that looks very similar to the one I almost bought in the Marks & Spencer winter sale. She puts a hand on Greyson’s arm and says, “Greyson Vaughn. You’re one of the investors in tonight’s film, am I right?”
Greyson nods. “I am, Katie, and if I may say so it’s an amazing film. I hope you’re coming inside to watch?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Katie looks sincere. “So give me a thirty-second sound bite about what makes Forgetting Ali memorable.”
Greyson smiles at her pun. “Ali, played by Tabitha Fuller, is from the wrong side of town, her father owns an off license, and she spends all of her time working or in school. She’s desperate to escape the kind of life her parents have—they work seven days a week and seldom take time off—but the irony is that she works too much to really excel in school, which makes her feel even more desperate. Then she meets Zeke’s character. He’s rich and has wealthy friends. He takes her to parties all over London, showing her what life is like on the so-called other side of the tracks, and Ali’s desperate to fit into this life. But at what cost?”
Katie’s mouth hangs open. “That’s all you’re going to give me?”
“Hey, you said you were going to come in and see the film. I don’t want to ruin it for you.” Greyson laughs.
Katie rolls her eyes and turns to me. “Can you believe him? I hope you don’t stand for this type of behavior.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Of course not, although he won’t tell me the ending either. I have heard it’s fab, though.”
“I’ve heard that, too.” Katie nods and her smile fades. My stomach clenches in anticipation because here it comes in three, two… “One thing I haven’t heard very much about, though, is Greyson Vaughn’s mystery woman. Would either of you care to elaborate?”
This is my chance and judging by Greyson’s silence, he’s waiting for me to take it. “We’re getting to know each other better and having fun. I’m not sure there’s any more to tell right now.”
Greyson squeezes my hand in the crook of his arm and Katie’s mouth opens like she wants to press further, but suddenly the woman in the red dress is in front of us, her camera crew surrounding us, and Katie’s edged out.
“I couldn’t help overhearing the question on everyone’s mind tonight: who is the mystery woman with Greyson Vaughn?” Red Dress smiles. Her teeth are perfect and they glow against the backdrop of her tan skin. The tan looks one hundred percent real, but her skin is too supple for her to be a regular sun worshipper. Besides, where do you get a tan in England in March?
Greyson squeezes my hand a little harder and says, “Claire, this is Deborah. Deborah, Claire.”
Deborah’s blue eyes fix on me. “Claire, I think I speak for the masses when I say it is very nice to meet you. You do seem to have one smitten suitor here.”
I do? I feel like Greyson’s interested, yes. But smitten? I force a smile. “Thank you. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Before you run off, can you tell us how you met? Everyone likes a good meet-cute story.” Deborah blinds me with her smile again.
I don’t even pretend to answer, but look up at Greyson with what I hope looks like adoration instead of clench-jawed desperation. He grins. “We were introduced by family, believe it or not. And now, Deborah, I hope you’re planning to join us inside? I know I’m biased, but this is a fantastic film. The cast is phenomenal, and I have a feeling you’re really going to like Zeke in this one. He truly becomes the guy you love to hate.”
Deborah nods, but Greyson doesn’t give her a chance to say anything else before steering me away from her. We pause to pose for two more pictures and then we’re at the door to the theatre, being held open by a very good-looking man in a suit. Greyson turns one more time to wave at the cameras and we step inside, the doors shutting swiftly behind us.
My shoulders sag and I look for a chair or a bench. Anything to catch me when I fall from the ways my knees wobble. The stilettos Jivika insisted I wear aren’t doing me any favors and the only thing keeping me upright is my death grip on Greyson’s arm.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
I shake my head. “That was terrifying.”
Greyson leads me to a small room curtained off from the lobby. Unfortunately, I catch a glimpse of what lies beyond the curtain. All the people from the red carpet, plus at least one hundred others, sipping fizz, talking, and laughing like this is the best night of their lives.
Which it is. Of course it is. I only have to think of Jivika to realize that. This is her big break. Or it could be, if all goes well. “Why did I agree to this?” I turn to Greyson, shaking my arm free. “This isn’t a game. There are people’s livelihoods at stake here. Hell, even your livelihood is at stake. But I’m here as a conversation piece? What the fuck are we playing at?”
Greyson stares at me wide-eyed for a handful of breaths before laughing so loud the buzz in the next room quiets. He throws an arm around me and says, “Jesus, Claire. You are priceless. Please, never change.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re incredible. I truly mean that. This thing,” Greyson waves his arms between us, still smiling, “started as a publicity stunt, but now that actual publicity is involved, you’re completely offended.”
Because even though you invited me here to appease the photographers, in the end you asked me here as your date, so I thought the publicity didn’t matter.
More the fool, I.
The words climb up my throat like bile, burning and desperate to spew all over Greyson’s black jacket. I swallow three times before I trust myself to speak and when I do, my voice is hoarse, my smile plastered on. “Momentary lapse of reason, I guess. Shall we join the party? I want to wish Jivika good luck.”
I push the curtain without waiting for Greyson’s reply and he follows, his hand finding my back as we make our way through the crowd. Once I would have equated the warmth of his hand against my skin with desire, but now with the cold metal ball in my stomach such a stark contrast, it feels more like stupidity.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Things I remember about my first (and likely only) film premiere: the film was good. The fizz was better. At some point in the evening, I danced with Greyson, who is a very good dancer. I also danced with Zeke Jones, who isn’t.
Somehow I got back to Greyson’s flat, undressed, and into bed. I don’t remember this, but I can assume when I pry my eyelids open and see the sliver of light through the curtains. I turn my head gingerly. The pillow next to mine is untouched, the duvet unruffled. Assumption number two: I slept alone.
A glass of water sits on the bedside table and I reach for it. My mouth feels like I spent the evening chewing tennis balls. Even my jaw feels tender. But, whoa, sitting up does me no favors. My stomach roils and I have to close my eyes to stop the sudden spin the room takes. I keep my eyes closed and swallow the cool water. It takes a good amount of self-control not to gulp it all down, but I swallow half of it before opening my eyes and setting the glass back on the table.
I let myself look around the room. My dress hangs in an open wardrobe and my battered suitcase lies open on the floor nearby. I didn’t come back to Greyson’s after I left with Jivika, so he must be the one wh
o hung up my little black dress I brought just in case. He also put my toiletry case on top of the antique-looking dresser, and from here it looks like all of the zippers are still closed.
I glance down at the T-shirt I’m wearing. San Francisco Giants? Definitely not mine. And the cut-off sweats aren’t mine either. Which makes my stomach churn again. Did Greyson undress me? Or did he just lend me something to wear? And bloody hell, why don’t I remember?
I force a deep breath through my mouth and then another. I’m not going to get any answers sitting here in bed, which means I have to go find Greyson and find out how awful I was last night. I wonder if he hates me or if he simply doesn’t care. I wonder which one would be worse.
From what I do remember of last night, Greyson was…nice. Attentive, considerate, all around pleasant. He introduced me to people, got me drinks, and smiled when I spoke. But the spark I thought we had was nonexistent. He was more engaged with Jivika than with me, and they sure as hell have more in common. When we sat down to dinner at the after party, they spoke at least twice as much as we did, leaving me to alternate between stilted conversation with one of the supporting actors—Mark? Matt?—and focus on my fizz.
Hence the headache. By the time dinner ended and Greyson grabbed me for a final photo op, I was well on my way to being trolleyed. Not on purpose, but by the time I realized, the food had been cleared and the damage was at least seventy-five percent done.
I reach for my phone on the bedside table. Greyson was kind enough to silence the ringer for me, which is good because the first text from Scarlett came through at 8:15.
Look at you all over the Metro this morning. Looking lovely.
Text number two from Scarlett at 10:03: I hope the fact I haven’t heard from you yet means you’re still in bed? Also, are we meeting today? If so, I need to start the wheels rolling to get out of here. I’m thinking stomach bug.
I can’t face Scarlett. Even the thought of speaking to her exhausts me. I text her back: Absolutely knackered. Save your stomach bug for another time.
The next text is from my Castle Calder roommate last summer, Bea, at 10:40, which is 5:40 Atlanta time: Saw you on TV at the gym. Why am I finding out from Entertainment News Today that you’re dating Greyson Vaughn????
According to my phone, it’s 10:49, which means Bea’s text came through less than ten minutes ago. I start to text her back, but typos overwhelm me pretty quickly and I phone her instead. She answers, breathing hard. “Hey. Spill. I’ve got ninety more seconds to sprint.”
Bea’s easier to talk to than Scarlett in a lot of ways, a realization that made me feel guilty last summer when we were all at Castle Calder, but doesn’t anymore. Not because of any grand revelation, but because I’ve finally admitted talking to Bea is simply less work. The end result is we don’t talk as much as we could because of the time difference, but we still manage to check in regularly. I’ve caught her at the gym before and I know the drill. “I went to a premiere with Greyson Vaughn last night, but I wouldn’t say we’re dating. We met last weekend at Castle Calder and I agreed to pretend to be his girlfriend. Long story, but point is we had a super hot snog and I thought something was sort of happening between us. Then last night was weird, I ended up drinking too much because I felt awkward as hell, and I just woke up in a bed in his flat by myself dressed in his T-shirt.”
“Ten more seconds,” Bea manages between pants.
“He was really nice and in a lot of ways it was a nice evening.”
“But nice,” Bea gasps. I hear a beep and the slowing of the treadmill in the background. “Is bullshit.”
“We had this whole texting/sexting thing going on when I was in Bath and it got pretty hot, so to dial it down to nice feels like taking the piss, you know?” I close my eyes again because saying it out loud isn’t doing wonders for my stomach.
“How were things when you saw him before the event?” Bea’s breathing is more even now.
“Nonexistent. I saw him for, like, six seconds. Enough time to say hello and that’s it.”
“And how was that?”
“Good. Better than good, honestly.” If I were feeling better, I’d let myself remember the thrill of that kiss, but my stomach can’t take it.
“Okay. Maybe it was weird because he was at work?” The whirring of the treadmill stops in the background. “Jasper acts like a different person when he’s in work mode. I’ve gone to a couple of functions with him at the university and it’s always weird.”
“Maybe that’s because Jaz is weird already?” I laugh softly. I’ve known Scarlett’s brother since I started working at Castle Calder and he’s lovely, but there’s no denying he’s an odd one. “Kidding, not kidding.”
“He is, but I’m working on it, I promise.” Bea laughs, too. One of the many reasons I love her– she doesn’t take herself too seriously. “But this guy doesn’t strike me as Jasper weird. Before you write him off, you need to talk to him.”
“And say what? ‘Last night didn’t really go as I expected and I wondered if it was because you were treating it like a work do instead of a date?’”
“That’s a start.” Bea lowers her voice. “Besides, how many girls would kill to be in your spot? You at least owe it to the rest of the female population to ask the question.”
I laugh again, a little louder this time, even though it hurts my head. “Take one for the team?”
“Exactly.” Bea laughs.
“Fine. Maybe.” I continue before Bea can press the topic. “How’s everything with you? Are you coming over here anytime soon?”
“I don’t know. Originally I was thinking of coming back for the summer because working in the kitchen with Lou beats teaching summer school math, but Jasper’s been offered an extension on his research grant and it’d be strange to be at Castle Calder without him. We might try to come back for Christmas,” Bea says.
“That’s so far away.” I pout, even though she can’t see me.
“I know, but aren’t you meeting me in New York once you graduate?” I hear the sound of a hairdryer in the background. Bea must have gone into the changing room.
“I’m going to try.” I think of the payment from Michael that Greyson insisted upon. “I’ll keep you posted because Christmas is way too long.”
“Who knows? Maybe we can do a couples thing in New York?” Bea laughs and, before I can say anything, adds, “And on that note, I have to go. I have some molding young minds to do. My ninth graders are learning algebraic equations.”
“Make sure you learn them real good.” I attempt a Southern drawl, but it’s awful. In my normal voice, I continue. “And thank you for your input. You’re a star.”
“Well, I’m not the only one.” Bea stops and lets her words sink in because, of course, Greyson is a star and for the first time since we’ve been talking, I realize she’s not mentioned him by name.
“And that is why I love you.”
“Well, that and my flawless dance moves.” Bea laughs. “Okay, I’ve really got to go. Go talk to that man of yours and report back.”
Before I can respond, the line goes dead and I let my head rest against the padded headboard. Maybe Bea is right. Maybe Greyson was acting weird because, despite the glamour of last night’s event, it was still a work do for him. Which means I could have thrown a huge spanner in the works by getting drunk.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Bloody hell, there goes my stomach. I’d feel so much better if I could throw up, but I never do. I take a few tentative steps towards the en suite to use the loo and brush my teeth. The toothbrush on the back of my tongue brings back that gagging feeling, but it’s not enough to push me over the edge. I splash water on my face and head for the door. Maybe eating humble pie with Greyson will do the trick.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When I get downstairs, I smell coffee and bacon, but Greyson is nowhere to be seen. There’s a glass on the coffee table and a hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, but no sign of the
man himself. Then I hear a telltale flush.
I scurry into the small kitchen so I won’t be directly in front of the door, and I have to lean against the counter because my body is barely up to movement, let alone speed. I open the fridge and pretend to examine the contents, but there could be an elephant in there for all I know. All of my attention is focused on Greyson’s movements behind me and I can tell the exact second he realizes I’m there because he stops everything. I’m not even sure he’s breathing.
“Hey, you’re up.” His tone gives away nothing. Of course.
I nod and my brain wobbles around my head again. I wait for it to stop before turning around. Greyson’s wearing a San Francisco Giants T-shirt—different from the one I have on—and a pair of sweats, but I swear he looks better than he did last night in a tux. His hair is messy and stubble dots his cheeks beneath his… “You wear glasses?”
His lips turn up a little. “Sometimes. I need them when my eyes are really tired.”
I listen for judgment or frustration, but he could be talking about the weather. Granted, not the British weather because it’s rubbish, which makes it a great topic of conversation, but maybe the constant sunshine in L.A. I almost nod, then remember how that worked out a minute ago and settle for widening my eyes. “They look good on you.” I don’t wait for him to respond. If we get caught up in some inane conversation, the moment will pass or I’ll throw up and either way is a lost opportunity if Bea’s right. “I’m sorry if I was a train wreck last night. I hope I didn’t ruin the evening.”
Greyson shakes his head. “You didn’t. You weren’t any worse off than anyone else, to be honest. By the end of the night, most of the cast was hammered.”
His tone is still carefully neutral, but I sense the slightest crack. “Were you?”
“No. I don’t drink at industry events.” And bang. There’s Bea proven right.
A Brit Unexpected (Castle Calder Book 2) Page 14
