by Jen Malone
2 late, Pickles. It’s cute. Works for U.
Was he calling me cute? That didn’t make me feel calm or cool and definitely not collected. But still. Not gonna work. I was not a little ball of yarn to his playful kitten. He couldn’t just decide when and where he wanted to get his flirt on.
U coming up here or what? asked my phone.
Mom was reclined with cucumber slices pressed against her eyes to keep puffiness down while flying. I decided I could abandon her in good conscience. I whispered, “Be back” in case she wasn’t fully asleep and scooted past her. When I reached the front, Graham’s twinkling eyes greeted me. It was ridiculous how fast a warm feeling spread across my chest. Don’t be a fangirl, don’t be a fangirl, don’t be a—
My phone buzzed in my hand.
I glanced down to see a text from Graham. Who was three feet away. What the hell?
It said: Strict vocal rest. Melba’s orders, so I’m all recovered 4 London talking. Now SIT.
He folded his legs under him, making space on the couch. I wedged myself into the corner, careful to avoid any contact. I may have been wrong in characterizing it as a couch; it was more like a love seat, and I tried not to be too aware of that.
Movie or talk? read the next text. U talk, I text, came the follow-up before I could respond.
“Okay, this seems kind of weird,” I whispered, conscious of the sleeping passengers, and was rewarded by the megawatt smile that earned him the big bucks. Oh, God help me. It just wasn’t even close to a level playing field. Someone would need superpowers to resist that grin.
I’m good w/ weird. Another killer smile.
“Weird it is,” I told him. “Okay, so speaking of weird, what was with the penny?”
Lucky penny. What’s weird abt it? Are U telling me U don’t have anything like that? he typed. I couldn’t quite figure out where to look while he tapped out letters so I settled for fiddling with my seat belt.
“Yeah, no.”
No superstitions? U don’t believe in magic? Or luck?
“Show me a study that supports them, and I’m on board. Until then . . .”
Don’t tell me. U don’t believe in Bigfoot either, do U? Were U the kid spouting off in k-garten about Santa not being real?
I glanced up from my phone and shrugged. “Preschool. You should have heard the angry phone calls my mother got that December.”
Rough. Tell U what. When we get 2 Venice, I’ll intro U 2 a real-live mermaid. Unless U met Summer @ junket? Did U powder her nose?
He was referring to the actress who played Triton’s love interest.
“Mom said she insisted no one but her personal makeup artist get within ten feet of her,” I told him, and Graham made a face.
Prob b/c she doesn’t want anyone getting close enough 2 verify rumors she’s really 25 and not 21.
“Oh wow. Is she?”
Keep a secret?
I looked up from my screen and into his hazel eyes with a nod. And an involuntary shiver.
Worse. 29. Saw her passport in her trailer 1 day. Plus, she’s got 4 yr old she’s hiding.
“Hiding?” I asked, picturing a poor child locked away in an attic, like those kids in the V. C. Andrews books.
She’s still up 4 teen roles so can’t B prancing around w/ kid. Says daughter is her assistant’s kid & she’s a v nice employer 2 allow child 2 tag along everywhere. But assistant is really nanny.
“That’s crazy. The poor kid. She can’t even acknowledge to anyone that Summer’s her mom? Like at back-to-school night or Girl Scout meetings or anything?”
Graham studied me for a second, then laughed softly. Sorry, just picturing Summer as troop leader. More likely she still fits into her old Brownie uniform.
“Whatever. Your world is messed up.”
No argument here, Graham wrote. U don’t follow Hollywood stuff?
Graham raised his eyebrows and I shrugged. “Not really. I mean, no offense, but it all seems kind of silly to me.”
He cocked his head to the side and studied me. He shifted in his seat and his leg brushed mine, which just about stopped my heart. I tried to make my expression neutral so he wouldn’t notice his effect on me, but thankfully he’d already returned his attention to his phone.
Refreshing, Pickles.
I started to protest the nickname again but his thumbs were flying over his phone’s keyboard. My phone pinged.
K, movie choices. Zombie Invaders I or Zombie Invaders II?
“Gee, too bad you didn’t wake me up earlier, so we could have watched the whole trilogy,” I said, deadpan. Unfortunately, Graham didn’t get my attempt at sarcasm. His face fell.
I woke U up? Sorry!
“No biggie. I wasn’t really that asleep,” I lied. Graham grinned, then reached into his own bag and pulled out an extra set of headphones attached to a splitter. He handed the headphones to me, plugged his own headphones into the other side of the splitter, and connected the jack to his iPad. Then he typed.
Sent hotel guy out for these in case U said yes 2 movie.
Wait.
But that meant he had to have plotted this out while we were still at the Carlton. So while he was busy ignoring me, he was also planning this cozy movie-watching situation. I didn’t— God, this guy was maddening. Why was he so hard to figure out? Why couldn’t we be back in fourth grade so I could pass him a note to clear everything up? Do you like me? Check box A for yes, box B for no. But we weren’t and he wasn’t giving anything up, which meant I sure as hell wasn’t going to let him see how he was making me feel. I gave an easy smile and nod and snuggled down into my seat for the movie, which I had absolutely zero interest in watching.
I may or may not have fallen back asleep. I’m thinking yes, given that my next conscious thought was that my head was resting on Graham’s shoulder and I would now need to strategize a way for him to not notice the small thread of drool connecting my mouth to his sweater. I employed all powers of subtlety to swipe it away before slowly lifting my head. Turns out, I didn’t have to worry—he was crashed out too, with his hand resting gently on my leg. I could feel its warmth through my yoga pants and I couldn’t figure out why something so warm could make me shiver. The cabin lights were still all out, so only the flickering screen from the movie lit his face, but it was enough to make my stomach feel like it was being wrung out like a wet beach towel.
Okay, so you obviously don’t get to be the number one teen star in the world with average looks, but this boy was just about sheer perfection. Asleep, he looked about five years old, all innocent and sweet. His cheekbones melted into soft contours at the base of his face and his lips looked . . . well, there’s no other way to put it. They looked totally kissable. The boy had hit the genetic lottery. The only things missing in sleep were the dancing hazel eyes and the deep dimple in his left cheek when he—
Oh. My. God.
This was not happening. This could not happen. I could not fall for this guy. The boy was a mega movie star and I had no interest in being that clichéd girl. I loved Wynn with all my heart but I could not subscribe to her unrequited crushes. Except there was something about sleeping Graham that was so vulnerable and when he paid attention to me it felt . . . different than with other guys somehow. Like we were really connecting.
And then the plane lurched out of the sky.
Well, slight exaggeration. It did not lurch out of the sky, but it did drop with a jolt that woke Graham. He looked around languidly, while I, on the other hand, scanned the cabin wild-eyed, tugged my seat belt enough to cut off circulation, and waited for the oxygen masks to drop. It took only a second for Graham to assess the situation. More specifically, to assess my terror level.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, breaking his vow of silence.
“Um” was all I could manage.
“Not a flyer?” he ve
ntured. The plane gave another little bounce.
“I don’t think so. I’ve only done it once before.” I clutched the armrest on one side of the couch and wished for something to do with my other hand.
“Seriously?”
“Yup. And that was five days ago.” I tried to strategize preparation for a crash landing.
He gave a low whistle, which earned him a swat on the head from Melba in the row behind us. The drop must have woken everyone. Graham threw his hands up in apology, but didn’t turn around. Instead, he picked up his phone again and bent his head to type.
I’ve flown around the world @ least 4Xs by now. Nothing 2 it. I promise. Take my water & just try for tiny sips in b/w deep breaths. We’ll be on ground soon. OK?
I read his text, but didn’t answer. My mouth was too dry, so I settled for nodding. Graham gave me a sympathetic look and passed me his water bottle. I was momentarily distracted by wondering how much it would command on eBay, but then the plane lurched again and I grabbed Graham’s arm without thinking.
Wordlessly, he extracted my hand from his arm, where my nails were likely leaving marks, and held it gently in his own, his thumb tracing tiny soothing circles in my palm. Okay, so I might be about to die, but I was going to do so holding hands with Graham Cabot. I knew Wynn would consider that a fair trade.
A loud noise from the belly of the plane stiffened my spine with fear.
“It’s okay. It’s just the landing gear coming down,” Graham whispered. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay, I promise.”
I swiveled my head to meet his eyes in the dark cabin. Suddenly, the noise of the engines and the motion of the plane seemed very far away and my terror started to recede as other emotions crowded in. I didn’t break eye contact and neither did Graham. For one endless moment, we stared straight into each other’s eyes and it definitely didn’t feel like I was small-town Annie looking at big-time Graham.
Several heartbeats passed where neither of us moved.
Then, without taking his eyes from mine, Graham adjusted in his seat so that his head tipped slightly closer. His gaze moved away from mine for just the tiniest of seconds to flicker down to my lips and then back. I exhaled lightly and moved infinitesimally nearer. His breath was soft on my cheek.
His eyes moved back down to my lips and stayed there for a long, lazy moment. My stomach started jumping like someone had opened a can of something fizzy in it and it had nothing to do with the plane this time. Graham’s forehead was mere inches from mine and if I moved my face even a fraction of an inch closer we’d be—
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. . . .”
Graham gave a tiny sigh of frustration when the cabin lights assaulted us. He jerked his head and hands away just as Melba appeared over the top of his seat and the captain welcomed us to London. Melba complained about the evils of Heathrow Airport while Graham mimed agreement, but when I caught his eye he met mine with an expression of chagrin. And I think, just maybe, disappointment at the interruption.
Chapter Seven
After the customs officers filed off the plane (nothing like the star treatment), we waited to disembark onto the tarmac.
“I think you have a little bit of . . . what is that? Cucumber?” Graham smirked as he reached up to peel the fleck of green from my mom’s eyebrow, but she swatted his hand away.
“Listen, mister, someday you’ll need your beauty rituals too. Don’t mock.”
Graham pretended to be offended. “I would never do such a thing!” He turned to include me when he said, “Do you want to ride in my limo to the hotel? I think there should be plenty of space.”
I caught his eye and ducked my head, nodding once. Whatever had almost happened in the air was still crackling between us and I wasn’t sure I wanted Mom to pick up on it. Especially not until I figured out what “it” was.
The flight attendant moved aside, leaving the pathway to the door clear, and Graham offered me a hand, most likely just to help me down the narrow steps to the tarmac, except I couldn’t help but read meaning into it. I mean, we’d just had a total moment, right? And in a few minutes we’d be cuddled in the backseat of his limo streaming through the midday streets of London. I glanced at Mom, who was fiddling with her bag, before smiling and placing my hand in his. We stepped off the plane.
And then madness ensued.
“Graham, over here!”
“Graham, this way!”
“Who’s the girl, Graham?”
Photographers were everywhere and the glare of the sun mingled with the flashes of their cameras and left me momentarily blinded. I felt, rather than saw, Graham drop my hand as if I had a communicable disease.
Springing into action, Melba, from her spot one step in front of Graham, yanked the sweater from around her neck and threw it over Graham’s tousled hair, shielding him from the cameras. As soon as they reached the tarmac, Roddy filled in on one side of him and Melba and the studio lackeys wrapped around the other side, cocooning Graham in the center so they could shuffle as one toward the limo parked a short distance away.
None of this stopped the photographers from shouting and clicking, shouting and clicking. They even turned their cameras on Mom and me, while we blinked in confusion at the whole scene. Before the two of us had even descended the last step of the plane, Graham’s limo was pulling away and Mom and I were left with a studio executive who’d stayed behind to take the remaining stretch. A third driver and sedan were waiting in front of the plane to get the luggage.
What the hell had just happened?
I was completely shell-shocked from the harsh contrast between the last few dark and quiet and totally amazing minutes in the plane and the complete craziness of our arrival.
Crap.
Welcome to London, Annie.
As our limo cruised toward the hotel in the city center, I tried to shake off Graham’s abrupt dismissal and enjoy the scenery. Mom’s nose was practically smooshed against her window, but I couldn’t concentrate. Everything had happened so fast and he really didn’t even have time to react. I was sure he didn’t mean to leave me in the dust. But if that was the case, why wasn’t he texting me? The studio had ensured we all had international calling plans, so I knew my phone was working.
To make totally sure, I called Wynn.
She sounded groggy when she answered, “Annie?”
Damn. Forgot about that pesky time difference.
“Hey, you,” I said.
“Where are you? Is everything okay? What time is it? Why are you calling and not texting?”
“Um, sorry for the wake-up call. I forgot it’s still early where you are. I just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
“What do you mean early where I am? Last I checked we share a time zone with New York City.” I could hear in her voice that she was becoming more alert. “And why haven’t you been answering your texts all weekend? You can’t drop a bombshell on me via postcard and then go all radio silent!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I was working the whole weekend and they were taping, so I couldn’t have my cell phone on. By the time I finished I could barely muster the strength to fall into bed and then we had to get up a few hours later and—”
“ANNIE!” Wynn shouted through the phone. The studio exec jerked his head in my direction. I mouthed a “sorry” and ducked my head down to speak more privately.
“What?” I whispered.
“I need to know absolutely EVERYTHING about Graham Cabot. Do you have any idea how much I’ve been DYING since I got your postcard? Dying! Is he just as cute in person? Wait, what am I saying? Of course he is. Have you talked to him yet? Is he to die for? Am I going to get to meet him when I come to LA for Thanksgiving? Oh my God, tell me he’s just a perfect specimen of male.”
“Down, girl,” I said with a laugh, then lowered my voice again. “I can’t really ta
lk about it here. But I owe you a super-long email and I cross my heart, hope to die, promise to write it later when we get settled in at the hotel.”
Talking to Wynn was just exactly what I needed. I pictured her lying across her bed with her legs propped up on her wall and twirling her hair around her fingers. All of a sudden, I was hit with a wave of homesickness for my old life. Where things were simple and predictable and buzz-worthy teen stars didn’t drop your hand when cameras exploded in your face.
“What hotel? Where are you?” Wynn asked, interrupting my daydream.
“I’ll give you a hint. I see lots and lots of red double-decker buses out my window,” I whispered into the phone. The studio exec had slipped out his own cell and was on a call of probably infinitely more importance than mine, considering I caught the words “back-end deal.”
“You’re in LONDON?” Wynn screamed through the phone. The exec covered his mouthpiece and flicked his Prada sunglasses down to glare in my direction.
“Sorry,” I mouthed yet again.
“Wynn, I have to go. But I miss you like crazy. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Aww, I miss you too. And now I guess I’ll get up and plot my exciting day of bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly and maybe even an exhilarating drive over to Maureen’s for a pay-per-view movie tonight. I hope you don’t die of jealousy, given that all you probably have on your schedule is tea with the queen.”
I laughed.
Wynn added, “Maybe we’ll make it a Graham Cabot movie in your honor. Details BETTER be forthcoming. Major details, you hear me?”
I promised to write a novel-length email, conveyed the hi Mom sent her, and hung up as the sparkling River Thames came into view. We crossed over it while, below us, boats waved jaunty Union Jacks. Contrary to the dreary English weather those required-reading Brontë novels went on and on about, the sky above us was cloudless and sun-bleached.
