by Lauren Layne
He doesn’t. Instead he looks embarrassed, maybe a little vulnerable, at having shared something that’s not part of his public persona.
I bite my lip, realizing I’ll need to give back a little. “My mom’s a hot mess. Like a fifty-year-old kid. She drinks too much sometimes, but then she’ll go really far the other way, get rid of all the booze, and buy a four-hundred-dollar juicer. Or go into debt because she wants to go on a yoga retreat in Bali. She can’t hold a job for more than six months, but according to her, it’s never her fault. And I love her to death, I do. I love her free spirit, but sometimes I wish she just understood the concept of accountability a little bit better….”
I break off when I realize that instead of giving back a little, I just laid thirty years of baggage at his feet. And I know from experience that guys do not dig this sort of information. Whenever I tried to talk to Sean about my mom, he’d shrug and say things like “Family’s complicated, babe.”
He was right—family is complicated, and everyone has a family member who makes them pull their hair out. But my mom’s my only family member, and sometimes I’m too scared to admit, even to myself, that if I don’t have her to lean on—and most of the time I don’t—I don’t have anyone.
Marjorie, yes, but good a friend as she is, she’s got her own family, you know? Her husband and her baby, and four siblings, and two parents…
Wow, okay, I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I have a strict rule with myself not to go there.
“No dad in the picture?” Gage asks.
I’m glad my sunglasses hide my surprise. I’d expect him to try to move the topic on to something less…intense. But he sounds genuinely interested, as though it matters. As though I matter.
“Nah, he bailed the second my mom told him she was pregnant.”
“You never wanted to track him down?”
I shrug. “There were a few times in junior high when money was really tight and I was sick of eating canned chili for dinner. And I let myself think, Damn, that child support check would come in handy right now. But then I remembered that a father who didn’t want to be a father wasn’t much of a dad at all.”
“I guess. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a shitty piece of shit.”
I laugh. “Totally. Okay, your turn to spill the sad story. Want to hold hands? Make it easier?” I purposely keep my tone joking, thinking it might make it easier for him if we can keep it light. But he surprises me by taking my hand, linking my fingers with his.
“I met Layla when we were twelve. I was in lust, but she was shy, so we didn’t start dating until we were sixteen, and became inseparable. Went to the same college, talked about getting married, having babies, the whole works. We were on the same page about everything except the location. I was thinking L.A., she was thinking Providence. The same neighborhood we’d grown up in, our kids going to the same schools we’d gone to…”
He falls silent for a moment, his hand tightening on mine. “She knew I wanted to be an actor, though. That’s the thing. It’s not like I blindsided her with ‘By the way, babe, I’m heading to Hollywood.’ ”
“She didn’t want to go?” I ask.
“Nah. Wouldn’t even consider it,” he said quietly. “She had her dreams too, and they involved suburbia, not dressing for Oscar parties.”
I try to figure out what to say, and settle for simple and obvious: “That sucks.”
Gage laughs. “It does. Sucked even more when my brother moved in, offered her what I couldn’t. I found out they were dating the same day my agent told me I got the Killboy role. Bittersweet doesn’t even come close to describing it.”
I squeeze his hand. “Her loss. Really.”
“Uh-huh.” He changes into the right lane. “Says the girl who hates Hollywood every bit as much as Layla did.”
Damn. He’s right. I haven’t exactly been supportive of the whole actor-business thing. To be honest, it didn’t really occur to me that for Gage, being an actor is his dream. Just like running my own business, on my terms, is my dream.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t marry your brother,” I say lightly.
He lets out a real laugh. “Too true. Nor did you have his baby.”
I wince. He’s uncle to his brother and ex’s son or daughter? The poor guy. “That’s ice cold.”
He grins, and I’m relieved to see it’s genuine. “What do you say we don’t spend another second of this day thinking of the real world?”
“Deal,” I say. “Where are you taking me?”
“Right here,” he says, slowing down and pulling into a turn lane.
My eyes go wide as I realize where we are. “The Four Seasons?” It comes out as a squeak, and I lift my hands, trying to smooth my crazy damp hair.
Gage climbs out of the car, not the least bit concerned about the fact that he’s wearing only wet swim trunks. He tosses the valet the keys, then goes to the trunk, where he pulls a rumpled shirt out of a bag and yanks it over his head.
I’m still trying to tame my hair when the valet opens the car door for me. I want to stay put. I’m not fancy enough for this place. I’ll stand out like a sore thumb. I can’t…
Gage appears, having added a baseball cap to his ensemble, and takes the valet’s place, offering me a hand.
When I don’t take it, he sighs and steps forward, bending down until he’s leaning over me. He’s so close, and he smells like sunshine and salt water, his body big, his breath warm. For a moment I think—I hope—that he’s going to kiss me.
Instead he unbuckles my seatbelt and easily hauls me to my feet.
I tug at my shirt in panic, hyperaware that I’m wearing only the bikini bottoms and no pants. “Gage, I can’t wear this in there.”
“Of course you can, darling. That’s a High Tee shirt, is it not? You’ll be the finest-dressed woman in the establishment.”
I smile a little at that. “On top, yes.”
He glances down, lifting his sunglasses slightly as his gaze lingers on my legs, bare except for the black swimsuit bottoms, flip-flops, and dried sand.
“For the record, I’m in favor of this outfit. But if you’re going to be a prude about it, don’t you have shorts in your bag?”
“Paisley left the sunscreen bottle open. There’s white creamy crap all over them.”
He smiles and puts back his sunglasses. “So many jizz jokes. All right, fine, stay here.”
Gage turns and walks away without another word, and my mouth drops open. What am I supposed to do, just stand here by the car and—
A moment later, a woman dressed in a tidy skirt and white polo emerges from the lobby, holding a cocktail on a tray. She walks right toward me with a friendly smile. “Mai tai?”
Oh God, yes. Alcohol to numb the embarrassment at my frumpy state at a famed five-star resort.
I accept the drink with thanks and a smile, and try to look relaxed, as though I belong here. So far everyone seems to be pretending I do. The woman didn’t give me the stink eye. The valets are keeping a polite distance…
I have another sip of my drink and am fiddling with the umbrella when Gage comes out, shopping bag in hand.
He hands me the bag, takes my drink as he does so, and guzzles a third of it as he waits for me to open the bag.
I pull out a short aqua-colored skirt that’s surprisingly cute considering a guy picked it out.
“Girl in the gift shop chose it,” he says.
Oh. Well, that answers that.
“I told her you didn’t want your buns hanging out while we checked in.”
“And I’m sure she was only too happy to help out the Gage Barrett,” I say as I step into the skirt and wiggle it up.
He hands me the drink back, then tugs off the tag before I can see the price. Probably a good thing, I doubt the gift shop at the Maui Four Seasons is in my price range.
“Not Gage,” he says as he offers his hand to me.
“What?” I ask, taking it on instinct, letting him propel me toward th
e lobby.
“For the next twenty-four hours, I’m not Gage Barrett.”
“Can I still be Ellie?”
He smiles but doesn’t reply as we approach the hotel reception.
A tall, thin man with a polite, upper-crust smile greets us. “Good afternoon and welcome to the Four Seasons. I’m Ivan, and am delighted to have you.”
A moment later, I realize what Gage was prattling on about. He checks us in under the name of Gus Belvedere, and when I wait for Ivan to bust his ass when his credit card and ID don’t match, it doesn’t happen. He’s done this before—checked in under another name. I’ve always assumed that was an urban legend about celebrities with fake names, but I guess it makes sense. In their world, there’s probably no better relief than anonymity.
“Here you are, Mr. Belvedere,” Ivan says, sliding us an envelope with two key cards. “Shall I have a team member escort you to the Presidential Suite?”
“No, thanks. I know where it is,” Gage says with a smile as he takes the keys.
“Of course. Anything else you need, just let us know.”
“Actually, yeah,” Gage says with a smile. “This trip is a bit impromptu. My friend and I are lacking, well…everything.”
“Of course,” Ivan murmurs, pulling out a notepad and pen. “I’ll give the lady a moment to think of everything she might need. Write it down here, and just call when you need our team to take care of it.”
“Very good, thanks,” Gage says, picking up the paper and handing it to me. “Oh, and Ivan?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Anyone calls, I’m not here.”
“Of course not.”
Too overwhelmed to do anything else, I let Gage lead me toward the elevators.
“Gage, this is way too much. I can’t let you—”
He ushers me into the elevator. Then, nudging me gently toward the back, he sets one hand next to my head and leans down with a teasing smile, pulling off his sunglasses and flipping his cap around backward, so the bill doesn’t hit me in the forehead. A disguise, I realize. It wouldn’t fool anybody who was looking for him, but the hat and the glasses are enough to keep casual observers from recognizing him.
“Would you just shut up,” he murmurs. “For once.”
“We can’t do this. They’ll be looking for us, and our contracts specifically state—”
He plants a hard kiss against my mouth. “Fuck the contracts. Fuck the show. Just for tonight, let me show you the other side of dating someone famous. The good side.”
The elevator comes to a stop, and he walks backward to pull me onto our floor, but doesn’t break eye contact.
“You in?” he asks.
There’s only one answer, really. Not when Gage Barrett asks you to spend the night with him in the fanciest hotel you’ve ever seen.
But when I nod and smile, when I feel my stomach flutter at his answering smile, I realize I’ve got it wrong.
I’m not here with Gage Barrett because he’s Gage Barrett.
I’m here because he’s him—he’s funny and sweet and cocky, and…
Oh, damn it. Damn it, Ellie.
I’m here because I’m a little bit in love with him.
Ellie
I can’t help the groan as I lower myself into the bath. “Are you kidding me?”
Heaven. That’s where Gage has transported me to. I slowly sink until I’m chin deep in the gardenia-scented bubbles that feel like champagne and silk against my skin.
Of all the things I’ve missed while on this godforsaken farce of a show, bubble baths are at the top of the list.
Well, I mean…in addition to that, I miss privacy. My own space. Dignity. My cat. (Did I mention I have a cat? His name is Rosé, but for the record I thought he was a she when I named him. He’s staying with my mom.)
Anyway, where was I?
Right. Bubble baths and how much I love them. Look, I know that’s a pampered-princess thing, but they were a luxury I didn’t even discover until I was twenty-five and moved into my own place for the first time. My mom’s lived in the same house since I was born, and though it technically has a tub, said tub is small, stained, and chipped. Even if the drain would cooperate for a bath, I wouldn’t have wanted to climb in.
So yeah, I’m a late bloomer when it comes to baths, but once I discovered them…oh, baby. There’s just nothing like them.
This, though? This is the bath to ruin all future baths.
The bubbles alone probably cost more than my secondhand Honda, and the tub is three times the size of the one in my apartment. Knowing that an unobstructed view of the Pacific awaits on the other side of the door just completes the paradise.
As does the fact that I’m here with Gage…
My eyes fly open at a knock at the door. Surely he doesn’t—
“Gage!” I shriek as the door opens and he strolls in. He’s ditched the hat altogether, but he’s still wearing the swim trunks and rumpled T-shirt, looking far better in them than he has any right to.
I hurriedly check the situation of my bubbles to make sure everything’s covered, scowling as he grins.
“Some privacy,” I say with as much dignity as I can in my naked, reclining state.
“Hard choices await, Wright. You can have your privacy, or”—he holds up one of the long-stemmed champagne flutes—“you can have the champagne.”
“Unless, of course, you hand me the champagne and then leave. Voilà—I can have both.”
He shakes his head and gives me a sham sad face. “Sorry. I’m afraid the champagne and I come as a unit.”
Oh, come on, who are we fooling? We all know I’m going to say yes to the champagne.
And the man.
He knows it too, because he pulls over a stool from the mirrored vanity and hands me a flute as he sits.
“Everything you dreamed of?” he asks, nodding at the overflowing scented bubbles.
“Even better,” I say, taking a sip of the crisp champagne, then looking at the glass. “This is delicious.”
“This is the Four Seasons. What did you think they were going to bring up?”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Belvedere. I’ve never stayed here before.” Or anyplace remotely like it.
Sean had money—a lot of money, courtesy of his big brain and knack for investing. But in hindsight, he’d been kind of a cheap bastard. Thrifty, he’d called it, but let’s just say that if he ever spent his precious money, it wasn’t on me.
Gage, though, hadn’t hesitated to spend whatever was necessary to make sure I was comfortable. No, not comfortable, pampered.
And yes, he has the money, so why not? But there’s a generosity to him that I wouldn’t have expected. Champagne and strawberries, yes, but also the gift shop skirt, which he bought not to impress but to comfort. It means more than all the chocolate-covered strawberries in the world.
“Best be careful—you’re looking at me as though you like me,” he says, taking a sip of his own champagne.
A few days ago, I would have made a crack that it’d be hard not to like him when he’s just paid for the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in.
But for some reason I don’t want to cheapen anything about this day. Or anything about us.
Instead I steadily meet his eyes. “I do like you.”
Gage’s hand falters just for a second as he sips his champagne, his eyes flickering with something I can’t identify, and it makes me wonder how often he hears it—if he knows that he’s worthy of being liked just for him, not for his name.
A distant knock at the front door of the suite ruins any potential moment, and he hands me his glass. “Be right back.”
A minute late he comes back into the bathroom. “Stuff’s here.”
I shake my head. “Only you could manage to get hotel staffers to go on a hunt for underwear and hair gel.”
“Speaking of which, I hope you like lace,” he says, retrieving his champagne glass.
“I don’t recall specifying my underw
ear needs.” It had been mortifying enough to put them on the list at all, but it was that or change back into my swimsuit.
“You didn’t,” he says with a grin. “I amended your list.”
“Really?” I say dryly. “Will I still be getting clean clothes, or did you amend that bit as well?”
“I embellished that section a bit.”
“How—”
My question breaks off as he sets his glass on the vanity and peels his T-shirt over his head.
It’s certainly not the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt, but it’s the first time when it’s just us—when I have him all to myself.
His thumbs hook into the swim trunks, and I sit up with a shriek. “What are you doing?”
Gage’s hands still, his eyes darken, and he bites his bottom lip, which is just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Especially when I realize what’s got his attention.
Upon sitting up, I’ve lost the cover of the bubbles, and now there’s nothing but a film of sudsy water to shield my upper body from his gaze.
My first urge is to cover myself. My second urge, though…I take a slow, deliberate sip of my champagne, waiting until his eyes return to mine.
The second they do, I feel a punch in my gut, a throbbing between my legs. I don’t have to look down to know my nipples are hardening, and I’m pretty sure he’s aware of it too.
The mood’s shifted, still teasing, but seductive instead of playful, the air thick with want.
He proves it when he slowly lowers his swim trunks, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of naked, aroused Gage Barrett.
I take a sip of my champagne, but that only seems to make it worse. I don’t want the champagne. I want him.
“You know, that’s actually a two-person tub,” he says, picking up his glass and giving me a leisurely once-over.
“Is it?” I ask, my voice a little raspy.
Gage lifts his eyebrows in a question. He’s unabashedly naked, unabashedly hard, and I realize he’s waiting. Making sure that I’m sure.
In response, I scoot toward the back of the tub, pulling my knees up to make room.
