Runaway Groom

by Lauren Layne

  I tell Ellie to choose, and she alternates between chewing her lip in consideration and musing out loud whether she’s in a “chocolate mood” or a “fruit mood.”

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll order her both. I’d order the whole damn menu if she wanted. But she doesn’t want. The stuff will never be enough for Ellie. Not the five-star resorts, not the lobster entrées, not the whole dessert menu.

  Ellie wants what I can’t give, and the real kicker? I want what she can’t give.

  That truth I wasn’t brave enough to tell Ellie?

  I want someone who wants me in spite of the actor stuff, not because of it. I’m not an idiot. I know that along with the perks of being in a relationship with an actor comes a whole bag of shit. Months spent apart. Walking the red carpet even when you’ve got the flu. Missing birthdays and holidays because a night shoot runs over. Knowing that your significant other has to film a sex scene with a beautiful actress and then having to watch that sex scene at the movie premiere. Strangers demanding selfies when you’re trying to have a date night.

  The list of bullshit is endless. I know that. Layla didn’t want it. Ellie doesn’t want it. I don’t blame them, I get it.

  But once, just once, I want someone I care about to look at the crapshoot that is my life, to take in the Jilted contract and the Killboy movie shoots and the never-ending tabloid rumors and say, “Yeah, that stuff sucks, but Gage is worth it.”

  I want to be worth it.

  Just once.

  Ellie

  Dinner with Gage was both magical and melancholy. So were the sexy times that followed it. Our touches were both frantic and lingering, as though we were all too aware that our time together was down to hours.

  Gage fell asleep almost immediately after, his arm heavy on my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck.

  But I can’t fall asleep. Maybe because of the pre-dinner nap, maybe because of the coffee with dessert.

  Maybe because I’ve got too much on my mind. On my heart.

  I glance at the clock. It’s only eleven, which means it’s one in the morning in California. Too late to call normal people, but…

  I ease out from under Gage’s arm, moving slowly so as not to wake him.

  His cellphone’s on the desk, but even if I knew his passcode, it feels like far too big an invasion of privacy. And since mine is still hidden under my pillow at the villa, I pick up the cordless phone on the desk. The long-distance call will be expensive, but I’ll keep it short and pay Gage back later.

  I quietly open the sliding glass door to the balcony, shutting it behind me. Grateful that the cordless phone’s signal is strong enough to reach out here, I make the call.

  She picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

  I rest my forearms on the railing and look out at the water. “Hi, Mom.”

  She lets out a little gasp of happiness. “Ellie! I thought you said not to expect to hear from you until you got sent home.” Suddenly her voice shifts. “Oh, honey. Did that boy send you home? That can’t be—you’re so pretty and he’s so handsome.”

  I smile, because it’s so Mom.

  “No, I’m just sneaking in a phone call when I shouldn’t,” I say, not wanting to explain that I’m not exactly following the rules of my contract. “And you know I’m not allowed to talk about the elimination process.”

  “Damn, I know. But…Hold on, let me just get this pizza out of the oven…”

  I hear some banging, then a muttered curse, probably because she always forgets that her old hot mitts have holes, and inevitably loses every new one I buy her.

  “Sorry, honey. Just making a late dinner.”

  Only my mom would consider frozen pizza at one in the morning “a late dinner.” When I was a teenager, this sort of flaky disregard for normal patterns caused much frustration—and hunger.

  Now, though, I can’t help but smile. My mom makes me crazy, but with adulthood comes a bit of distance, and with distance comes fondness for the things that once drove me nuts.

  “So, I know you can’t tell me much, but…what’s he like?” I hear her blow on the pizza, then noisily take a bite.

  I look over my shoulder to make sure Gage isn’t lurking at the door, horror-movie style. But the room is dark, nothing but stillness inside.

  “Ellie?”

  I look back out at the water. “I never actually did this with the intention of marrying the guy. You know that.”

  “Right, I know,” she says. “It was…what did Marjorie call it? Viral marketing? Have the other girls liked your T-shirts? I bet they have, they’re so flattering. I told my haircutter about it, and she definitely wants one.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I rub my eyes. “And I haven’t really pushed the shirts on the other women; I just try to wear them on camera as much as I can.”

  She makes a happy little squeal, muffled by a mouthful of pizza. “I can’t wait to see you on TV. When does it air again?”

  “It’ll start in a couple of months. They’ve talked a lot about wanting to keep the gap between filming and air date as short as possible.”

  “It’s going to be so weird to watch yourself, isn’t it!”

  “Oh, God, I’m not watching,” I say, feeling a stab of horror at the very thought.

  “I watched you on that ‘meet the groom’ special, and you were very sassy! Everyone’s been talking about how much chemistry you have.”

  Yeah, well, chemistry alone does not happily-ever-after make. I’m not even sure love results in a happy ending. Depressed by the thought, I change the subject. “How are things there?”

  “Oh, same old. Hugh likes to spoil me, and I don’t complain!”

  I blink. “Who’s Hugh?”

  She laughs as though this is obvious. “My new sweetheart!”

  “What about Tim? You told me right before that you two went ring shopping.”

  “Eh.” I imagine her waving her hand, dismissing Tim and the fact that a month ago she’d been planning to marry him.

  I don’t even know how my brain still has the knee-jerk reaction of surprise. She’s been this way as long as I can remember. And though I don’t begrudge her choices—not anymore—I’d be lying if I said they didn’t affect me.

  See, it’s a little hard to believe in happily-ever-after when you don’t have any real-life examples. On one hand, I’ve got my mom and her serial dating—she’s in love with love, but never the lasting kind. And Marjorie’s married, but happily? I don’t know. She and Steve aren’t miserable, but she’s more or less confided that having a baby was a last-ditch effort to reinsert the magic into their relationship, which…Well, I don’t know that I get to judge, and they seem to be reasonably content. It’s just not exactly the way the movies make it seem like it could be.

  Because real life isn’t a movie, Ellie. There’s a reason hardly any fairy tales have sequels.

  “Oh, and I’m in between jobs again,” Mom is saying. “Things didn’t work out at that cute little boutique. The owner and I just didn’t mesh well.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say to let her know I’m still listening. If I had to guess, the owner probably expected things like her employees showing up for shifts consistently and on time. Not my mother’s specialty.

  “Anyway, enough about me. What’s up, sweetie? You’re doing that quiet thing you always do when you have something on your mind.”

  I stand up and cross my free arm over my stomach. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  “I’m your mom. You can trust me.”

  I can’t, though. That’s the thing. My mom’s got the biggest heart in the world, but she’s not exactly a vault when it comes to keeping secrets. She’s just a little too impulsive, a bit too fond of juicy gossip.

  And even if I could trust her not to get me into trouble for being in breach of contract, I don’t know that I’d trust her advice.

  If I told her I was scared of falling for Gage, she’d tell me to go for it. To close my eyes and free-f
all, because that’s where the “good stuff” in life takes place.

  And that’s exactly why I’ve called her, I realize. To remember why I can’t take this thing with Gage any further. It’s what my mom would do. She’d throw herself headfirst into a relationship with a movie star, only to get her heart broken, sob on the couch for a week, and promptly fall in love with someone else the week after that. Then repeat.

  And that’s fine—for her. I don’t want that.

  I don’t want to get hurt. I mean, yeah, I understand that getting hurt is a part of life, and mostly I can handle it. But getting hurt by Gage—I don’t know that I could survive it. I already care too much about a guy who, starting tomorrow, is going to go back to courting a dozen women. Maybe marrying one of them, because it’s his job.

  Gage said it himself just tonight—what he wants more than anything is to make a career out of being someone else. He’s an actor first and foremost and always. The job will always come first with him, and we’re not talking about a quiet nine-to-five kind of job. Hell, didn’t I hear the next Killboy movie is filming in Dubai? Not exactly the modest, suburban American dream of my fantasies.

  “I’ve got to go, Mom. It was good to hear your voice.”

  “Okay,” she says hesitantly. “I’ll see you when I see you?”

  “Definitely. As soon as I’m back in San Diego, I’ll swing by the house.”

  “When will that be?”

  Probably a couple of days at the most.

  “Not sure. I’ll call first.”

  “Okay, honey. You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Definitely.”

  But when I say goodbye and hang up the phone, slipping back into bed beside a still-sleeping Gage, I know I’ve just told a bald-faced lie.

  I’m not okay. Not even a little bit.

  Ellie

  I’m expecting the drive back to the villa the next morning to be quiet and awkward.

  I’m thrilled to be wrong.

  “I hate to keep harping on this, Wright, but I really am not going to be able to let you out of the car until I have your word on this.”

  I swear as the car hits a bump and I glob mascara on my eyebrow by accident. “Damn you, Barrett, how did you not make me get makeup remover wipes at the store?”

  “I was busy in the snack aisle. I mean, did I want chocolate-covered macadamia nuts for my snack, or plain? These were big decisions.”

  I lick my finger and swipe at the black smudge. When I made my list for Gage’s minions last night, I hadn’t thought it all the way through. I’d gotten clothes and shoes for the ride back to the villa, but not makeup.

  Ordinarily I wouldn’t care. But considering it’s a reality TV show I’m heading back to? Yeah, I care. Go ahead, call me superficial. But first, just ponder this: high-definition TV. Now this: nearly-thirty-year-old skin on high-definition TV. There you go.

  Gage and I stopped at a drugstore where I stocked up on enough basic cosmetics to make my face passable, and he got…snacks.

  “Okay, so back to the important topic,” Gage says as I dot concealer on a red spot on my chin. “I have your word that the second you’re back on the mainland, you’ll watch all of the Godfather movies?”

  “Why would you think you have my word on that?” I say, dabbing at the concealer to rub it in. “I distinctly remember saying that I had zero interest in seeing those movies. In fact, I think my exact words were ‘I promise never to watch them because they look boring.’ ”

  He lets out a pained groan. “Okay, how about a compromise? Just watch the first one.”

  I swipe on the lip gloss, then scowl into the visor mirror, because the color’s all wrong. Way too coral.

  “How bad is this? Be honest,” I say, turning toward Gage and puckering.

  He glances over, using one finger to tilt his sunglasses down and inspect my hasty makeup job before pushing the shades back up and returning his attention to the road. “I like it. Reminds me of my grandma Anita.”

  “Perfect. Grandma Anita is just what I was going for,” I grumble, rummaging around in the drugstore bag to find something to blot with. I settle for the cardboard backing of the foundation package. It doesn’t fully remove the color, but at least it tones down the brightness.

  I sigh and fold the visor back up. “All right, that’s as good as this is gonna get.”

  When I turn my attention to the road, I feel a little stab of panic when I realize I recognize some of the scenery. We’re close. Very close.

  “You nervous?” he asks, his voice serious for the first time all morning.

  “Absolutely.”

  He surprises me by reaching across the car and linking his fingers with mine. “I’ll be right there with you. If they try to kill you with a pineapple and dump your body in the ocean, I’ll be sure Spielberg hears about it. He’ll make a movie out of the crime, and nobody will ever forget your name.”

  “Would you be a part of the film?”

  “The star, obviously. Who do you want to play you?”

  “Well, considering you’ll have to make out with whoever plays me, we should definitely be sure it’s someone hot. What about Kara Fisher? She’s gorgeous.”

  “Nah. She was just cast to play my love interest in the next Killboy movie. We can’t be love interests twice, it’ll confuse people.”

  “Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks did it more than once. So did Julia Roberts and Richard Gere.”

  Gage groans. “She refuses to watch The Godfather, but those movies she’s got at the ready.”

  I look over. “Is Kara Fisher really your love interest in the next movie?”

  He shrugs. “Just found out this morning. I believe she plays a seductive, modern-day pirate who sneaks into my hotel room to have her piratey way with me.”

  I feel a pang of jealousy at the thought of Gage and the stunning actress filming love scenes. It’s a good reminder, though—a reminder of why this would never work. That’s his life, which would then be my life, and…

  I’m distracted from the jealous track of my thoughts by an emotion so much worse: terror.

  We’re here.

  Neither of us says a word as Gage pulls up to the gate at the villa. Rolling down the window, he enters a code. I let out a shuddering breath as the car slowly pulls into the driveway.

  Gage gives my fingers one last reassuring squeeze before pulling back.

  At first I think we’re going to get lucky—there’s no sign of anyone out in the front yard. With any luck, they’re all at the pool, and maybe I can slip inside…

  I hear a car door slam, and then a short blond man comes into view, freezing when he sees us. His eyes go wide, flicking between me and Gage before he sprints into the house like a startled rabbit.

  Gage groans.

  “You know him?”

  “One of Raven’s assistants. He’s both bitchy and ass-kissing, and now there’s exactly zero chance that everyone in the house doesn’t know we’re here. Or that the camera crew isn’t scrambling for their equipment.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  “Ellie.”

  I look up.

  “How do you want to play this?”

  “Does it matter? They’re going to turn it into whatever story they want.”

  “Probably,” he agrees. “No matter how it goes down, they’ll likely edit it to get the best soap opera melodrama they possibly can. But what do you want from me? I can tell them it was my idea.”

  I smile. “Well, it kind of was.”

  He grins back. “Zero regrets.”

  “Me neither.”

  I intended for my tone to match his playfulness, but it comes out as a whisper, revealing far too much.

  His smile slips, and he reaches out, touching my cheek. “I’m going to ask something, but you have to promise not to freak out.”

  My heart begins to beat faster at his serious expression, but I try to keep it light. “Sorry, no promise there. Besides,
I’m already freaking out.”

  This time it’s Gage who doesn’t respond to the playfulness, his expression intent. “What if I didn’t send you home at the next ceremony? What if you…” He swallows. “What if you stayed? Just to see where this went?”

  What if you stayed?

  For a heartbeat, I feel like flying. He wants me to stay. But I crash in the very next instant as I realize what staying would mean. It would mean continuing to play the game. Having to watch as he goes through the motions of dating all of us women. I’d be able to see him at night, yes, but what about the rest of the time? Our days would be controlled by the producers, and the fewer women that are left with each passing day, the more one-on-one time he’ll spend with them. I don’t think my heart can handle it.

  And when you throw in the fact that the whole thing leads up to a wedding…

  I want to get married someday, I do. But not like this. And that’s if he even wanted to. Let’s be honest—his track record on weddings isn’t great.

  It hits me then what’s really going on here.

  I’ve fallen for a runaway groom. And an actor at that. If there was ever a guy whose middle name was heartbreak, it’s this one.

  I lift my eyes to him. “I can’t,” I whisper. “I’d always be wondering what’s real and what’s not, and I did my homework on the stats of relationships that start out this way, and they’re not…I like you, I do, but I can’t…I don’t—”

  “Ellie.” He smiles, and though it shows off his trademark dimples, the smile doesn’t light his eyes like it usually does. “I get it. It’s okay.”

  I turn my head into his hand and press a quick kiss to his knuckles, hoping it doesn’t reveal too much.

  Then I take a deep breath and reach for the door handle. “You ready for this? I’m thinking we just say as little as possible. It was a mistake, we got carried away, and we’re sorry.”

  “Done,” he agrees. “Oh, and one other thing. Let’s keep where we were between us. I’ve purposely let everyone think my preferred escape is the Tyler Hotel chain. Nobody but my agent knows about the Four Seasons thing. And definitely not about the Mr. Belvedere alias.”

  “Oh!” Surprise makes my voice higher than normal. I try to play it cool. “Sure, of course not. Our secret.”