by Laura Burton
Harry rests a hand on my shoulder and gives me a frank smile.
“It’s a gamble. But just imagine if she feels the same way.”
The thought floods me with excitement, and the fear of freaking her out is suddenly very small.
I start to hatch a plan.
Chapter 13
Leila
“Why are you sitting back here with the help?”
I roll my eyes at Joy’s passive aggressive comment and fasten my lap belt. Blaze offered me a seat next to him in the first class cabin, but I felt like it would just make the stylists hate me even more. Not to mention the personal assistants and tech crew, who keep to themselves in the far back.
Olly and the twins are the only ones who really notice my presence. They’re so confusing - nice and sweet one minute, cold and sarcastic the next.
But I’m determined to win their favor and make them see I’m not some gold-digger looking for fame and fortune.
“You and Blaze have been spending a lot of time together,” Joy states, as though she’s reading my mind.
I prickle at her accusatory tone. “Actually, I’ve been with Olly more than Blaze.”
Olly flicks his hair back with a defensive shrug as Joy and Hope give him incredulous looks. “Someone needed to help the poor girl. She couldn’t tell the difference between a waist trainer and butt padded panties.”
The other stylists guffaw, their shoulders rising and falling.
I honestly don’t know how Josie does this job with a straight face.
Also, shopping for the rich and famous is not for the faint of heart.
I’m on my aching feet all day, going from store to store, looking through hundreds of silk scarves, sneakers, dinner jackets, baseball caps… Between Blaze and Harper’s lists, I’m spending all my days working.
But none of it would be possible without Josie; the money, and Olly; the fashionista.
I’ve learned a lot on this trip thanks to Olly.
I never knew some women shave their entire face, for example. “It’s for exfoliation and better make up application darling. Don’t you know?” Olly said when I asked.
No, I didn’t. I remember walking in on my mom as she was bleaching her moustache once. I’ve always opted to wax… but I’ve never considered waxing my whole face.
The thought makes me wince.
I also discovered rich people don’t mix their designers.
“If you put Blaze in a casual Armani blazer, you sure as heck need to pair the outfit with Armani pants and sneakers,” Olly scolded when I tried to pick up a pair of Ralph Lauren pants for Blaze. Olly emphasized his point by walking off, but not before muttering, “Sacrilege!”
By the time I saw butt pads on a pair of panties, I couldn’t contain myself.
I know all about padded bras, but padded panties are too much for me.
“People wear these?” I asked, incredulous. Olly looked at me as though I’d just questioned the existence of ducks. “Everyone wears them.”
“It’s true,” Joy chimed in, turning her back to show me her impressively pert posterior. “I’m wearing a pair right now!”
Olly has taken me under his wing like the sad, lost little duckling that I am. Without him, I’d have no clue what to make of this world. The fashion world that is.
I need his help.
I broke into a nervous sweat when Blaze asked me to pick out a watch and gave me a $200,000 budget. Olly must have seen the blood drain from my face because he jumped in and offered to come with me.
When I told Josie I needed more money, she didn’t even gasp. “I’ll write up an invoice for Harper and Blaze’s people. I should be able to get the money to you in an hour.”
Every time I bring Harper her order, she hands me an even bigger list of items to get. Some of them are less specific, like something cute for bed or accessories for my red Versace dress. My mind always goes blank, but Olly’s great ideas are endless. He’s proven to be a total life saver.
“Focus, Leila. Eyes over here, please. I’m not doing your job for you,” Olly snaps.
We’d been wondering around for hours. It was our last shopping trip in London, and all the clothes were starting to look like one continuous blob of color. I was also starting to notice weird things, like plug sockets on the ceiling. Why the heck would there be plug sockets on the ceiling?
Olly thankfully managed to steer clear of any personal topics - except for the occasional pry into what exactly Blaze and I get up to in the evenings. Gossip is his Achilles Heel.
It’s been easy to keep things professional with him.
There’s nothing between us, no tangible chemistry or… anything.
He gives me the odd snide remark now and then, and he’s got a dry wit and confidence about him that makes me wonder if this is what it’s like to have an older brother.
If it’s this easy to keep things professional with Olly, why is it so difficult with Blaze?
There’s just this… magnetic pull between me and Blaze.
The way he looks at me, with his dimples on show, makes me weak at the knees. And when he flicks his tongue across his lips as I talk, it makes me lose my train of thought.
The sexual tension between us is undeniable and I don’t think I’m the only that senses it.
In spite of all of my best efforts to downplay the situation, all of the stylists are convinced Blaze and I have been exploring more than just the city with each other. And a tiny, miniscule, microscopic part of me wishes that was true.
If I were the type of woman to let go and run with whatever wild notion enters my mind, Blaze and I would have crossed all sorts of lines by now. We’d cross them so much and so far, there wouldn’t be any lines left to cross.
And Chessy would be so proud.
But I’m just not that type of woman.
Work has been a nightmare, I’ve watched friendships come and go, and my own mother is a disaster who rarely calls me more than once a year for a rant. Everything and everyone––excluding my sisters––in my life has ended in disappointment or betrayal.
Let’s not even bring up the list of daddy issues I know I’ve got going on.
Or list of no-daddy issues, rather.
Maybe if Blaze was just some ordinary guy, like a banker or something simple, I might have been comfortable with seeing where things go.
But Blaze is no ordinary man.
He’s a Hollywood heartthrob with cameras at every turn and gossip columns constantly writing nonsense about him… With his reputation and my own track record, a relationship would be doomed from the start.
No. I need to resist temptation.
But the more time I spend with him, the greater the urge.
Physical attraction aside, I like Blaze a lot. He’s got this booming laugh that gives me butterflies. There’s a warmth in the way he speaks to me. If I were a sheep, he could walk me to the slaughter with just the sound of his voice.
And every time we’ve been out, he’s done some act of service.
First, it was my makeover at the boutique and buying all those replacement shoes so I wouldn’t get in trouble with Harper.
Then, he helped an old lady cross the street, and continued our conversation afterward like nothing happened.
The next night, he started up a conversation with a homeless guy and gave him a stack of cash––every bill in his wallet in fact. Then we left, but not without giving the old guy a hug first.
Blaze seems to keep an eye out for opportunities to help people. And the more I see him show such kind acts of humanity, the more I want to jump on him and bring him back down to the animal kingdom.
My insides quiver with excitement at the thought of our bodies making contact.
If I’m honest with myself, that’s the real reason I’m sitting in coach.
Cozying up with Blaze in first class is just asking for trouble.
But I do think sitting back in coach with the stylists will win them over, so maybe this is a
two-birds-one-stone kind of situation.
I turn to the stylists and try to bring myself back to the conversation. Joy and Hope have apparently been talking about their plans for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t thought about it, but it’ll be November by the time we finish the press tour.
“Tell me, Olly, have you got anyone waiting for you back home?” I ask.
Olly shrugs and looks as if he won’t answer at first, but then he heaves a sigh of defeat. “Only an ex-wife who is bleeding me dry with demands for more alimony. Apparently, living on $260 a month is perfectly reasonable for a man in New York.” He pauses. “And I have a teenage daughter who hasn’t said a two-syllable word to me since the divorce - which was five years ago.”
It takes me a second to come round from the shock, because Olly’s surprisingly honest answer just hit me like a frying pan to the nose. I close my mouth and glance at Joy and Hope, who look just as surprised as me.
“Oh, that’s…too bad,” I say, fiddling with my sleeve.
What else can I say to that?
The conversation dies as everyone avoids eye-contact and an awkwardness fills the cabin. It’s an awkwardness no one is able to get rid of until we land in France.
And so my plan to get the others to like me is dead on arrival.
I look out the window at the crooked houses and green fields beneath us. France doesn’t look that much different from England right now. There are lots of tiny roads with bug-like cars creeping along them, and chimney pipes sticking out of the rows of old houses. The only difference is, perhaps, the old, sandy colored architecture.
“You’re in for a real treat,” one of the personal assistants declares as we land with a bump. “We’re staying in the Victor Hugo hotel.”
I swivel my head to look at the man with surprise. “Victor Hugo? Like the author of…”
“Les Miserables, yes.”
“Oooh, c'est magnifique!” Hope exclaims, looking at her sister with delight. But Joy rolls her eyes with a huff. “That’s Spanish, you donut.”
I do my best to avoid Blaze, hiding in the crowd as I follow them through passport control. All around me I hear people speaking French and I don’t have a single clue what anyone is saying.
The airport is small and smells like a combination of garlic and classy perfume, and when I go into the restroom, I get the biggest surprise of my life.
“What the heck?” I whisper, looking at the hole in the ground. “Where’s the toilet?”
Joy looks over my shoulder and laughs. “That’s how they use the bathroom in France. You better get used to it.”
Then she leaves and I frown at the door.
“How am I supposed to do this?”
I pull in a breath and try to keep my cool. But I really need to pee, and the only clues in the cubicle are two feet outlines on either side of a hole in the ground. Am I supposed to take off all of my clothes and squat?
This is going to be the longest five days in France, ever.
Blaze and the others headed straight for interviews while us stylists got settled in the hotel. It turns out the Victor Hugo hotel is merely a tribute to the author. Not his former residence as I think most of us assumed.
But I’m so wrapped up in French culture that I don’t care.
A little French lady guides me up a creaky staircase with a wooden handrail that’s been worn smooth.
The carpeted floors are dark, and there’s a musty smell in the air, but it’s no problem. I glance at the paintings on the wall as the old lady leads me to my room; they’re all of little French villages and orchards. The lady stops outside a door and fiddles with the lock, then it swings open with a squeal. She smiles at me, her tanned face framed with silver strands of hair.
“Merci,” I say. It’s one of the only words I know in French.
I peer into a room no bigger than my bathroom. The peeling wallpaper looks like it’s from the 60’s and the bed takes up almost all the space. I crane my neck around the corner to find the bathroom door, but there isn’t one. And there are no cupboards to be seen.
“Excusez-moi…” I say, hurrying out into the hall after the lady who’s already begun to walk away. She turns and lifts a thick white brow as her dark eyes land on me.
“Where is the toilet?” I ask, making gestures with my hands like we’re playing a game of charades. The woman’s expression is blank. She doesn’t understand a single word.
I cast my eyes around the empty hall, wondering how to explain.
“Bathroom. Shower. Toilet… you know…” I start pretending to shower, scrubbing under my arms. Then I act out pulling down my pants and sitting on an imaginary toilet. The woman is now wearing a look of extreme repulsion and I’m starting to sweat.
“Toilet. Toilet. Toilet.” I keep repeating the word as though the woman might suddenly recognize it, and each time I say it my voice rises in pitch.
“No toilet?” I ask finally, my shoulders dropping in defeat.
The woman shakes her head. “Non.”
A stair creaks and I swivel to see Olly approaching. “There’s a bathroom down the hall.”
Then he starts talking to the lady in fluent French.
“Oh. Thanks.”
The lady shuffles down the hall grumbling to herself. I turn back to Olly.
“What are you up to, today?” I ask. Olly frowns at me.
“Getting some beauty sleep. I’m wrecked.”
“Oh, right. I thought––” I begin, but Olly takes out a key and approaches the door next to mine. “I’m only here because this is my room.”
Feeling foolish, I watch Olly disappear behind his door. “Oh, okay, sleep well.”
I want to explore the city.
Brimming with the buzz of being in a new place, I wander around the halls of the hotel, swinging my arms and occasionally bumping into guests and stylists. Everyone is grumpy and anti-social, which makes no sense to me.
They can’t blame jetlag, there’s only a one-hour difference.
I guess the team would just prefer to catch up on some rest after the crazy schedule in London.
If I had any sense, I would go to my room for a quick nap to recharge. But right now, I’m a curious cat, desperate for adventure and French culture.
So I gather up my things, change into a comfy outfit, and sneak outside on my own.
The sky is a beautiful shade of dark blue, and fairy lights sparkle between street lamps as I walk along the cobbled back streets of Paris.
The roads are littered with tables and chairs outside cafes, and the smell of bread is so strong, it makes my mouth water.
As I make my way closer to the city center, a commotion of noise draws my attention, and I make a beeline for a crowd of people.
“So, Eddie, word on the street says you’re a method actor, tell us what you did to prepare for your role as the villain in this movie?”
I have to stand on my tiptoes to see over the heads of the people in the crowd. A few people, including Eddie, I assume, are on a stage.
“Well, first, I want to thank the people of Paris for having us. This city is a second home to me and I hold everyone here very close to my heart.”
The crowd breathes a collective ‘awww.’
Just as Eddie is done speaking, I catch a glimpse of Blaze’s forehead framed by his dark wavy hair. Something wriggles in my stomach. It’s like I’ve swallowed a live fish without knowing it.
More people fill in the space around me until I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with them. I should keep walking, I get claustrophobic after all, and it’s only going to get worse as more passersby stop and watch. But then a head moves out of the way and Blaze is in perfect view.
He’s sat on a chair in the manliest position conceivable, with his forearm resting on his left knee and his hand on his right thigh, showing off every single muscle bulge up his arm and shoulder, and down his back. The presenter cracks a joke, and everyone laughs. But it’s only Blaze’s laugh I hear.
My stom
ach wobbles again.
His eyes travel across the crowd and his smile grows wider before he focuses on the presenter again.
This is the first time I’ve seen him in action since we’ve met and I’m taken back to the times I’ve been lying in bed with my headphones on, watching YouTube videos of the funny interviews he’s given for his movies.
It’s no surprise that Blaze is the most sought-after actor in Hollywood right now. He has so much charisma, all he has to do is look at a crowd and they come undone.
Huge drones are whizzing above our heads and I almost duck at how close one sounds. Just then, my phone vibrates.
I pull it out and smile at the familiar name on the screen. “Hey, Lucy. How is everything back home?”
“You’re on TV!”
“What?” I look up at the drone again and wave at it. “Did you see that?”
My sisters laugh. “Yes!”
“Tell us, Blaze, is there a special someone in your life, or are you available for the taking?”
The question makes me freeze. I swallow, and I think I catch Blaze’s eyes swivel to me before a head blocks off my view of him again. It’s impossible. He hasn’t spotted me in the crowd, has he?
Blaze rolls in his bottom lip and bites down for a second. My stomach flops over and at this point I’m sure there’s a fish in there.
“That’s a complicated question,” he begins. The crowd chuckles.
“I have to disagree. You’re either single or not,” the presenter pushes back in a French accent.
Blaze leans back and scratches his neck.
“There is someone I care about a lot.”
A wave of disgruntled murmurs and sighs follow. I want to shush them all, as I’m clinging onto every word. I can’t even hear my sisters breathing down the phone.
“And does this person know how you feel?” The presenter asks.
Blaze’s eyes flash in my direction again and his cheeky smile widens. “Not yet, but I’m going to tell her. Tonight.”
