“I wouldn’t dare,” he says.
“You clean up well yourself,” I manage to say.
“Shall we go?”
He offers me his arm and I take it. Outside, we hop in a cab and spend the obligatory half-hour journey mostly in silence. I am too self-conscious of my spiraling crush to make small talk. Like an inexperienced teenager, I jolt in my seat every time our legs bump due to a sharp turn.
After stepping out of the cab, we’re admitted to the red carpet by security. I’m blinded by the photographers’ flashes and their reflections on the metallic walls of the Disney Concert Hall. The paps, however, soon realize we’re nobodies, and the clicking craze stops.
At the end of the carpet, there’s a small press area with other correspondents from magazines and TV. We’re early. The big celebrities will start arriving a bit later. Presumably in a slow trickle that will carry on for at least an hour. Events managers time the arrivals so that all the guests will get their dedicated moment in front of the photographers and with the press.
“I should wait here,” I tell Richard. “See who gets in, do some interviews…”
“I’ll get started on the champagne.” He winks at me and disappears inside.
Alone and with work to do, I regain some presence of mind—meaning only half of my brain cells are being fried by the memory of Richard’s smile.
Plus, red carpets are fun! All the celebrities I meet are incredibly down-to-earth and exciting to talk to. They make jokes, tell me wardrobe malfunction anecdotes, and I record more than a few good quotes to publish in a bubbly article on the evening. Even if I’m from a relatively unknown magazine, no one snubs me. And the first part of the night flies by in a series of incredible conversations, swooshing gowns, and some fan-girl moments on my part. When no one new arrives for twenty minutes, I move inside to finally join the real party.
I queue with some other guests at the wardrobe. Nothing can be brought upstairs. Phones, bags, jackets… everything has to be checked in.
I’ve just dropped my clutch when I find myself face to face—more face to chin—with my nemesis: Aurora Vanderbilt.
Aurora’s lips part in an evil smirk as she says, “Blair, good to see you. I didn’t know amateurs were invited.”
We haven’t seen each other since she stole my promotion, so my reply is pure vitriol. “You mean you thought it was a party reserved for toddlers still attached to their mother’s skirts?”
As if on cue, Rebecca Vanderbilt appears at her daughter’s side. “Who’s your friend, dear?” she asks.
Aurora gives me a look of death. “No one,” she says, steering her mother away.
Blood pulsing, I let them go and wait at a distance for the next elevator. Aurora being here isn’t the only reason I’m edgy. Richard is waiting for me upstairs. In the last hour, I’ve met and spoken to a good chunk of the sexiest men alive top-ten chart, but no one gave me goose bumps the way only thinking about Richard does.
If my Belle-goes-to-the-ball dreamy filters weren’t set high enough already, the event being hosted at Disney Hall’s rooftop garden doesn’t help. Talk about enchanting venues. Up here, it’s all blooming trees and winding pathways around a magical rose fountain, all enclosed by sweeping metallic walls. As romantic settings go, it doesn’t get any more suggestive than this space.
I step out of the elevator and walk into this wonderland of fairy lights and whimsical alleys accompanied by Disney-esque classical music playing in the background. To ease the anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I grab a few canapés and wash them down with champagne.
“There you are.”
Richard’s voice makes me jump so high that if my glass were still full, I would’ve splashed us both with bubbly.
“Richard.” I turn, steadying myself.
In the semi-darkness, his sharp features appear even more attractive, aided by flickering shadows and contrast. Maybe it’s just the tux. That must be it. You can so judge a book by its cover. I’m judging right now. More than judging, I’m thinking of ripping the cover off the book entirely.
“Did you have a good time downstairs?”
“Yeah, wonderful. I collected loads of material.” I smile tensely. “Don’t worry, I’ll be able to put together a few amazing editorials.”
“I’m not worried. I’ve complete confidence in your work.”
Someone bumps into him from behind, and Richard stumbles forward, landing with both hands on my bare collarbones. Whoa! I’m being electrocuted. Tingling electric currents spread from my shoulders down my arms and up my neck to my brain where the last few surviving cells are being short-circuited for good.
Richard steadies himself but doesn’t pull away immediately. We stand there, under a tree blossoming with ridiculously pretty red flowers, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, Richard frowns and takes a step back. Neither of us speaks, and the silence becomes awkward quickly. A server breaks it by offering us a tray of hors d’oeuvre. Richard declines, but I take one and stuff my mouth full before I say something stupid.
Panic swells as I’m about to swallow the last bite. Richard hasn’t taken his eyes off me and still isn’t speaking. What am I going to say when I’ve finished chewing and have no more excuses to keep quiet? Will we just stay here all evening, staring at each other in utter silence?
My dilemma is solved by some six-foot-four hulking human careening into Richard and pulling him into a bear hug. “Mate, you’re here.”
Richard and the newcomer start a primordial dance of friendly grunts and shoulders slaps. When the ritual is over, the stranger turns, and I’m blinded by Hollywood’s most wanted million-dollar smile.
“Blair, this is my good friend Christian,” Richard makes the introductions. “Chris meet Blair.”
“Hi,” I say, and shake Christian Slade’s hand as if I was used to meeting out-of-this-world-gorgeous men all the time.
A tiny part of me wants to take a selfie with him and post it on my Instagram feed right away. So I’m equally disappointed and relieved that only the official event photographer is admitted up here. At least I’m forced not to embarrass myself with the request, but I want the selfie so badly.
Richard and “Chris” do some catching up, and I’m content to just ogle the pair. It’s like staring at a box of bonbons, trying to decide which one you want to eat first. These two are the yin and yang of masculine sex appeal. Christian: tall, blonde, green-eyed. Richard: equally tall, dark hair, dark eyes. Both impossibly sexy. Both with knee-wobble-inducing British accents. And both bachelors. Yum!
“So, how’s the evening going?” Richard asks Christian after a while.
“Ah, too much public relations. I need a break.” That’s when the mega-Hollywood star surprises me bending his head toward me in a small bow. “May I steal the lady for a dance?”
Twelve
Never Make the First Move
Aaaaaaaah! Christian Slade, asking me to dance?!
“Sure,” I say, taking his hand.
There’s a small square in the garden serving as a dance floor, and some other couples are already swaying in the middle. Christian escorts me to the center, and we start swirling in time with the music. With a hand on my lower back and the other holding mine, he leads me like a professional.
“You’re an impressive dancer,” I say.
“You seem surprised.”
“Not many men can waltz this gracefully, not in this century at least.”
He chuckles. “Comes with the job, I guess.”
“Of being an actor?”
“Yeah, sooner or later we all have to star in a costume movie with a ball, and the dance-like-a-gentleman training becomes mandatory.”
“What movie?”
Christian raises a brow. “Not a fan, I take it?”
I blush. “No, it’s not that. But I’m not a stalker either. You’ve been in so many movies… I don’t remember them all.”
“Which ones
have you seen, then?”
“Ah, well. Last year’s sci-fi flick… mmm… Dancing in the Rain, of course. See, that’s another one you had to waltz in.”
“Indeed. That’s my excuse for being a good dancer—what’s yours?”
“Several years of ballet with some ballroom dancing on the side.”
“Brilliant.”
“Your real-life British accent sounds weird.”
Christian flashes me another of his million-dollar smiles. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I do. It’s just that on TV, you usually speak American. It’s fascinating how you can sound totally natural with both accents.”
Christian chuckles. “That’s diction training for you. And having an American mum helped too.” He winks.
Is he flirting? Wow, it’s so weird to dance with a man I’ve only seen on TV who’s so incredibly gorgeous. Mr. Slade here looks like a marble statue, and I’m pretty sure his skin is smoother than mine. Not to mention, Christian has been named “Sexiest Man Alive” three years in a row, as well as Hollywood’s most wanted bachelor. This whole experience is surreal.
But for all his good looks and A-list status, I’m still at ease talking to him. And, weirdly enough, I don’t want to rip his clothes off and haul him off to my hotel room. Chatting with him feels more like talking to an old friend.
“You have an odd expression,” Christian says, interrupting my musings.
“It’s just that you’re so normal.” That came out wrong. He raises his brows and I hurry to explain better. “I thought I’d be completely star-struck by you. But you’re just a regular human being.”
Christian is silent for a split second, making me worry I might’ve offended him. But then he throws back his head, roaring with laughter.
My cheeks heat up. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Christian says, still chuckling. “I wish I met more people like you.”
The song changes and we pause for a second.
“Another round?” Christian asks.
“Sure,” I say, and let him pirouette me around.
After some more dancing, I ask, “Do people treat you very differently?”
“You’ve no idea. Feeling normal is a welcome novelty.”
“Aren’t actors supposed to have these huge egos? You know, always needing to be the center of attention.”
“Not all the time, makes me wish I had a switch. Of course, it’s cool to meet fans and have people ask for autographs and pictures, but sometimes it’s exhausting to catch the awe in people’s eyes. It makes building real relationships hard.”
“Is that why you’re still single?”
Christian frowns, and his movements become more rigid. “Am I off the record?”
“Completely, t-totally off the record,” I stutter. “I’m so sorry. Did I give you the impression I was interviewing you?”
“My fault.” He shakes his head, and his hand relaxes again in mine. “But it has happened before. I say something in a friendly conversation and the next day my words get printed on page one.”
“That must suck.”
“It does. It’s made me suspicious of even the most innocent questions. And yes, it makes it almost impossible to date.”
“Why?”
“Every time I meet someone who’s not Hollywood,” he rolls his eyes as if to air-quote the word Hollywood. “I wonder if the girl likes me only for the fame, money, or worse if she’s in love with one of my characters…”
I smirk. “I’m sure uncanny good looks are a factor too.”
Christian chuckles again. “See, no one ever gives me cheek.”
“So why don’t you date fellow celebrities? Actresses must be immune to the fame thing.”
“Ah, see, but they’re not. In a way, it’s even worse.”
Another song goes by, and we only nod to each other and keep dancing.
“Why are actresses worse than fans?”
“The movie industry is weird, complicated and… layered. It sort of has hierarchies.”
“I’m sure you can date out of your caste, though.”
Before replying, Christian spins me in an inside-outside turn. “Sure I can. But when I date someone less famous, I can’t help wondering if she likes me or the career boost and extra publicity on gossip magazines. It’s a feeling I can’t shake. And if I were to date someone more famous, then she’d probably have the same doubts. Not to mention that dating actresses is a nightmare. Schedules are the worst. Most of my past breakups happened due to scheduling conflicts.”
“You sound as wretched as Julia Roberts in Notting Hill when she tries to get the last brownie.”
As another song ends, Christian lifts me up and smiles as he lowers me down. “I’m just saying it’s not all bling.”
I squeeze his hand and motion him to pick up the quicker rhythm of the new song.
“So basically,” I say. “You need to meet a girl who’s never watched a day of TV in her life, fall in love with her, and make her fall for you.”
“And how many girls like that do you know?”
Countless nights spent binge-watching TV shows with Nikki flash before my eyes. “Not many, I agree.”
“Blair, you’re an amusing little thing. Where has Richard been hiding you?”
I turn rigid in his arms.
Christian immediately notices my discomfort. “What did I say wrong?”
“I’m self-conscious about my height, or lack of thereof,” I say, which isn’t a lie, but also isn’t the truth. Just hearing Richard’s name turns me into a bundle of nerves.
“Really? Don’t be. Men love tiny women.”
“And of the many adjectives women enjoy, ‘tiny’ and ‘little’ are not on the list.”
“Petite?”
“Nope.”
“Mmm, delicate?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, I’ll drop it.”
“Sage man.”
“What about you?” Christian goes back to our original conversation. “Any man in your life?”
I shake my head.
“I know I’m not supposed to ask, but how come?”
“Well, I spent my life giving too much importance to stupid things and wasted the last three years on a cheating bastard. So right now I’m focusing on myself and on straightening my priorities.”
And on the side, I have this ridiculous crush on my boss, you know, your friend Richard—the one who doesn’t do relationships.
“How’s that going?” Christian asks.
“So far, I changed jobs, my ex threatened to sue me on multiple occasions… mmm… I experienced my first hangover, got arrested, and adopted a stray dog.”
Christian laughs wholeheartedly then lets out a low whistle. “And I thought my life was interesting. What did you do to get arrested?”
The music slows to an end again. How many songs have we danced together? I’ve lost count. I’m about to answer Christian’s question and launch into another dance when a towering presence appears next to us.
Richard has a weird expression on his face. Hard to say what’s going on inside his head, but he seems annoyed.
“If you dance another song together,” the boss says, looking at me, “you’ll end up on all the gossip magazine covers as Christian Slade’s mysterious new flame.”
“Richard, mate.” Christian lets me go and takes a step back. “I’ve been selfish; I completely stole your date.”
“Blair isn’t my date, she’s here to report.”
Since Richard asked me to join him on this Californian weekend, a tiny hope has been burning inside me. Hope that these few days together away from the office mean more than a business trip. Hope that something will happen between us, that if something in New York is impossible… you know, what happens in Hollywood stays in Hollywood.
Richard’s words extinguish that hope completely. They chill my heart and fill my mouth w
ith the taste of ashes.
Christian smiles, shaking his head. “Mate, you’re such a slave worker.” He pats Richard on the shoulder and then looks at me. “Group projects back in school were the same. Richard kept us all in line.”
I try to smile, and I hope the tight-lipped grimace I’m producing doesn’t look as ashen as my heart feels.
“I’ve got to mingle with the other guests anyway,” Christian adds. “Blair, it’s been a pleasure.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’ll tell me all about your adventures next time.”
I manage to nod. Christian pats Richard on the shoulder one more time and is gone.
Refusing to meet Richard’s eye, I say, “I was tired of dancing, anyway.” I make to shuffle away from the dance floor.
“Not so quickly.”
Richard grabs me by the waist and pulls our bodies together while imprisoning my left hand in his. Without another word, he leads me back to the center of the square to dance.
The boss’s style is more basic, a steady one, two, three… one, two, three… But honestly, I couldn’t care less about Richard’s dancing skills, not when he’s looking at me as he is now.
I’m confused. He just spelled out for everyone that this isn’t a date. I mean, if this is the way Richard stares at his non-dates, how much neuro-damage can he inflict on his date-dates?
As we dance, neither of us talks. We just move, staring into each other eyes. It’s some sort of non-verbal conversation that is making my head spin like no pirouette ever did. I get lost in the brown of Richard’s eyes, and the world around us disappears. Only our bodies exist. The heat of his right hand on my lower back, the pressure of his hand on mine as he holds it, and his hypnotizing gaze.
I don’t know how long we dance, or for how many songs, or to what rhythm and steps. I notice only when the music stops. Someone, somewhere, is making a speech, probably Christian. I don’t care. I only care that Richard has let go of my hand and I’ve been suddenly deprived of his body heat.
The boss takes a step back, looking at me as if I was a murder scene.
I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy) Page 10
