A-List Kiss: A Laugh-Out-Loud Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  Sure, maybe they weren’t the same feelings I’d had before getting to know him. I certainly didn’t worship him anymore. But I still felt affection for him and physical attraction. That was a feeling. And of course I’d be very stupid not to love the perks that came along with being Gavin Braddock’s girlfriend—which I guess I officially was if he was going to go and tell the whole world that he loved me.

  When Gavin and I came up for air, he turned back toward Jessica who was staring at us with her mouth hanging open.

  “Any other questions?” he asked.

  Jessica tried to rally, but she didn’t come up with anything to say before Gavin pushed past her and led me through the doors of the restaurant.

  Immediately the delicious smells wafted around me, and my stomach gurgled in anticipation. I smoothed my hand down my black dress and stood a little straighter, pushing my shoulders back. There was a range in the dress code as there almost always was in California since most people preferred the comfort and ease of casual dress. I was relieved to find I was dressed appropriately. Most of the other patrons were wearing dresses or khaki pants and dress shirts and even a few were wearing jeans.

  Nobu was gorgeous with tables practically over the water and the most beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean. A hundred shades of blue painted the sea and sky that stretched out as far as I could see. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore provided a soothing soundtrack.

  I stepped carefully on the polished hardwood planks of the floor, my slingback heels threatening to wedge themselves in the grooves between. We were shown to the best table, right by the water, and Gavin’s security detail made themselves suitably invisible.

  The waiter seating us pulled out his cell phone and asked Gavin if he could take a quick picture with him. Gavin agreed, and the waiter threw his arm over Gavin’s shoulders and mugged for the selfie. I wondered if this would now be the waiter’s last day of work since surely Nobu would not allow this behavior of their wait staff.

  He didn’t seem to get caught, though, and after that our waiter was especially friendly and helpful, bringing us fresh sushi-roll appetizers straight from the chef before even looking at his other tables. When I said to Gavin that fall was really upon us since the evenings were getting cooler, the waiter ran and dragged one of the outdoor heaters beside me and turned it on full-blast before scurrying off again to get our wine.

  I really loved how I got treated when I was with Gavin. It made me realize how much customer service sucked most of the time when you got treated so much better just because you were with a movie star. The golden rule shouldn’t be “treat thy neighbor as thyself” but instead “treat thy neighbor like he or she was a movie star worth billions at the box office.”

  Gavin and I studied our menus. It all sounded delicious. I made my dining decisions and set the menu on the table. When I glanced up, I noticed that many of the other diners were staring at us and being really obvious about it—bending their heads and whispering to each other.

  Our fellow diners at the Jules Verne in Paris had not been this bad. Americans really feel like they own their celebrities. They think because they see them all the time on TV or in movies that they know them. There’s no filter like there’d be with a normal person they’d never met before. Everyone thought they had a right to infringe on Gavin’s life. They already felt like they were part of it. He was part of theirs. Some people just could not separate fiction from reality.

  Gavin’s security guards emerged from wherever they’d been hiding and lurked on either side of the table. He shook his head at them, and they retreated.

  A slim brunette at a neighboring table tugged at her boyfriend’s arm and then rose and walked over to us. Her date scowled at his plate but then got up and followed in her wake.

  She giggled when she reached our table. “Hi, Gavin,” she said. “Could I get your autograph?” She giggled again.

  How rude. Gavin and I were just trying to have a nice dinner and here this insipid woman was interrupting us. She’d never have thought to interrupt the dinner of a perfect stranger. But there it was—she felt she knew Gavin. She looked at me and wrinkled her nose and turned quickly back to Gavin.

  “Sure.” Gavin put his glass down and took a pen from his inside jacket pocket. He signed the blank Post-it she held out to him. He smiled and handed the Post-it back to her. She didn’t leave.

  “I loved you in Elegy in Autumn,” she purred.

  I shot her a sharp look. Hussy! Had she discovered the cinematic glimpses of Gavin’s penis too?

  Yes, yes, I know that’s what I did, but Gavin belonged to me now and the thought of other people treating him as an object when they didn’t even know him really bothered me. It wasn’t the world’s penis! It was my penis! Well, not literally, but you know what I mean.

  I had a sudden thought that jolted me halfway out of my seat. Would he be waving his penis about in his new movie, Blinking at the Sun? I knew I couldn’t ask him like that because that would mean revealing that I’d painstakingly viewed Elegy in Autumn to see him naked, but I should find out what kind of movie Blinking at the Sun would be and if there was potential for a lack of modesty on his part. No reason to give these desperate women more ammunition. They should get their own boyfriends.

  “Thank you.” Gavin’s wide grin dimpled his cheeks. He ran his hand through his hair and swept it out of his eyes. I could almost see the brunette sigh. Yes, he really was that dreamy. Now move along, strumpet. Her boyfriend put his arm around her, and she reluctantly turned away from Gavin and allowed him to lead her back to their table.

  I smiled at Gavin. Now that we were alone again, I figured the timing was good to talk about what exactly was going on with the televised PDA outside and what Gavin would say about the nature of our relationship. He “loved me” but hadn’t thought to mention that he’d be out of the country for eight weeks. Of course, I saw the contradiction and had a guess which was the true state of our relationship and which was quite literally for show, but I needed to hear it from him. I needed to hear about his feelings and if he really had any. I wanted to know what he’d say when it was just the two of us talking.

  I put my hand on his, and he squeezed it. I opened my mouth to broach the subject when not one but three women from three different directions stood up and approached our table, two with boyfriend or husband in tow. Oh, great. Gavin had given one autograph, and now it was open season on our date night.

  Gavin placed his glass of water on the table and smiled at them encouragingly. I watched them with narrowed eyes and wondered how hard I’d have to throw a sushi roll to knock them over the handrail and into the Pacific.

  None of them looked my way. Just like the slim brunette, they weren’t interested in me at all, except perhaps to resent my presence at the table since I reminded them that Gavin was, for the millisecond anyway, taken.

  I picked up a piece of sushi with my chopsticks. A line was forming on his side of the table. Gavin’s security guards flanked the line and this time Gavin didn’t wave them off.

  I looked around, interested to see which of the diners didn’t care that Gavin was here. Surprise—it was mostly men. There was one table off to my left where four men in business suits sat not paying attention to our table at all. Lucky them. I wondered what they were so involved in that trumped the flurry of activity in the gathering Gavin storm. Just as I glanced over, one of the gentlemen at the table looked up and caught my eye. I dropped my chopsticks. I knew him. Recognition dawned on his face. He knew me too. His brow furrowed. This would not be a friendly reunion.

  I stood up, knowing I should do something but not having any idea what that something should be. When I stood, he jumped to his feet and bolted from the table, leaving his dinner companions behind. The three remaining gentlemen looked confused at his inelegant departure and then turned in unison and looked at me, probably because I was standing there staring at their table with wide eyes and my mouth hanging open.

  Desp
ite wearing impossible-to-run-in heels, I took off after the man who was now dashing through the restaurant. He paused to grab a key from the valet stand outside and ran. I followed, lagging woefully behind, but made it to the edge of the parking lot in time to see him peel out and take a right on Pacific Coast Highway. And I was no fool—I noted the license plate number.

  Flashes went off as I stood at Nobu’s entrance again. Oh, no. The paparazzi. I’d forgotten about them. They’d probably say that Gavin had broken my heart and I’d run from the restaurant sobbing. Or that I’d just found out he was gay and ran away screaming. Or I was ditching Gavin to chase my secret lover…who was his lover too. They could just write something like the truth which would be movie star Gavin Braddock entertains a bevy of beauties while his girlfriend chases after a random businessman who steals his keys from the valet without tipping just to get away from her.

  Except he wasn’t a random businessman. He was Soap Opera guy from very special Agent Matthew Decker’s case, the one who almost shot me a couple of weeks ago.

  I was going to have to call Matthew.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I returned to the table and retrieved my purse. Gavin looked up and raised his eyebrows at me, but he was still signing autographs for fans, so I gave a slight shake of my head like it was nothing. I’d fill him in later. I fished my cell phone out of my purse and scrolled through until I found Matthew Decker’s number. With excited flutters in my stomach, I pressed the call button. He answered after the first ring.

  “Decker here.” His voice in my ear was husky and deep. I felt my toes curl inside my shoes.

  I pressed my finger against my other ear so I could block out the noise Gavin’s tableside worshippers were making. “Hi, Special Agent, this is Eden Perry.” I took a deep breath. How to say this? “I just saw the bad guy you’re after.” Not like that. But it was already said.

  “Where are you?” Matthew was ready.

  “I’m at Nobu in Malibu, on PCH,” I told him. “The man was driving a late model gray Honda.” I gave him the license plate number. “He was driving south on PCH two minutes ago.”

  “Thanks, Eden,” he said with what sounded like a pen cap between his lips. His lips. His lips. Don’t think about it. “Good work.”

  I smiled. The tummy flutters were calming down.

  “Could you do me a favor?” he continued.

  I threw my shoulders back and raised my chin. I was still on the case. The flutters started up again. “Of course.”

  “Call the police and tell them that a car with that license plate is driving recklessly, that it swerved out of its lane and almost hit you.”

  Lie to the police. “Um…okay.”

  Matthew explained. “It’s faster, believe me. There’s no way I can get to him in time, but if I get the local PD on it, I can maybe catch up to him or get a location on him when he stops.”

  “Of course. I’ll call right away.” I was part of the solution now. Redeeming myself for prior hotel blunders and escaped bad guys.

  “Thanks.”

  I held the phone in my hand, ridiculously wishing we were still talking. Why did I feel like I missed him? What was I thinking? I had Gavin, didn’t I? Gavin was what every woman in the world wanted. Wasn’t he? Why would I even think of anyone else? Never mind. It didn’t matter. I had a job to do, and I was wasting time.

  The Malibu Police were contracted through the LA Sheriff’s Department, which I knew from doing beat checks at my lowly reporter job at the station. I called LASD and relayed my story as Matthew had instructed. I had to repeat it twice, and I threw in some hysterical rambling and moaning so they’d know how close to death I had almost—fictionally—come.

  I tucked my phone away and looked to see what kind of progress Gavin was making with his line of worshippers. The line had only grown as more Nobu patrons saw Gavin accommodating everyone with autographs and pictures. Where was his pushy assistant Patricia when I needed her?

  He was posing for a camera phone picture, his arm around a blonde with a pixie cut when suddenly I was reminded of the time my mom and dad took Maggie and me to Disney World. I’d been dying to get my picture taken with Mickey Mouse and get his autograph. I’d jumped up and down for a week, begging to meet Mickey. My parents finally agreed, and we stood in line for two hours to meet the giant mouse. When we finally met him, Mickey took a picture with me and shook my tiny hand in his big white mitt and signed my autograph book.

  And that was it.

  Afterward it felt like such a letdown. Mickey stayed there at Disney World. He didn’t come home with me. He didn’t become my best friend. I lost the autograph book that he signed. My life didn’t change at all. Before going to Disney World, I thought that meeting Mickey would be everything. But it wasn’t. He was just a guy in a suit. Even at eight years old I knew that.

  Gavin was really Gavin, though. He wasn’t a guy in a Gavin costume. Not exactly. But he also wasn’t actually the man that all of these people in line thought he was. He was just a guy from Independence, Missouri who’d made some movies that people really liked. It didn’t make him a god. His celebrity didn’t make him better than anybody else. He was just better marketed. Sure, people met him and got his autograph. But really, what was the big deal?

  Finally the concierge and two waiters came over and ushered people back to their seats. Gavin’s security guys helped when they realized the restaurant staff was putting a stop to the impromptu signing. It had become impossible for the staff to serve dinner. A few people stubbornly resisted, turning their backs on the servers and security guards, and got last-minute autographs and pictures with Gavin before returning to their tables.

  When the crowd had dispersed and returned to their seats, Gavin turned to me with an apologetic smile and took my hand in his. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I looked down at our entwined hands and felt the lack of electricity between us. Had it all been in my head? I didn’t even know Gavin Braddock, real person. Or if there was one. “It comes with the territory, I guess.”

  “I’m so glad you understand.” He rubbed my hand with his thumb. I resisted the urge to scratch my hand. He was making it itch. “Were you going to say something before we got interrupted?”

  An hour ago I was.

  “It wasn’t important.” A talk about our relationship could wait. I was deeply vital to an FBI investigation at the moment. Goosebumps pebbled my arms. Did my call to Matthew help? Would the cops detain the guy? Would Matthew catch up? Was he in any danger? What was he wearing? I was picturing him in dark jeans with a tight black T-shirt that accented his strong biceps and the defined muscles of his abs.

  “What was the phone call about?” Gavin broke into my thoughts.

  “Phone call?” I reluctantly left my daydreaming and folded my napkin. “Oh, just some international industrial espionage thing I’m working on.” I smiled brightly into his clear blue eyes.

  Gavin flinched and his forehead furrowed. “Should we order?”

  “Sure.” I had nothing better to do.

  ∞∞∞

  “Can I interest you two lovely people in some dessert?” The waiter beamed at me. Dessert? Had we even eaten our entrees? I looked down at my empty plate where a slick of eel sauce was congealing all alone. Apparently we had. Imagine me not noticing dinner. Huh. My thoughts had been on Matthew.

  “No. Thanks, though,” I said.

  Gavin’s gaze snapped to mine. “No dessert? Are you feeling okay?” He moved his hand to my forehead. He’d played a doctor in the movie Bleeding Borders.

  “I’m fine.” I pushed his hand away.

  “No dessert,” he told the waiter, who left to fetch our bill.

  I folded my arms and stared across the water at the darkening sky. How soon before I could call Matthew for an update?

  “What’s the matter? You’re not all here.” Gavin tugged on a strand of my hair.

  I turned and blinked at him, pasting a smile on my face. “I was jus
t thinking about you leaving tomorrow and being gone—for months.”

  Gavin claimed my hand in both of his and kissed it tenderly. “That’s so sweet.” He didn’t release me until the waiter came back with the check.

  When we left the restaurant, the paparazzi were still hanging out in front. Lights flashed, blinding me in the full dark. Gavin placed one hand on the small of my back and waved to everyone with the other.

  The valet pulled the Huayra to a screeching stop in front of us. He came around the passenger side and held the door open.

  I started toward the car, then stopped. “I want to drive. Can I drive?”

  Gavin’s big smile faltered. “Do you even know how to drive a stick?” he whispered from the side of his mouth.

  “Of course.” My dad had insisted on teaching Maggie and me how to drive on his old Ford F150 with the manual transmission. He’d said it would come in handy someday. He probably hadn’t been picturing the Huayra when he said it. But I was conveniently well-prepared to drive fancy sports cars made with only manual transmissions or for the earth to suddenly spin back in time to the 1950s. Either way, I had it covered.

  Gavin ran his hand through his hair. “Okay, then. Sure. Why not? What could go wrong?” Gavin was using too many words, and it made me laugh inside. Mr. Smooth was nervous, but I kept a straight face. He could afford to buy a new one if I crashed it.

  I got into the driver’s seat and waited until Gavin closed his door before I peeled out of the parking lot. What would the headlines say tomorrow? I wondered. Would Gavin’s virility be in question since they saw me climb in the driver’s seat? Would they say Gavin Braddock, now in his dotage, had to be driven home by his hideously untalented local reporter girlfriend in his two-million-dollar car? Or maybe he was too drunk or high or bipolar to drive. Who knew what it would be this time? Maybe Gavin cared. Maybe I didn’t.

  I drove us down Pacific Coast Highway, loving the way the fine piece of Italian machinery responded almost intuitively. After more than a few furtive glances my way, Gavin expelled the breath he’d been holding. I did, indeed, know how to drive a stick and wasn’t going to strip his gears or crash his car—probably. His white-knuckle armrest grip eased a bit, and I laughed as the tension lines left his mouth.