My eyes filled with tears as he stomped from the room, down the stairs and out the front door.
*** *** ***
REID
The studio valet takes the keys to my Lotus. It’s over a year old now, and I’m utterly bored with it. I’ve been thinking about getting a Porsche. Something sleek and black. Sexy. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking buying a yellow car. Dad’s “douche taxi” comments aside, it’s way too happy-smiley-sunny for me now. I’m nineteen as of last month. Yellow is something a kid chooses, not a man.
I’m psyched to see Emma, though I’m going to have to play that way down. Brooke warned me to do nothing beyond being civil and warm. Absolutely no flirting. “The last time you saw her you tried to pull her back into a relationship. She’s going to expect you to either be resentful or flirtatious. Be neither. Just be… sweet. You can fake that, right?”
I gave her a look that clearly said, You are a grade-A bitch, and she laughed. Brooke is a calculating genius, and I’m glad that for once I’m on her side. Sort of.
“Oh and by the way, no screwing around. At all. You nail-gunned your own coffin with that shit last fall. If you’re going to convince Emma that you’re a changed man, you’ve gotta start by keeping your dick in your pants.”
“Classy, Brooke.”
“Bite me, Reid—and tell me this: was Blossom, or whatever the hell her name was, worth losing Emma for? Because that’s what did it. Emma’s too forgiving for her own good, and I’m positive she’d have given you another shot if you hadn’t screwed it up for yourself—literally.”
Ouch. Bullseye.
As the valet steers the Lotus away from the curb (carefully, because he knows I’m watching), a taxi pulls up. Wearing a floral sundress, her hair piled adorably at her crown and looking as though it will all tumble down any moment, Emma steps from the back seat, watching me warily. “Hey, beautiful,” I smile. Oops. So much for not flirting.
“Hi, Reid.” She looks equal parts reserved and relieved, so I haven’t blown it yet.
Focus on sweet and friendly. No flirting. So I guess pulling her forward and seeing if she’ll let me kiss her is out. As is telling her she looks good enough to eat. “So. Um. Ready to meet Ryan?” I assume Seacrest hasn’t been on her list of interviewers before now.
She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Nervous. “I guess so.”
“No worries. He’s as cool as they come—he won’t do anything to make you feel uncomfortable.” I hook my thumbs into my front jeans pockets and offer her an elbow. “So… I suppose you got the word from the powers that be on how we’re supposed to play up the Darcy-and-Lizbeth-in-love angle, huh?”
She slides her hand into the crook of my arm and we walk up to the studio doors. I glance down at her and she looks up, a small crease between her brows. “Yeah, my agent told me. I’m not really—”
“Don’t worry.” I lean closer and lower my voice. “This will be a piece of cake. I’ve had to do it once before, and I couldn’t stand my costar. It took everything in me not to stuff a sock into her mouth any time she started talking. We managed to keep up the pretense until the initial release was over. You and I won’t have the same problem… unless you find yourself wanting to stuff a sock in my mouth.”
One corner of her mouth turns up and she smirks, and I know we’re good. “I don’t feel the need so far,” she retorts. “But I’ll let you know.”
The interview goes well. When questioned, we issue polite denials of any romantic ties between us, stating that the whole cast was cozy last fall, what with the close quarters and our similar respective ages. Ryan quirks an eyebrow when I bump Emma softly with my shoulder and smile down at her like we have a secret. We’ve definitely fulfilled what the studio wants from us—ambiguity in our answers about a possible relationship, coupled with seemingly minor physical displays of affection.
What the public believes or doesn’t about Emma and me is irrelevant to me personally, and I know she won’t be swayed into (or out of) a relationship because of fan reaction, especially considering her upcoming exit from Hollywood this fall. Whatever’s going on between her and Graham Douglas can’t possibly be all that significant yet. They live too far apart and have hardly seen each other in months. He’s a wild card, though. I never did figure him out. Brooke seems to think she can manipulate this with my help, and both of us will end up with what we want.
I’m less sure of that, but perfectly willing to play my part. Losing Emma was a massive disappointment. One I’d like to reverse.
Chapter 6
GRAHAM
It’s been four days since I’ve seen her. In person, anyway. I’m currently staring at a jerky graphic of her on my laptop screen—the best Emma-substitute technology has to offer. It’s not enough. Not even close.
“Don’t you have class tomorrow?” she asks, blinking into her webcam, staring at a correspondingly spasmodic image of me.
“I do.” The time difference between us doesn’t play into my favor. She’s the one who can afford to sleep in; I’m the one with eight o’clock classes. 10:03 p.m. in Sacramento is 1:03 a.m. in New York. “But if you were here, I wouldn’t be sleeping, either. So what’s the difference?” Aside from the fact that sitting in my bed, laptop tilted to watch your face as you speak, is so inferior to the feel of you in my hands, the taste of you on my tongue.