Hello LAlaland (Lost in LAlaland) (2 page)

“Thanks again you for your help, Tony,” I said. “I’ll be sure to give you a call if I need that . . . um . . .
tour
.” I even threw a little wink in for good measure. When he swallowed, licking his lips and nodding in response, I turned toward the automatic doors without a glance back.

Oh my God. I’d been flirting with my high school crush. My cheeks burned with a mixture of the warmth in my blood from seeing him again and the stifling summer heat of Los Angeles. What the hell was wrong with me? While it was fun to mess with his poor head for a moment, there was nothing good that would come from me playing with this fire.

Anthony Ricci belonged to a very different world than I wanted to be a part of again—a world of people who aspired only to be known for whom they were associated with or how much money they’d made—and I wasn’t the same girl who’d swooned over him as a teenager. Okay, maybe I’d just swooned a little, but that was beyond my control when he was near. Despite my own celebrity, I had mastered my life. I was queen of my world, and letting my guard down to flirt with him was like finding a chink in the armor I’d forged with great care in the armory of my life.

But fire was always more fun than ice, and that man was beyond a doubt the flames to my frost.

I ignored the feeling of his eyes on my back as I turned toward a row of waiting cars. I’d asked Sky to arrange for a car to pick me up, and a suited man, holding a sign bearing my company’s name, escorted me toward a black limousine. Rolling my eyes at the over-the-top ride, I made a mental note to make my own transportation arrangements next time. When the driver asked for our destination, I pulled the reunion invitation out of my bag and gave him the address of the hotel.

As we headed up the 405 and passed Sherman Oaks to get onto the 101, memories came flooding back: the fun nights I’d spent here with my friends, the movies and the shopping at The Galleria, and the adventures we’d had in the Valley while our parents turned up their noses and remained in their little upscale box in Ventura County.

Whenever I’d ventured west to Los Angeles in the last few years, it had always been a quick trip for a conference, or a dress that needed my special attention. Beyond those few times, I tried to stay as far away as possible. Now, though, I was headed right into the thick of it.

Westlake Village entered the horizon, and I felt my stomach churn already. Of course, my parents were no longer living there, it was just a temporary resting place for them between jetting across the globe. They were off gallivanting around Europe somewhere, as most retired couples from Westlake did. At least I wouldn’t have to see them—that took one thing off my mind.

We pulled to a stop in front of the Four Seasons Hotel, and the driver came around to open the door for me. The hotel concierge met me outside, and in a heavy French accent he greeted, “Welcome to the Four Seasons, Madame. I do hope your stay is pleasant, Ms. Chapman.” Thank God someone had gotten my name right to my specifications. “Here is your room key. Please let us know straight away if there is anything else you might need.”

I nodded and smiled lightly at the man. This was what I liked best about these luxury hotels—they had everything ready when I arrived and made it as hassle-free as possible. “
Merci, monsieur,
” I thanked him in his native tongue, putting to use the French I’d learned during my year of interning at Saint Laurent in Paris while Walt was an infant.

A bellhop led me to my oversized suite. Everything around me was grand, exclusive, and a reminder of how hard I’d worked to get where I was in life. Even my ensemble screamed of my success: Louis Vuitton luggage, a Burberry purse, my shoes were Jimmy Choo, and of course, I was rocking my own designer label with the navy batwing top and slacks that I wore.

I settled into my room, hanging up clothing and running my fingers along the fine silk of my designs, admiring my work. I was talented, and was proud enough to recognize that, but I wondered if I had what it would take to become a classic, like Elsa Schiaparelli.

Though I had tried in desperation to separate myself from Los Angeles—and Westlake in particular—I still managed to remain in its grasp in some ways. I’d never forgotten a single moment of my life there, and I especially never forgot Anthony Ricci. The reminder of him caused me to groan in contradicting desire and distaste.

Determining that it would be sinful to waste such a perfect Southern California day, I decided to waste the afternoon away by taking a swim. Well, sunbathing beside the pool was in order at the very least. When I slipped out of my clothes to don my swimsuit, Anthony’s business card fluttered to the floor. I bent to retrieve it and almost threw it into the wastebasket before stopping short.

The man had been my crush for years. I had worshipped his dark, Italian features and the way they contrasted with his bright, sky-blue eyes. It dawned on me then that he would likely be here for the very same reason as I. Perhaps having a bit of fun this week wouldn’t be such a terrible idea.
 
My mind waged war with my body over the idea of finally having a taste of him. He’d been willing at the airport, eager even, and maybe I deserved to let myself fulfill this old fantasy as a reward for coming back to LAlaland.

Nibbling my lower lip, I placed his card beside my cell phone and headed down to the pool, formulating a plan with each step I took.

Chapter 2

The former class president and her minions had rented out the gorgeous garden lawn of the hotel for four straight nights. Evidently, they were planning on throwing a lavish reunion. The first night’s event was set up like a casino, and while we weren’t going to bet with real money, I was excited to test my skills. Texas Hold’em was a game I enjoyed and one of the better memories I had with my ex-husband. Kris had taught me the art of poker early on in our marriage so I could play against him.

Though the dress code for the night was casual, I remained as fashion-forward as possible and donned an artistic peach jumpsuit. It perfectly accented my shoulder-length, ash blonde hair and light brown eyes. I slipped into a pair of Gucci wedge sandals before making my way toward the huge glowing tent set up in the garden.

At the entrance, there was a little table with name tags for everyone in attendance. I signed the guestbook with a roll of my eyes—God, I felt like I was at a wedding—and selected my badge, cringing at the thought of the sticky film touching the expensive fabric I wore.

Fucking hell.
Winifred Chapman-Jensen
was written across the tag in bold black ink. I knew I hadn’t responded to the invitation with the last name
Jensen
, but it didn’t make a difference to them. They knew who I was—the famous me, anyway. As soon as the women of Westlake discovered you were rich or famous, they’d latch on to you like a leech. Resigned, I rolled my eyes toward the starry sky and made my way into the tent, refusing to put the name tag on my clothing and placing it on my bare arm instead.

“Winn Jensen?” A piercing voice echoed in my ears. As I turned, I saw Taryn Carter moving toward me with determination in her steps. She was wearing one of my designs from last year’s spring collection. She probably picked it up at Nordstrom’s Rack or one of those fancy, Jewish consignment shops in the Valley.

I offered a small, tight smile as she reached me. “Hello.” I didn’t acknowledge her name, hoping that would dissuade her from sticking around long.

“Oh. My. God!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. I didn’t return the hug from this woman whom I’d barely talked to in high school, and certainly hadn’t spoken with since. I remained stock still until she finally released me and smoothed the spots where she’d wrinkled my clothes. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

I raised an annoyed eyebrow and, in my all-business voice, asked, “Why wouldn’t I be? I did go to high school here, after all.”

She giggled like a hyena Walt and I had seen at the zoo last month. I needed vodka or a miracle or an asteroid to land on the tent and take me out of the misery of the fake companionship this woman was forcing on me.

“I know that, silly.” She behaved as though we’d been the best of friends. “Don’t you recognize my outfit?” she asked, flailing her arms to the side and spinning like an injured ballerina. Oh, God. I closed my eyes and counted to five. I was being so nasty to the poor girl. It wasn’t like it was her fault she’d fallen into the Westlake trap. It was inevitable for most of the people here.

“Of course,” I managed with a courteous smile. “Thank you for supporting my work.” I gave myself mental cheers for being sweet and leaving my usual sass back in the hotel room . . . well, for dropping it ten seconds earlier, anyway. I must have learned a lot from dealing with people all those years ago—I was impressed with my own diplomacy. “Well, I’d better let you get back to the party. I’m sure there are a lot of people you want to see.”

She nodded, giddy and a little drunk, and headed on her way after placing a peck on both my cheeks.

I sighed at her retreating figure before I took in the setting. The tent was ornate in its decoration—inappropriate and over the top for a high school reunion—but who was I to complain? I’d taken a week off from the rush of New York to bask in the warm sunshine with a cocktail in hand. I hadn’t allowed myself that since my last trip to Milan when my spring line hit the runway, but even that had been for work. Though California and I didn’t have a stellar history, I was bound and determined to appreciate my time off.

“Can I get you a drink, ma’am?” a young waiter asked as I stared at the swirl of activity surrounding me.

I blinked out of my perusal and brought my attention to him long enough to request a much needed drink. “Vodka on the rocks, please.” I watched as he nodded and walked away. I knew I’d have to keep it light tonight—the thought of getting drunk in front of all these people I’d never liked was most unappealing.

A loud shriek sounded from my left. “Winn!” I grinned at the familiar voice and turned toward its source. A very pregnant Ashley Gard-Lawrence waddled over to me. We’d been joined at the hip in high school. Not only had she worked with me to create the costumes for the drama department, but we’d also shared many of my favorite classes. We’d been together the first time we got drunk, and the first time we’d each been kissed—her by Matty Lawrence, and me by Greg Mong. She had even been with me on the night of the drama club’s Senior Slammer Bash, and while I lost my virginity to Russell Cooper, she’d been in the next room losing hers to Matty.

I wrapped my arms around her . . . well, as far as I could manage with her gigantic pregnant belly between us. She squeezed me to her as she both laughed and cried into my hair. Ah, pregnancy hormones.

“Oh, my God, Winn!” She hiccupped through her tears. “I’ve missed you so much! After your wedding, you sort of just disappeared.” A wave of guilt washed over me. “Well,” Ashley continued, “as much as a famous designer can disappear, I guess. I saw you in Vogue a few months ago. You’re so spectacular!”

The regret building up inside me threatened to choke me in its thickness. She was right. After Ashley had been the maid-of-honor at my wedding, wearing a dress that she’d designed for the bridesmaids, we’d fallen out of touch. I'd received an invitation to her nuptials when she and Matty had married four years ago, but I’d been in Paris during the wedding and unable to attend.

“Ash, I’ve missed you.” Leaning back from her embrace and smiling at her tear-streaked face with pieces of her red hair sticking to it, I placed my hands on her round stomach. “How many kids do you have?”

She smiled with pride glowing on her face and patted her belly in fond anticipation of the new life to come. “We have a two-year-old girl named Stacy, and Matt and I are working on numbers two and three at the moment,” Ashley announced with a wide grin.

“Twins?” I asked in amazement.

“Yep. I’m only six months into this, though I look like I’m ready to pop,” Ashley confirmed with a laugh. “How about you? How old is Walt now?”

“Walt’s five-and-a-half now. He’s got his daddy’s platinum blond hair and green eyes,” I bragged with a smirk. But the look on her face clued me in to what she would be inquiring about next.

“How is Kristoffer doing?” Ashley asked. I guess she’d read in the tabloids how Mr. Wall Street had turned out to be gay and left his poor, heartbroken, fashion designer wife and little boy for a life of gay clubs and male prostitutes. None of those rumors were true, of course . . . well, except the part about him being gay and me being a fashion designer. It’d taken months for those ridiculous headlines to go away.

Sighing, I insisted, “Kris is fine. He and his husband, Alex, got married two months ago and are living on the Upper East Side. They have Walt for the week.” Her concerned look was enough to make me groan. When would people understand I was not the least bit torn up over my divorce?

A commotion pulled our attention to the front entrance of the tent, and I was grateful to have something else to look at besides the sympathy on Ashley’s face. Several of the former jocks had gathered around, tossing a football back and forth. I huffed in annoyance. They would never change, which was apparent since they hadn’t grown up in the last decade. A cheer erupted as a dark-haired man caught the ball and jogged through the middle of the pack as if he were entering the end zone in game-time triumph. My breath caught in my chest. Anthony.

An elbow to my side forced my eyes away from his grand entrance. “I see that you’ve still got the hots for him, even after all these years,” Ashley commented, nodding in Anthony’s direction.