Where You Are (19 page)

“I’m sorry we’re staying in,” he says. I move past him into the foyer, and he shuts the front door and leads the way across the slate flooring. “I’m sure you had hopes of showing off that outfit.” He takes my bag and light scarf, our fingers brushing—sending a zap all the way to my toes. When he turns to hang them on a brass hook in the entryway, I draw in a deep, silent breath.

“What,
this
? You know me, Graham—heels and silk are comfort clothes.” I haven’t been in this house in two years, but it hasn’t changed. His family is fond of cozy décor, a warm color palette and natural elements. Pretty much the direct opposite design of my place. This setting suits Graham, though—a fact I’ll keep in mind while apartment hunting tomorrow. I want him to feel at home when he’s there.

Without warning, Cara pops up at my feet and stares up at me, all huge dark eyes. I know from posing the question years ago that his family insisted on a paternity test when she was born, but those eyes are unmistakably Graham’s. Her strawberry blonde hair must be from her mother. It’s in need of a trim. And a flatiron.

“Are you a Gossip Girl?” she asks.

I laugh. “Um, no. I wish! They’re all very pretty.”

She nods, her eyes never leaving mine. “So are you. And you dress like them. You could be one if you want.” This kid is as observant and direct as her father.

“Oh, well, thank you. Maybe if I let the producers know that you said so, they’ll let me be on the show. Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Which boy should I date?”

Nose scrunched, she says, “I don’t like the
boys
. Boys are kind of yucky.” She glances at Graham, who’s trying not to laugh. “Except for Daddy.”

He shrugs as I arch a brow and smirk at him. “I agree completely. Boys
are
yucky, except for your daddy.”

We order Chinese, and I’m impressed when Cara rattles off what she wants and then eats her whole meal with chopsticks, as though she was born with them in her hand.

“Wow. I don’t think I ever even
had
Chinese until I moved to LA.” As far as Mom had been concerned during my first fifteen years of life,
ethnic
meant either Tex-Mex or a jar of Ragu. Dad made a failed effort to broaden my cultural borders during obligatory weekends and parts of summers that I detested giving up for him. I resisted anything he suggested just to spite him, and arrived in LA with a hopelessly unchic palate. Reid was the one who introduced me to the broad array of the ethnic foods I’d missed growing up.

“That’s what you get, growing up in Manhattan—a multi-cultural appreciation and an innate knowledge of take-out.” Graham steals a snow pea from Cara’s bowl, and without missing a beat, her chopsticks snatch a broccoli floret from his. Chewing, they smile at each other and I marvel that even
this
interaction makes me want him.

By the time I leave, we’ve put Cara to bed and Graham and I have had all the chitchat I can stand. Unfortunately, now isn’t the night for me to slide onto his lap and beg him to carry me to his bedroom. The signals he’s sending are still wholly friendship-based, and I know what comes of pushing him for something he doesn’t know he wants. Patience is one virtue I have in abundance, when I have a target on which to focus. My goal with Graham isn’t just sex and morning-after guilt (on his side—I’d feel no such thing). I want it all.

Without warning, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, referring to a man she recently started seeing:
I’m not gonna be some quick lay in the hay. If I want the cha-ching! lifestyle, I have to be patient. I want it all
.

I lay my head back against the taxi seat and close my eyes. I’m. Not.
Her
.

I support myself.
Entirely
. I have my own money. I
make
my own money. Unlike my mother, who hops from one man’s bank account to another’s, I don’t now and won’t ever need a man for financial support.

I’m not her. I’m not her. I will
never
be her.

Emma

“I had no idea how often you
eat
.” After this morning’s interview in San Bernardino, Reid and I set off for San Diego. We’ll do our last early-morning interview of the week there tomorrow, and somehow he talked me into letting him drive us instead of flying.

He’s already claimed to be starving to death twice, though he admits to having eaten breakfast. First stop: two hash browns, three eggs and orange juice at McDonald’s; second stop: a grande caramel macchiato from Starbucks and a protein bar from the glove compartment. Now we’re keeping our eyes peeled for an In-N-Out somewhere just off I-15, right before we get into San Diego, and it’s not even noon.

“I need a few thousand calories a day or I’ll start losing muscle. Right after I pass out.”

I scowl at him. I haven’t so much as looked at a fast food burger in three months, and I’ve already planned a room-service salad for my lunch. “I hate you.”

He laughs. “You’re going to get something this stop, right? Burger? Chocolate shake?”

My mouth drops open. “Are you serious? We’re going to be on
Ellen
next week. Don’t you remember what the media did to me last fall when I ate
bread
one day?”

Crap. I can’t believe I just reminded him of that.

He gives me a wicked grin. “Ah, yeah, the infamous baby bump week.” He chuckles when I roll my eyes and cross my arms. “Emma, you can’t take that stuff personally—it’s just meaningless gossip.”

“How can I not take it personally when people all over the world are discussing which cast hottie knocked me up?”

He makes a
psshh
sound, dismissing my argument. “A bunch of stupid speculation, all proved to be fictional in the end.”

I sigh heavily. “That’s exactly what I mean—why should I have to prove that sort of thing to anyone? It’s nobody’s business.”

He’s staring straight out the windshield and I’m wondering if he’s going to respond when he points and says, “Ha! There it is.” As he exits the highway, he opens the center console, pulls out a Lakers cap and shoves it over his trademark dirty-blond hair. He grins, his blue eyes well hidden behind his mirrored Ray-Bans. “Whaddaya think—regular guy?”

Of course—because a Lakers cap and Ray-Bans are automatic regular-guy camouflage. We’d been lucky on the other two stops—the person at the window each time was older and hadn’t recognized him. “Reid, we aren’t in Beverly Hills or even Long Beach, and you’re driving a yellow—whatever this is.”

Pulling into the parking lot, he shakes his head. “It’s a Lotus. And we’re cruising around So-Cal, not
Kansas
.”

I shrug, suppressing a laugh, wondering if he’s actually this clueless about
regular
people or if he’s just screwing with my head. “Whatever you say, Mr. Regular Guy.”

Once he lowers his window, the aroma of fries is overwhelming, and my stomach gurgles in protest. I haven’t eaten fries since the last time Emily forced half of hers on me in her typical manner:
Get your ass back, would ya? It’s practically nonexistent back there
. Reid orders a burger with three meat patties and no cheese, wrapped in lettuce instead of a bun, and a gigantic vanilla shake. “Are you sure you don’t want something?”

Clenching my jaw, I shake my head, willing myself not to breathe through my nose.

When we pull up to the window, the girl working the register tells Reid the total as she turns towards him, and then she nearly stops breathing. He hands her a fifty and her hands shake as she pulls bills and coins from the cash drawer. She has to start her tally over three times. Finally, she hands him his change, but forgets to count it back. Wide-eyed, her hands still trembling, she just shoves the money into his hands all at once.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and she looks as though she might faint.

“You’re welcome,” she squeaks, backing away from the window before disappearing around a corner.

Reid stuffs wadded bills into the front pocket of his jeans and tosses the coins into a cup holder as we wait for the food.

“This is just a guess, mind you—but I think she
may
have seen through your elaborate
Regular Guy
disguise.”

His mouth twists up on one side. “Smart ass.”

“Just sayin’.”

Three girls and one guy, all four of them stuffing into the tiny window space, deliver his food, which consists of one small paper bag and one large Styrofoam cup. Our original cashier hands him the shake as four pairs of eye shift back and forth between us, and the guy hands him the bag. It doesn’t take long for them to figure out my identity, too—I hear my name whispered amongst them.

“Would you like extra napkins?” a second girl asks, handing out a stack two inches thick without waiting for an answer.

“Here’s your straw!” the third girl waves it out the window, blinking rapidly as Reid reaches to take it from her hand.

“Will there be anything else?” the boy asks, beaming.

“No thanks, this is perfect.” Reid turns his smile on them again, and four sighs come from the window. I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses, not that anyone notices.

We park near an exit, windows down, so he can wolf down the unwieldy beef and lettuce burger. He tries to hand me the shake. “Have some.”

“No.”

Toggling it back and forth, he turns on the full-wattage Reid Alexander smile. “I got the large so there would be enough to share.”

“
No
.”

He takes a sip, peering at me over the top of his sunglasses, his blue eyes full of amused mischief. “Mmm,
so
good. No?” I shake my head. “At least hold it for me while I eat, then.”

With the cup holders full of change and empty Starbucks cups, I’m tricked into taking the shake by my own courteousness.
Crap
. His stupid bunless burger smells good, coupled with the heady aroma of fresh fries from the restaurant behind us, and my mouth is watering from full awareness that the cup I’m holding is filled with several hundred calories of
evil
.

“Emma,” he says, his tone coaxing, “a sip isn’t going to hurt you.”

By the time a couple of shifty-looking guys pull into the parking lot in a beat-up sedan, eyeballing not so much the Lotus as who’s
in
the Lotus, Reid has lured me into taking a couple of bites of his burger (which isn’t bad) and sipping enough of the shake that I just told him he’s the devil.

He watches the two men for about twenty seconds before murmuring, “Hmm. Time to go.” I barely have time to rebuckle before he’s revved the engine, reversed out of the end spot and accelerated straight out of the lot with the sedan in pursuit.

I look back and they’re right behind us. A maniacal smile spreads across the passenger’s face right before a large black camera obscures it. The last thing we want to do is lead the paparazzi directly to the hotel. I spin forward. “They’re right behind us.”

Reid glances in his side mirror, smirking. “Not for long.” We hit the entrance ramp and he’s going ninety before we’re fully
on
the freeway. Gliding around slower-moving cars—by which I mean
all
other cars—he loses the sedan in the thickening traffic. Reaching for the shake, he curls his hand, still warm from holding the burger, around mine, and leans close to sip from it rather than taking it from me. “Mmm. Damn that’s good.”

I clear my throat and try to slip my hand out from under his, but he transfers his hand back to the wheel, releasing me. Checking his mirrors, he grins. “Rule number one of tailing a Lotus: don’t attempt it in a Hyundai.”

*** *** ***

REID

We’re almost to the hotel when I get a text from Brooke. It’s a link and nothing more, and I’m pretty damned sure I’ll find photos of Brooke and Graham getting cozy when I click on it. I’ll check it out once I’m in my room.

“So, dinner tonight?” I say to Emma, noting that she’s checking her phone as well, and frowning. She doesn’t answer. “Emma?”

“Hmm?” She glances up, worry in the downward slope of her brows and the unfocused gaze of her gray-green eyes.

“Everything okay?”

Blinking, she shutters her distressed expression. “Oh. Yeah. Fine.”

My lips twist. “Convincing.”

She blinks again and shakes her head. “It’s nothing, really. Just… it’s nothing.”

Someone must have alerted her to the photos. I haven’t talked to Brooke in a couple of days, so I have no idea how successful she and Rowena were last night—but if Emma’s response is due to those photos, Brooke’s personal paparazza must have nailed it.

The traffic is bottlenecking as we get into town, so I can’t do any more than glance at Emma a couple of times to gauge her level of turmoil. Staring out the window, her reflection is no longer scowling. While I don’t get any pleasure from upsetting her, she’ll need to be upset enough to break things off with Graham for this to go down as planned.

Speed-dialing my manager, I tell him we’re almost there. “According to the Garmin, we’ll be there in five to ten.”

“Good. A bodyguard is waiting in the lobby. I’ll have him move outside, just in case.” George is always cautious, which I appreciate. Very little sneaks up on him. The exceptions to that are my occasional dumbass activities… like that under-aged girl I didn’t have to mention to him (thank God and John for that). I hate disappointing George.

***

At the hotel valet stand are a couple of bored-looking guys in red vests. A dozen feet behind them, our bodyguard for our stay in San Diego exits the hotel—big and badass, arms crossed over his chest and wearing the characteristic intimidating scowl. He could be one of those Ultimate Fighter competitors. I don’t see any paparazzi or fans—a relief after the hasty departure from the In-N-Out.

The valets perk up when they spot the Lotus. Normally, I feel possessive of my wheels and hate turning it over to valets, but I’m so over this car that I don’t care. I told Dad to arrange available funds for me to car-shop as soon as the premiere is over. I definitely want a Porsche. John suggested a 911 GT3.