Between the Lines (20 page)

He sighed. “I’m
not
brilliant. I’ve just always been a bit more… driven… than my peers. Another thing—certain classes and instructors make you think and generate approaches to issues you didn’t know existed. As an actor, it gives you more depth to pull from.”

Almost exactly what Jenna said on the plane.

“Hu—” I caught myself and clamped my lips shut.

“Nice catch,” he said before taking the lead so we could pass another slowpoke walker.

***

I’m ready to go at 6:45. By 7:00, I’ve retouched my hair four times, checked my teeth twice, sat down on the bed and stood up again countless times. At the knock, my stomach drops. Without checking the peephole, I pull the door open, and there stands Brooke, dressed to go out, but her hair is straight on one side, wavy on the other.

“Brooke? Hi?”

She walks into my room. “Hey, cute tank.
Please
tell me you have a Chi flatiron. Mine shorted out or something. Goddamned thing made a
zzzzt
noise when I was halfway done, as you can undoubtedly see with your own eyes, and now I have a date in like twenty minutes with the super
hot
manager of that band we saw the other night? And my hair looks like complete crap.”

Band manager? She has a date with a band manager? “Uh, sure. I’ll get it.”

“Oh, thank God. I seriously wanted to kill someone but couldn’t think who’d be culpable except for whoever put that thing together, and they’re probably making three cents an hour and working out of a windowless factory in southeast Asia.”

As we exit the bathroom, a confident knock sounds at the door. Brooke’s eyes slide to me. “Date tonight, Emma? Who is it? Reid?” She peers through the peephole. “Yep, there he stands, Mr. Everything.” I’m wondering what she means by
that
as she pulls the door open and stands in the doorway. “Hey there.”

He’s wearing jeans and a white jersey Lacoste shirt, and he looks like he got up from a nap, ran a hand through his hair and pronounced it fine. And that’s the thing—it
is
fine. This is the most unfair and strangely subtle characteristic that he possesses: the more blasé he is about his appearance, the more beautiful he gets.

Over Brooke’s shoulder, I watch a number of emotions flicker over Reid’s face. Glancing at the number on the door and back to her, he blinks, his head tilting sideways just slightly. His eyes narrow, spotting me behind her. “Brooke. Nice hair.”

“Well. I’m off to repair my split personality. You children have fun.” She turns to me. “Thanks for the Chi. I owe you big time.” She and Reid are like five-year-olds in a stare-off as she walks around him, until she breaks it off and walks towards her room, humming.

“Odd girl,” he says, turning back to me. His gaze appreciative, he looks me up and down. Taking my hand, he twirls me around slowly. “You look
so
hot. Are you ready to go?”

“Yep. I’ll get my bag.” I take a calming breath as I cross the room, trying to remind myself that he’s just a guy. On this date,
he’s just a guy
.

Right.

Chapter 27

REID

Bob and Jeff are standing at the hotel exit, which tells me everything is about to get a lot more interesting. When we step outside and the flashes start, Emma’s hand tightens in mine. With our bodyguards running defense, I slide an arm around Emma and lead her to the waiting car. She’s clearly a little freaked out and unused to this level of media attention.

One of the many alarming and unexpected things no one tells you is how
close
the people with cameras come. Don’t they have professional zoom lenses? Do they really need to duck under Bob’s meaty arm to snap a flash right in our faces? The photographers call my name, trying to get me to glance up so they can get the money shot. When that doesn’t work, they try Emma. She follows my lead and ignores them. Smart girl.

Some of the paparazzi follow us to the restaurant, which is at least half an hour away, and the flashes start up again before we even get out of the car. Bob and Jeff, as usual, are worth every penny production is paying them, supplying a wall of muscle on either side of us as we dash inside.

We’re greeted by a deferential maître d, dim lighting, thick carpeting, limestone walls and wood beams. The wait staff is dressed in formal black and white, tables boast crisp white cloths and frosted candlelight, and tiny white lights wrap around columns and dip overhead like stars. I give my name and we’re ushered to a table near the window in the back, as I requested, with a view of the lake. There’s outdoor seating and a dock, which is trimmed with more firefly-sized lights.

I watch her face as she takes it all in. “Like it?”

Her wide grey-green eyes drift over everything, returning to mine. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.”

“True.” I’m staring at her. Haven’t stopped since we sat down. She smiles shyly into her lap. The table is small, and I lean forward and take her hand, the ghost of a smile playing across my mouth, and bring it to my lips, kissing the knuckles one at a time. Corny, I know. Just the sort of thing guys are usually too dense to actually do. Her cheeks glow a little pink.

“So Emma. Are you ready to be famous?” I release her hand, leaning back as the waiter arrives with a bottle of wine. “Because this film is going to do it for both of us.”

She smirks at me while the wine is tasted and approved, doesn’t speak until the waiter disappears. “You’re already famous.”

I frown, lips pursed. “I am? What makes you say that?”

She laughs. “Oh, I don’t know… the photographers who follow you around, maybe? The girls?”

“What girls? I haven’t noticed any girls,” I say, and she laughs again. “Well, I’ve noticed
one
girl. And I haven’t been able to see or care about any of the others lately. They might as well be invisible.”

Peering at me, head angled, she says, “Hmm.”

I don’t want to say too much too soon. She seems oddly perceptive where bullshit is concerned. “You didn’t answer. Are you ready for it yourself?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s still a little surreal. I want to be successful, of course. But part of me just wants to be a normal girl.”

That’s a new one. Who wants to be normal? “Normal how?”

The self-consciousness is back. She bites her lip, fingers tracing the base of her wine glass as she debates what to reveal. “Like… high school. Theatre class. Homecoming football games. College plans. Prom.”

“Prom, eh?” I laugh softly and she smiles. “How long have you been tutored?”

“Since sixth grade.”

“I started then, too.”

She leans up. “It never bothered you—the friends you left behind? The athletic teams you never played on, the class president spot you’d have easily won?”

No one’s ever asked me about this before. I never gave much thought to what I may have left behind or given up. I finished my degree credits a year ago, and was more than happy to be done with classes, assignments and tutors. “I never did public school, so my situation was never all that normal to begin with.” I lean closer, too, elbows on the table. “You realize, don’t you, that there are millions of kids our age who’d desert all of that stuff in a heartbeat to have what we have, to be who we are?”

“So I hear.” She colors slightly and I smile.

“What?” I ask, and she blushes harder, smiling into her lap again.

“Nothing. Just some stuff my best friend said to me recently. About doing this movie.” I tilt my head, an acknowledgement that there’s more she isn’t saying. She rolls her eyes. “With you.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “So I have a loyal fan in—where do you live?”

“Sacramento.”

“Sacramento. Not too far from LA.” I know what I’m implying the moment this is out of my mouth.

She does, too, and she’s studying my face. “It’s like 400 miles. Not exactly next door.”

I shrug. “No. But not as far as say, Texas, or New York.” I know what I’m implying with this, too, but I’ve got the innocent look down. Growing up with my dad taught me to either lie like a pro or not bother.

In a feat of perfect timing that will earn him a thirty percent tip, the waiter arrives with our meals.

*** *** ***

Emma

Strangely, I haven’t given much thought to where Graham lives, in relation to me. But New York is on the other side of the country from Sacramento. In comparison, Los Angeles seems right down the street. I should pinch myself right now for thinking about Graham at all. I’m on a date with Reid. And I’m enjoying it.

The meal is amazing, the waiter attentive but not intrusive. We talk about jobs we’ve done, people we’ve worked with or want to work with, and he’s funny, especially when discussing Hollywood gossip, and how petty and catty people can be. How fake. Which makes me think of Brooke.

“So how do you know Brooke?” I ask, not thinking this question will get the reaction it does. I just recalled the animosity that seems to be between them and wondered at the reason. He reigns in his response quickly, but not before I see what flies across his face. Even still, I’m not sure how to interpret it. “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to pry… I just… noticed you guys seem… uh…” Oh my God, I’ve talked myself into a corner.

“Noticed that, did you?” His voice is careful, calm. He doesn’t seem angry.

“I’m so sorry—it’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay. I’ve never really… discussed what happened with anyone.” He shifts in his chair, waits while the waiter takes his plate. “We were involved. A long time ago.” His blue eyes sweep up and he sighs. “To say it didn’t end well would be an understatement.”

“Wow. I’m really… sorry.” I’m dying to know what happened, but there’s no
way
I’m asking that of him.

“Seriously, it was a
long
time ago. I’m way over it, believe me. I know she is, too. This is just the first time we’ve worked together since then.” He smiles pensively, then twitches his hair back and seems to shake off any negative leftovers. “There’s no reason for either of us to be bitter at this point. She seems happy enough with Graham.”

Boom. Just like that.

“Are they—? I mean, tonight she said…” Oops, this is probably going against the girl code. Even if Brooke and I aren’t exactly best friends.

He arches a brow. “What?”

Ugh! What if he tells Graham? Should
I
tell Graham?

“Well, um, she said something about a date tonight…”

“With someone other than Graham, is that what you mean?”

“Yeah.” I feel uncomfortable having divulged this, until Reid answers.

“Emma… you’re not used to Hollywood people. You’re still inexperienced—not that you should be anything else.” He snaps a credit card on top of the bill and sends the waiter away. “I’m almost positive Brooke and Graham, living as far apart as they do, have an understanding.”

“You mean… to go out with other people?”

“Either that, or they’re just fooling around while we’re on location here.” I guess the look on my face takes me directly from inexperienced to downright naïve, because he says, “Oh great. I’ve shocked you. Look, I’m
sure
whatever they’re doing, they’ve agreed on between them. The best thing to do in this business is adopt a live-and-let-live attitude.”

He signs the receipt, an illegible scrawl, and stands, taking my hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

When we reach the hotel, he shields me on the way in as he did hours ago, on the way out. Once we’re inside, he takes my hand as we cross the lobby. I feel more comfortable with him than I ever thought it possible to be, but my pulse is hammering by the time we get into the elevator. When the doors shut, he leans against the side wall and pulls me forward, his feet spread just far enough apart for me to stand in between them. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, his hands pressing my low back. And then he does.

We stop at my door, and he says nothing about us continuing to his room. “I know you have filming at an offensive hour tomorrow, so if you’ll let me have one more kiss just inside your door, I’ll go to my room, where I’ll sit and smile for a bit before falling asleep.”

“No killing zombies tonight?”

He laughs. “Ah, who was it—Tadd, or Quinton? That addiction is supposed to be our secret. It’s like Fight Club for guys with faces that have to stay pretty.”

I laugh, unlocking my door. We step inside my room, where I’ve left a single lamp on and curtains open, because it was light outside when we left. Reid lets the door shut and immediately presses me to it, his hands on my shoulders. Inverting his hands, his fingernails lightly skim down my bare arms. When he gets to my hands, he takes them in his, dips his head and kisses me.

“I have to go now or I’m not going at all,” he says, minutes later. I can’t do any more than nod. He kisses me again, pulling away and murmuring, “
Damn
,” before opening the door and slipping into the hallway.

***

Production interrupted the Bennet house filming schedule in favor of completing some scenes at the mall. We have to be on location and ready to go by 5 a.m. so we can wrap filming before the mall opens. No one can blame us for whining about morning coming too soon when we’re dragging ourselves out of bed at 4 a.m.—which I’m sorry is
not
technically morning. Graham and I decided yesterday, when we got news of the change, to sacrifice our morning runs for the week.

Five of us stumble into the limo and collapse on the seats, clutching Starbucks cups and battered sides, going over lines. Reid, Tadd and Brooke don’t film until the afternoon, so at the moment, everyone hates them. Quinton sprawls next to me, eyes shut and Ray-Bans in place, despite the darkness outside and the tinted windows, as if the mini-lights throughout the interior of the limo are an outrage. “Why am I awake? Sun’s not even up yet,” he complains.

Next to me, Graham’s mouth turns up on one side and he bumps my foot with his. We’re used to being up before the sun, familiar with the gradual warmth on our backs as it rises, the erratic, elongated shadows it creates ahead of us as we jog west along the river paths, its rays on our faces as we circle around to head back to the hotel. “I miss running already,” he says.