‘Do you need to ask?’ she says.
‘I’m still getting used to it.’
‘I trust you, Reid.’
Subduing a brief surge of guilt over the rather significant thing I’m still withholding, I tell her, ‘I’m going to hold your hand on the way to the car, which will be interpreted – correctly – as deliberate confirmation of our relationship. Try to erase that apprehensive little frown. Have you ever been on stage? School play, class skit, anything?’
She nods, the crease between her brows more pronounced and her lower lip drawn fully into her mouth – firm evidence of her anxiety. ‘I’ve done my share of class skits. Why?’
‘Don’t panic – I’m not giving you any lines. You just need to try to look … happy.’
The frown deepens. ‘I am happy.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘Very convincing, Miss Cantrell.’ I trace the little furrow with my index finger, continuing down her nose and gently pinching her chin between my fingertips.
She takes a slow breath, closes her eyes and relaxes her face into my hand.
Rewarding her with a deep kiss, my thumb strokes her cheek. ‘Perfect. Now hold that satisfied expression, and later this evening, I’ll make good on the promise behind that kiss.’
Before she can lose her nerve, I take her hand and we emerge into the first real shit-storm of paparazzi she’s been subjected to. They call our names and a barrage of questions. ‘Reid – are you and Ms Cantrell in a relationship now?’ and, ‘How long have you two been together?’ while cameras whirr and flashes erupt into the violet twilight. She’s never squeezed my hand so tightly.
Making certain she’s safely locked in before circling the back of my car to the driver’s door, I open the door and flash the photogs a smile – a show of gratitude that they left us enough room to manoeuvre from the front door to the car.
‘What about Emma Pierce?’ a voice calls. ‘Does this mean you’re over her? Moving on?’
I shake my head and chuckle. Man, they just do not give up.
It’s been eight months since I delivered Emma right into Graham Douglas’s arms. When I met up with the two of them in Vancouver last fall, they were revoltingly happy – but seeing the two of them together then only made me think of Dori, the infuriating Habitat girl I didn’t think I’d ever see again.
Brooke: Call me. I have news.
Me: On a date. Will call tomorrow.
Brooke: A ‘date’? Is that what you’re calling them now?
Me: Off limits topic.
Brooke: Fine. TTYT.
8
DORI
Reid is trying to talk me into sleeping over as I slide my feet into my faux leather Payless loafers and he pulls on a paint-splattered Ralph Lauren hoodie.
‘Did you wear that to the Habitat project last week?’
Glancing down, he shrugs. ‘Nah. It came like this.’
‘Huh,’ I say. ‘So it looks like that … on purpose? I guess a good portion of my wardrobe is more hip than I thought.’ Silly me, wearing the less-shabby stuff.
I’m glad to be leaving town today for at least one reason – the fact that Kayla and Aimee will kill me when they see photos of what I wore last night. They’ve both admitted to stalking Reid online now, though I suspect they were following gossip about him long before he ever wrecked his car and stumbled into my humble social circle. They’ll be appalled once they get an eyeful of my drab Fashion Don’t, days after their warnings that I should never wear my own clothes out with Reid.
They never told me what, exactly, I’m supposed to wear in place of what I own.
He pulls me up from his bed and slides his arms around me. ‘I don’t want to hand you over yet.’
Trailing one finger down the jagged, oversized metallic teeth of his hoodie zipper, I say, ‘We’ve already – you know. Twice.’ His arms tighten in response and he nuzzles my face with a low hmm. Forget what people say about make-up sex – I’ve decided going-away sex doesn’t get nearly as much credit as it deserves. ‘If I stay, we’d probably just sleep anyway.’
‘And that would be bad because …?’
I press my head to his chest and breathe him in. There’s nothing I’d like better than to kick off my shoes and climb back into his bed. ‘It’s my last night at home, at least for a while. Plus, my dad promised to make my favourite breakfast – banana walnut waffles – in the morning.’
His fingers encircle my wrist and he pushes the cuff of my shirt back to kiss the pulse thrumming there. ‘I can get you home in time for breakfast,’ he whispers.
Eyes downcast, I can’t swallow the lump in my throat. ‘I’ll miss you.’
‘No, you won’t,’ he says. My eyes flash up and give my misery away, and he sighs. ‘God, Dori. You won’t miss me because I’m going to see you as often as I can get there or fly you here. In fact, the premiere for Mercy Killing is right before Valentine’s Day. I want you to come with me.’
I almost forgot about the romantic action flick he’ll be promoting with Chelsea Radin over the next month. Thank goodness I met and liked Chelsea and her husband, Chad, last week. Some of the steamy film stills of her with Reid are unbearable to look at. I don’t know if I’ll be able to take the live-action scenes. I’d love to ask Chad how he copes with his wife doing scenes like that without wanting to pulverize her male co-stars.