“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.
Chapter 20
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.”