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.
As Emma and I exit the car, the bodyguard steps up ahead of the valets. They hang back, daunted by his tank-like size. “Mr. Alexander, Ms. Pierce, I’m Alek. I’ll be joined by another security team member within the next hour, in case either or both of you need to leave the hotel for any reason, separately or together. Otherwise, we’ll occupy rooms near your suite and are at your disposal during your time in San Diego.”
Emma’s eyebrows rise. “Um, thank you, Alek. It’s nice to meet you.” He shakes her hand, giving us each his card and telling us to call him before leaving the suite, so he or his colleague can accompany us wherever we want to go.
The valets exchange looks, clearly unsure if they’re even allowed to approach us. “Heads up,” I call before tossing the Lotus keys to the one nearest me.
Alek has all of the luggage except Emma’s laptop bag, which she’s sliding onto her shoulder, and mine, which she hands me as she shuts the trunk lid. “What does he mean, ‘your suite’?” she asks as after I pass a couple of twenties and instructions to the valets and follow her inside.
I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out in a minute. Production set up the reservation.” I don’t plan to tell her I was contacted for the specific arrangements of said reservation, so I know exactly what ‘your suite’ indicates.
The chrome and glass entry doors slide open soundlessly as we walk up to them, and the concierge meets us just inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Alexander, Ms. Pierce. Right this way, please.”
The suite is a two-bedroom penthouse. A bellhop transfers the luggage upstairs while we’re getting our keys and I’m signing my name and halfway listening as the concierge rattles off the various rider-required items he’s handled for us ahead of time.
For me: grilled chicken and hardboiled eggs from room service available at any time, a shower with a clear glass door—not a curtain, minimum 1200 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, ten goose down pillows, two 700-fill down comforters, fresh flowers daily, dry cleaning picked up and returned twice daily, a full gaming system and games (type TBD), wireless controllers and batteries, minimum 52” flat screen television, four new toothbrushes per day (different colors), a lint roller, and a box of Crown condoms.
Emma’s list: cold bottled water and a bowl of fruit. Shit. In comparison, I come off sounding like J. Lo. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to be listening, staring at the key in her hand and looking apprehensive.
Once we’re in the penthouse elevator—which requires one of our room keys to enter—I lean against the pebble-flecked wall, arms crossed loosely. “Are you okay with us sharing a suite? I guess production fell for their own buzz. Just so you know, I’ve stayed here before, and the bedrooms inside the suite are completely separate.”
The elevator deposits us directly into the living area, the wall of windows opposite displaying an unobstructed ocean view. “Wow,” she says. I don’t think she’s going to object to the suite.
“Come look.” I walk to the window. When she follows and looks, I point left. “Mexico.”
“Wow,” she repeats.
“What time do you want to have dinner? We can go out, or have a chef come up and cook for us.” I have to laugh at the look on her face—eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. “Are you sure you want to give all of this up to go to college, Emma? I’ll bet your agent is already getting daily requests for roles someone wants you to consider…”