“Then who cares what she and Graham are doing?” he says, making all sorts of sense.
I think about Emma. “You’re right. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”
*** *** ***
Emma
I raise my voice above the music so MiShaun can hear me. “I can’t believe we all got in.”
“Get used to celebrity, baby!” She clinks her glass to mine. Once the guy at the door got a look at Reid, we were all escorted inside without an eye-bat at anyone’s ID.
Our group takes up a corner near the bar plus half of the tiny dance floor, and our brawny bodyguards look like they’re standing inside a child’s playhouse. While I sip my drink, we examine the rest of the cast. Jenna, Meredith, Tadd and Reid are dancing. Brooke is seated on a velvet sofa with the guy I’d seen leaving his hotel room in his pajamas two nights ago.
I lean to MiShaun. “Who’s the guy sitting next to Brooke?”
“That’s Graham Douglas.” Though he’s twenty feet from us and can’t possibly hear, his eyes snap up. He smiles and tips his chin back like guys do to indicate a sort of non-verbal hey, and MiShaun raises her drink in his direction. When Brooke turns to see who’s taken Graham’s attention from her, I develop a sudden and intense interest in the dance floor.
Running through the cast names in my head, I realize Graham is playing the part of Bill Collins, one of the nerdiest guys in literature. I slide my eyes back to him. In close conversation with Brooke, he leans in as she speaks, one arm draped across the back of the low sofa. “Do you know him?” His dark hair is on the longish side, swept back except for errant sections that fall forward. Unlike the other guys in our group, who are fashionably disheveled in t-shirts and jeans, Graham wears black slacks and a blue button-down, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up.
“I’ve never worked with him. He’s done mostly indie stuff. He was in something that did well in Sundance this year…”
Graham Douglas is nothing like I would picture Elizabeth Bennet’s ridiculous cousin. “He’s sort of, I don’t know—too good-looking to play Collins?”
“A fellow Jane Austen fan!” MiShaun puts a hand up for a high-five. “Don’t worry, once he gets into makeup, they’ll do ghastly things to that handsome mug.”
I can’t help thinking that will be a shame.
Dragging my gaze from Graham, I notice that Reid has gathered a small harem of locals on the dance floor. The bodyguards hover, not interfering, but ready to at a second’s notice. MiShaun follows the direction of my gaze and shakes her head. “That boy is such a player.”
In everything I’ve ever heard about Reid Alexander, one thing he hasn’t done is sustained a relationship past a matter of weeks. Player is right, and I shouldn’t expect anything more from him, chemistry or no chemistry. Even still, I don’t think he’s looked at me once since we arrived.
Quinton Beauvier, whose role is the notoriously charming George Wickham, steps up behind us then, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “Ladies,” he says. Tall and dark-skinned, hair cropped short, he’s boyishly handsome and easily the most muscled guy in the cast. An article in Emily’s favorite gossip magazine claimed he was as the hottest young actor to watch, and included a pull-out poster—now prominently taped on her closet door—in which he leans against a rickety rail fence wearing an introspective look, hands hooked in the front pockets of his low-slung jeans, biceps bulging out of a skin-tight white t-shirt.
“Mr. Beauvier,” MiShaun says, smiling.
“Would either of you like to dance? Reid and his cult followers are monopolizing the floor, and that boy can’t even dance. Look at him, just swaying around. Pitiful.”
“In his defense, he doesn’t have room to do much else,” I say, and Quinton laughs.
“Yeah, yeah. So it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Go dance, Emma. I’m gonna head back to the bar for another one of these,” MiShaun holds up her disappearing cosmopolitan, “and then I’m going to go ask that blond guy who’s been staring at me for the last fifteen minutes to dance. Or something…” She gestures over her shoulder, where a guy in a white starched shirt and loose tie leans against the bar within a group of friends. Any time he looks away from MiShaun, his eyes wander back to her within seconds.
Quinton takes my hand and flashes a brilliant smile. “Let’s show that boy how it’s done.” I don’t know if Reid’s watching or not, but for a few minutes, I forget about him.
Ten minutes later, I tell Quinton, “You’re an awesome dancer.”
He smiles, revealing small dimples and utterly perfect teeth. Emily will die when I tell her. “I love to dance. It was my backup plan, in case the acting thing didn’t work out.” I look out over the crowd, most of whom are watching our group. Reid sips a beer near the bar, girls surrounding him. He glances up then and smiles at me, but doesn’t make any move to break from his groupies.
I turn away, ask Quinton if he’s seen MiShaun.
“She’s still talking to that scruffy white guy.” He gestures towards a dark corner, where the two are seated at a tiny table in close proximity, talking animatedly. Quinton shrugs and we both smile.
After a couple of hours, another drink, and several dances with numerous cast members (none of whom are Reid, dammit), the physical exertion reminds me how much I need to get back into my daily running routine. There’s no way I can stay out later and get up at the crack of dawn to run. I tell Quinton and Meredith I’m going back to the hotel.