Thanks to the three-hour jet lag, I’m up earlier than usual at four thirty. Even if it’s seven thirty in New York, I doubt Nikki will be up, unless Chevron—tuned to my hours—dragged her off the bed. Either way, better if I wait a couple more hours before I call. It’s silly how quickly I’ve turned into such an anxious pet parent, but I literally feel like I’ve left my child behind.
I change into running gear—leggings, tank top, iPod strap, fit watch—and wander down to the lobby.
“Hi,” I say, startling a half-asleep receptionist.
“Hello, ma’am.” He jerks himself awake and sits straighter in his chair. “How may I help you?”
“Is there a good running trail around here?”
The clerk blinks at me, still shocked someone would be this chirpy at such an ungodly hour. But he recovers fast. “Er, the best option would be to turn left as soon as you exit the hotel and run along the beach. If you head south, you’ll find yourself on the Strand, a paved bike path that will bring you to the Venice boardwalk. Or you could go north and loop Palisades Park.”
“Is the park open this early?”
“Yeah, it’s twenty-four hours.”
“Great, thanks.”
I press play on the iPod and jog outside where it’s still entirely dark. There’s only a hint of light glimmering behind the hills on my right, which means the temperature is still manageable. I doubt I’d be able to run with the Californian sun shining high in the sky.
I turn left, follow the road to the beach trail, and head north toward the park. If the Hudson waterfront is one my favorite trails in New York, it has nothing on the ocean. I’m only missing Chevron.
After the first loop, I check my watch. Eight minutes per mile. Way below my average. Lately, I’ve only had time to run on the weekends, and my lack of constant training is showing. I should start over, but I’m too lazy, so from the park, I cross over a bridge to the beach to go exploring. The shore is deserted, too dark even for surfers.
As I stare at the water, a terrible idea strikes me. Faster than I can stop myself, I remove all my clothes and run into the ocean stark naked. Never skinny dip—I can cross you off the list!
I don’t linger in the cool water more than thirty seconds. Not just because I’m butt naked in a public space, but also because the Pacific is freezing. I re-dress faster than ever and with fresh adrenaline pumping in my bloodstream, I run back to the hotel, breaking every personal speed record ever made.
By seven, I’m showered, dressed, and ready to rock LA. I’m finishing applying makeup when a knock distracts me.
“Who is it?” I call.
“Richard.”
My stomach does a triple axel. I slip on my cord wedges—a good compromise between the necessity to wear heels and a long day of walking—and open the door.
“Whoa.” Richard’s eyes widen. “And I thought I was up early,” he says, eyeing my already-prim attire.
He’s still wearing gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt. Soft, damp curls are clinging to his forehead as if he just came out of the shower, which he must have. Someone, please shoot me now! Sweat-panted Richard is too good a sight, and showering Richard too good a fantasy, for me to preserve my brain cells.
“I’m a morning person,” I say apologetically. “And there’s the jet lag.”
“Yeah, so would it be okay to meet downstairs in fifteen?”
“Super, see yah there.”
***
Richard jerks his chin toward my shoes, unimpressed. “Are you sure you want to walk in those all day?”
So wedges aren’t his thing. Mmm, I’ll see if I can do better tonight.
“Yeah, I always wear heels.”
“Why?”
We are not all blessed with Saskia Landon’s legs.
“I just love heels.”
“But we’ll be walking a lot.”
“I’m used to it, no big deal.”
He shrugs. “I was thinking we should turn today into something different.” Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. Can anyone else hear my heart beating? “Would your readers be interested in an ‘LA in One Day’ feature?”
Good thing I removed the fit watch. Otherwise, it’d be sending off all kinds of alarms at my heart stopping to beat due to mortification. When will my brain finally grasp that this is only work for Richard? Strictly business. No romantic agenda.
“You might’ve just dug your own grave.” I smirk vindictively.
“Why?”
“Because my readership would prefer something titled ‘One Day Shopping Spree in LA.’”
“Ah. You’re killing me.” Richard mockingly brings a hand to his chest. “Where should we start?”
“A walk towards the unique finds of Venice Beach, and then we’ll work our way up to Rodeo Drive.”
***
Richard bears the window-shopping like a man. From Venice to Beverly Hills to the Fashion District, he follows me around town not once complaining. I select a bunch of indie stores and interview the owners and designers. Richard is a good sport even when we try out a few male boutiques, going so far as to offer himself up as a human guinea pig—er, male model.
As we walk out of the umpteenth shop, Richard asks, “How much time do you need to get ready for tonight?”
“An hour, an hour and a half tops. Why? Should we already head back?”
Richard looks at his watch and sighs. “No, we’re good for another two hours or so.”
“Then what do you say we do something non-shopping related?”
The relief on his face is humorous.
“What did you have in mind?”
“A quick trip to Griffith Observatory. Everyone agrees it’s the one view in LA you can’t miss.”
“Will we have time? With traffic and everything.”
I check my phone. “The map app authority says it’s half an hour to get there and half an hour to get back to Santa Monica, even in traffic.”
“And how long from Santa Monica to downtown?”
I swap addresses. “Half an hour.”
Everything seems to be spaced half an hour away in LA.
“Then we’re good.”
Richard calls an Uber, and we ask the driver to wait for us as we do a quick tour of the observatory.
After taking a couple—okay, an unhealthy number—of pictures of the Hollywood sign, we make our way along the promenade that wraps around the main dome. We stop under an arch to admire the Los Angeles skyline. The day is clear, and the view stretches far into the distance.
“This city is ginormous,” I say. “I could never live here.”
“Because of the long drives?”
“No, the weather. Too hot.”
“I thought you’d enjoy the warmth.”
“Why?”
“You’re like fire.”
I stare up at him and find him gazing intensely at me.
“Let me guess, the hair? I get that a lot.”
“Yeah.” He nods, looking almost relieved. “The hair.”
Being this close to Richard, his scent fills my nostrils. Pine cones and rain. Even in sunny California, the boss still manages to smell like a cold winter day.
“Anyway, I prefer winter…” and before I can shut my stupid mouth, I blab the next thought that pops into my head, “Your aftershave smells like a snowy forest, you know?”
No time to add anything to justify my silly, and totally inappropriate comment before his jaw tightens and his eyes harden.
“We should probably go,” Richard says, looking away. “The meter is running.”
“Sure.”
I follow him around the dome and back to the car with a large, inexplicable lump in my throat.
***
The wistfulness of the observatory visit dissipates as I take advantage of every minute I have to get ready. I scrub and pamper myself until I’m the best beauty products can make me. Tablet connected to the hotel Wi-Fi, I experiment with two of Tracy’s tutorials to style my hair in a loose hairdo, and contour my cheekbones so they’d make Katharine Hepburn burn with shame.
At the designated hour, I make my way down to the lobby and, for once, Richard’s eyes don’t wander straight to my shoes but linger on my plunging neckline. I take a deep breath and try not to blush.
“Wow.” Richard’s eyes widen. “You’re stunning.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say.
“No, it’s just… I didn’t expect your dress to be so…” Flattering? Revealing? Sexy? I’m right there with you, Richard, I would’ve never expected to wear a dress like this, not in a million years. “…colorful.”
“Colorful?” That’s not the adjective I was expecting.
“Yeah, somehow I had myself convinced you’d come out in a black dress.”
Which I totally would have if it weren’t for the stupid list and stupid friends. “Why black?”
“It’s safe.”
“Are you calling me boring?” I say, more flirtatious than reproachful.
My coquettishness earns me a smile, a real one, not Richard’s usual guarded smirk. And as the boss lets himself go, his entire face changes. Crinkly lines appear at the corners of his eyes, and for once, warmth radiates from his gaze instead of mistrust. His sexy dimples make an appearance too. If I thought he was handsome before, I knew nothing. When Richard smiles, really smiles, he is sensational. It sucks the air out of my lungs and sends my heart into a pounding frenzy.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he says.
“You clean up well yourself,” I manage to say.
“Shall we go?”
He offers me his arm and I take it. Outside, we hop in a cab and spend the obligatory half-hour journey mostly in silence. I am too self-conscious of my spiraling crush to make small talk. Like an inexperienced teenager, I jolt in my seat every time our legs bump due to a sharp turn.
After stepping out of the cab, we’re admitted to the red carpet by security. I’m blinded by the photographers’ flashes and their reflections on the metallic walls of the Disney Concert Hall. The paps, however, soon realize we’re nobodies, and the clicking craze stops.
At the end of the carpet, there’s a small press area with other correspondents from magazines and TV. We’re early. The big celebrities will start arriving a bit later. Presumably in a slow trickle that will carry on for at least an hour. Events managers time the arrivals so that all the guests will get their dedicated moment in front of the photographers and with the press.
“I should wait here,” I tell Richard. “See who gets in, do some interviews…”
“I’ll get started on the champagne.” He winks at me and disappears inside.
Alone and with work to do, I regain some presence of mind—meaning only half of my brain cells are being fried by the memory of Richard’s smile.
Plus, red carpets are fun! All the celebrities I meet are incredibly down-to-earth and exciting to talk to. They make jokes, tell me wardrobe malfunction anecdotes, and I record more than a few good quotes to publish in a bubbly article on the evening. Even if I’m from a relatively unknown magazine, no one snubs me. And the first part of the night flies by in a series of incredible conversations, swooshing gowns, and some fan-girl moments on my part. When no one new arrives for twenty minutes, I move inside to finally join the real party.
I queue with some other guests at the wardrobe. Nothing can be brought upstairs. Phones, bags, jackets… everything has to be checked in.
I’ve just dropped my clutch when I find myself face to face—more face to chin—with my nemesis: Aurora Vanderbilt.
Aurora’s lips part in an evil smirk as she says, “Blair, good to see you. I didn’t know amateurs were invited.”
We haven’t seen each other since she stole my promotion, so my reply is pure vitriol. “You mean you thought it was a party reserved for toddlers still attached to their mother’s skirts?”
As if on cue, Rebecca Vanderbilt appears at her daughter’s side. “Who’s your friend, dear?” she asks.
Aurora gives me a look of death. “No one,” she says, steering her mother away.
Blood pulsing, I let them go and wait at a distance for the next elevator. Aurora being here isn’t the only reason I’m edgy. Richard is waiting for me upstairs. In the last hour, I’ve met and spoken to a good chunk of the sexiest men alive top-ten chart, but no one gave me goose bumps the way only thinking about Richard does.
If my Belle-goes-to-the-ball dreamy filters weren’t set high enough already, the event being hosted at Disney Hall’s rooftop garden doesn’t help. Talk about enchanting venues. Up here, it’s all blooming trees and winding pathways around a magical rose fountain, all enclosed by sweeping metallic walls. As romantic settings go, it doesn’t get any more suggestive than this space.
I step out of the elevator and walk into this wonderland of fairy lights and whimsical alleys accompanied by Disney-esque classical music playing in the background. To ease the anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I grab a few canapés and wash them down with champagne.
“There you are.”
Richard’s voice makes me jump so high that if my glass were still full, I would’ve splashed us both with bubbly.
“Richard.” I turn, steadying myself.
In the semi-darkness, his sharp features appear even more attractive, aided by flickering shadows and contrast. Maybe it’s just the tux. That must be it. You can so judge a book by its cover. I’m judging right now. More than judging, I’m thinking of ripping the cover off the book entirely.
“Did you have a good time downstairs?”
“Yeah, wonderful. I collected loads of material.” I smile tensely. “Don’t worry, I’ll be able to put together a few amazing editorials.”
“I’m not worried. I’ve complete confidence in your work.”
Someone bumps into him from behind, and Richard stumbles forward, landing with both hands on my bare collarbones. Whoa! I’m being electrocuted. Tingling electric currents spread from my shoulders down my arms and up my neck to my brain where the last few surviving cells are being short-circuited for good.
Richard steadies himself but doesn’t pull away immediately. We stand there, under a tree blossoming with ridiculously pretty red flowers, staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, Richard frowns and takes a step back. Neither of us speaks, and the silence becomes awkward quickly. A server breaks it by offering us a tray of hors d’oeuvre. Richard declines, but I take one and stuff my mouth full before I say something stupid.
Panic swells as I’m about to swallow the last bite. Richard hasn’t taken his eyes off me and still isn’t speaking. What am I going to say when I’ve finished chewing and have no more excuses to keep quiet? Will we just stay here all evening, staring at each other in utter silence?
My dilemma is solved by some six-foot-four hulking human careening into Richard and pulling him into a bear hug. “Mate, you’re here.”
Richard and the newcomer start a primordial dance of friendly grunts and shoulders slaps. When the ritual is over, the stranger turns, and I’m blinded by Hollywood’s most wanted million-dollar smile.
“Blair, this is my good friend Christian,” Richard makes the introductions. “Chris meet Blair.”
“Hi,” I say, and shake Christian Slade’s hand as if I was used to meeting out-of-this-world-gorgeous men all the time.
A tiny part of me wants to take a selfie with him and post it on my Instagram feed right away. So I’m equally disappointed and relieved that only the official event photographer is admitted up here. At least I’m forced not to embarrass myself with the request, but I want the selfie so badly.
Richard and “Chris” do some catching up, and I’m content to just ogle the pair. It’s like staring at a box of bonbons, trying to decide which one you want to eat first. These two are the yin and yang of masculine sex appeal. Christian: tall, blonde, green-eyed. Richard: equally tall, dark hair, dark eyes. Both impossibly sexy. Both with knee-wobble-inducing British accents. And both bachelors. Yum!
“So, how’s the evening going?” Richard asks Christian after a while.
“Ah, too much public relations. I need a break.” That’s when the mega-Hollywood star surprises me bending his head toward me in a small bow. “May I steal the lady for a dance?”