“Thing?” I look at him in confusion, still wrapping my head around the scene.
He winks at me.
“Oh, yes. The thing. Sure,” I manage to say.
Sam turns back to Tiffany. “Bye, Tiff. It was lovely to see you again. I enjoyed our wee chat.”
“Oh, you too, Sam. So much.” Tiffany stands on her tippy toes and kisses him on the cheek. “And you know you can count on me.”
“I know. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.” He turns to me. “Shall we?” He steps towards the door.
I nod mutely.
“See you, Grace,” Tiffany says.
“Yeah . . .” is all I can manage as Sam leads me out the door.
As he closes it behind us I turn to him and stage whisper, “What is going on? Are you friends with Tiffany now? Have you forgotten what she did to me?”
“Shhh. Not here. Put this on.” He hands me the cap as he pulls his brown wig and glasses into place.
He flashes me a grin. Despite my confusion, I stifle a laugh. “You look . . . different,” I comment.
“Different good?” he asks.
I shrug. “Kind of like a cross between a ’Seventies rock god and a homeless guy.”
He chuckles. “Well, I can get on board with the rock god thing. You look cute in your cap.” He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
He leads me down the stairs and out the back door to the apartment block where Jimmy is waiting by the car. I wonder how I didn’t notice him on my way in only moments ago.
“Good afternoon, Miss Mortimer,” Jimmy says, holding the back door open for me and flashing me a grin.
“Hi, Jimmy,” I manage before sliding across the back seat, followed closely by Sam.
“Can you drive us around a bit, Jimmy?” Sam asks.
“Of course.”
As the car begins to move, I pull off my disguise and face Sam. “Okay. I think I need an explanation. But first you have to take that wig off.”
He chuckles, pulling it off.
I continue. “What’s going on? I turn my back for five minutes and you’re suddenly all buddy-buddy with the woman who sold us out to the papers?”
He laughs lightly as he messes up his hair. “Sometimes you have to keep your enemies close.”
I know I look unconvinced.
He continues, “I had a break in filming and wanted to see you, so I came over to your place. Tiffany was home and seemed more than happy to let me in and have a chat. Did you know she’s a budding actress, waiting to be discovered?” His eyes are wide in mock disbelief.
I let out a sardonic laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Is that what you two talked about?”
“For a while. Mainly we talked about us.”
“Why? I don’t get it. Last night we agreed to keep this on the QT. What’s changed?”
He shrugs. “Tiffany already knew. She’s sharp. There was really no point in carrying on the charade with her. So, she and I came to a deal: she won’t talk about us, and I’ve promised to get her a meeting with some industry folk. So, you see,” he says, placing his hand on my knee, “we’re good to go.”
His voice is low and husky, rumbling through me.
I swallow. “Good to go,” I echo, my mind darting to us together—in bed. My heart rate increases as my erogenous zones come to attention.
“I’m still pretty dark on Tiffany, you know.”
“Forget about her. It’s fixed,” Sam coaxes. His hand is warm and heavy. He puts his other hand on my bare arm, sliding it up to my shoulder. He leans over and kisses where his fingers have been.
My breath hitches in my throat.
“It’s so good to see you, Grace.”
In an instant, the doubts I had on the way to my apartment come flooding back.
He’s famous: this can’t work.
I clench my fists, willing myself to ignore them.
He slips my hair away from my neck and kisses it, sending delicious curls of lust through me. He runs his fingers through my hair, pulling me into him.
He’s famous: this can’t work.
He brushes his lips against mine. I breathe in his delicious scent.
He kisses me again, this time with more heat, more need. I respond, wrapping one of my legs around him.
“Bloody hell,” he murmurs against my mouth as he pulls me on top of him.
I let out a low laugh, heavy with desire. So, what if he’s famous? Who gives a damn about that? I want this man with every fibre of my being.
I grind myself against his erection, loving the effect it has on him—and on me. I lean down and kiss him, savouring his taste, his warmth, his firm, ready body beneath me.
“Let’s go back to your hotel,” I murmur, breathless, wanting him now. Right now.
He grins. “I thought you’d never ask.
Chapter 16
“I GAVE HIM MY word. That should be enough for you.” Tiffany sniffs. She pulls a face, offended.
She’s offended? Seriously?
“Of course, it is,” I reply through gritted teeth, not convincing anyone.
Although I would like to pack her things and buy her a one-way ticket to Timbuktu, I eventually agreed with Sam—when we came up for air during our incredible afternoon of sex—that I would do my best to put Tiffany’s betrayal behind me.
Now I’m in my room back at my apartment, unpacking my bag. I figured since the paparazzi is too stupid to cover the back entrance to my building, I can come and go as I please.
“So, how’d you do it?” she asks, sitting down on my bed, dropping a couple of pairs of shoes on the floor.
“Do what?” I snap.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Do what?” I ask, forcing a pleasant tone.
“Get a guy like Sam? He’s not your usual type.”
I guffaw. “What’s my usual type, exactly?”
A sly grin spreads across her pretty face. “Invisible ones.”
I grimace, annoyed I fell right into her trap. “Thanks a lot, Tiff.”
I close my drawer and push the empty bag under my bed.
The front door bangs shut.
“I’m just messing with you. Make sure you don’t mess this one up,” Tiffany says, making herself comfortable. “He’s really hot.”
“Who’s really hot?” Taylor asks, standing in the doorway, her handbag slung over her shoulder. “And what shouldn’t Grace mess up?”
“Nothing,” Tiffany says. She darts a look at me, a grin at the edges of her mouth. “Much.”
I glare at her.
Taylor looks between the two of us. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll need to ask hot sex goddess Grace that,” Tiffany replies, leaning back against my pillows.
I kick my glare up a notch. Fantasize about violence.
Taylor looks inquisitively at me. “What does she mean, ‘sex goddess’?” Her eyes widen. She drops her bag to the floor and steps into the room. “Oh, my god. You’re not sleeping with Sam Montgomery, are you?”
Tiffany sniggers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Taylor is one of the sweetest people I know. I lied to her when she dropped my clothes off to me at my parents’ house. It felt wrong then, and it feels wrong now, especially since our other roommate knows all about it. Although Sam needs us to keep things quiet, I would trust Taylor with my life. Which is not something I could ever say about Tiffany.
I sigh. “Yes.” I bite my lip.
“Grace, no! He’s dating someone else. I know you kissed him—heck, everyone does—but now you’re sleeping with him too?”
“She’s quite the naughty one, isn’t she?” Tiffany says.
“Shut up, Tiffany,” Taylor snaps.
We both regard her in surprise.
“Taylor, I know how this looks. You have to believe me, it’s not an affair, no matter what the media’s saying.”
“What is it then?” She crosses her arms, scowling at me.
“Sa
m and Vanessa are pretending they’re together until the movie they’ve made is out. It’s a marketing thing, that’s all.”
Her face softens a fraction. “So, they’re not together?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“And you’re absolutely positive?”
“Yes. Vanessa even came to see me herself. It’s all legit, you have to believe me.”
“Well then, I’m happy for you.” She gives me a hug. “And she knew about this?” Taylor asks, nodding towards Tiffany. “Is that why she talked to those journalists?”
Tiffany climbs off the bed. “I’m right here, you know.”
“Why did you talk to them? If Grace needs this to be kept quiet, you should have respected that.”
Tiffany lets out a heavy sigh. “Look, Taylor, what’s done is done. I won’t be talking about them anymore.”
“Well, Grace, I wouldn’t stand for that sort of low-life, morally-corrupt behaviour if I were you,” Taylor snarls. Her arms are crossed as she glares at Tiffany, her lips drawn into a thin line.
We both look at her with raised eyebrows, surprised at her venom. Geez, aren’t I meant to be the offended party here?
“Settle down. We can’t all be Girl Scouts like you, Taylor,” Tiffany bites.
“You’re calling me a Girl Scout?” Taylor questions, turning almost purple with rage.
“Yes,” Tiffany replies, staring her down, amused. “Little miss goody-two-shoes, farmer’s daughter, Girl Scout.”
“Well at least I’m not a… a…”
Tiffany crosses her arms and glares at Taylor. “A what, Taylor?” she bates.
Taylor’s face turns lava red. “A slut. A great big nasty, dirty slut.”
My eyes dart between my roommates. What is going on with these two? One has become an attention-seeking, media-hungry piece of work, and the other seems to have some latent anger issues she needs to deal with before she gives herself an aneurysm.
“Hang on, you two. There’s no need to name call.”
“Just calling a spade a spade,” Taylor replies in mock-surrender.
“You know what? I’m over this. See you girls later. I’ve got a date with Scott.” She saunters out of my room, past Taylor, towards the front door. Without a backwards glance, she lets the door swing shut behind her with a loud bang.
Confused, I turn back to Taylor. She’s seething with anger. If she were a cartoon character there would be steam piping out her ears with a loud trumpeting sound.
“What was that all about?” I ask.
“What?” she snaps in irritation. “Nothing.”
“Okay. Good.” Not wanting to poke the beast my once mild-mannered roommate has become, I change the subject. “So . . . umm . . . how’s work going?”
“Fine,” she spits.
“Okay,” I respond uncertainly. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
She lets out a long sigh, looking miserable. “Yes.” She buries her head in her hands. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, honey.” I pull her in for a hug. “Wine. I think we need wine. You sit down on my bed, I’ll hunt and gather.”
As Taylor does as I say I rummage through the fridge and thankfully find an unopened bottle of Sauvignon Blanc hiding behind an old cabbage and a carton of yoghurt.
I pour a couple of glasses and carry them back to my room. Passing her a glass I sit next to her on my bed, scooping my legs up beneath me to settle in.
“Take a sip,” I encourage.
She takes several large gulps, finishing the glass in a matter of seconds.
I watch her, wide-eyed. “Wow, that bad?”
She nods, her lips forming a grim line. “That bad.”
“Want another?” She nods, trying to smile.
I collect the bottle from the kitchen and pour her a fresh glass. “Okay, from the top.”
Taylor takes a deep breath before launching into it. “First off, you can’t say anything to Tiffany.” She spits out her name.
“Of course. After what she did I would prefer not to be on speaking terms with her, anyway.”
“Good. Okay.” She pauses, clearly plucking up the courage. “You know I told you about how that guy is back at work, the one I’ve liked for ever?”
“I remember.”
“Well . . . it turns out he likes someone else. In fact, I would say he’s with her right now.”
“He is? How do you know?”
Taylor glances at Tiffany’s discarded shoes on the floor before looking up at me again.
I follow her line of sight. “How would you—?” I stop myself mid-sentence as I put two and two together—and hopefully come up with four.
Tiffany’s out on a date with Scott right now . . . Taylor likes Scott! No wonder she’s ready to throttle Tiffany at the slightest provocation.
“It’s Scott, isn’t it?” I ask tentatively.
She nods as tears well in her eyes. “I’m as stupid as a possum caught in headlights.”
I put my hand on hers. It’s ice cold. “No, you’re not. He’s the . . . err . . . possum.”
Hmmm, that didn’t come out right.
She lets the possum comment slide. “Yeah, I am. I need to face the fact I’m not his type.”
I’m not sure Scott Wright has a type—other than ‘female’.
“Did you ask him out?” I ask.
She slumps her shoulders, the fight appearing to have gone out of her. “It would have been pointless. He would never pick me over someone like Tiffany. I’m a run-of-the-mill country girl; she’s a beautiful, sex-crazed model. There’s no competition.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Sure, she’s good looking, but so are you. And what’s more, you’re an amazing person. She’s a… well, let’s just say she’s not.”
Taylor looks defeated. “It’s useless. He’s made his choice.”
“How did he even know he had a choice if you didn’t tell him how you felt? Okay, he’s not my favourite person in the world, but if you really like him, why not go for it?”
She clenches her fists. “Because it’s scary, that’s why.”
“We all know Tiffany goes through men like water, right?”
She nods.
“Wait until she’s moved on to the next guy, then ask him out. You can’t just sit back and let things happen. Sometimes you have to make them happen. Tiffany, for all her faults—and there are many—is the kind of girl who sees something she wants and goes after it. Look at what she did with me and Sam! She wanted to be famous so she sold me out. And what did she get for it? A meeting with the country’s best movie producer.”
“But I don’t want to be like her. She walks over people to get what she wants. That’s not me,” Taylor sulks.
“No, it’s not you. You’re so much better than that. Look, all I’m saying is you can’t let life pass you by. If you really want Scott, why not let him know how you feel?”
“I guess,” she replies, twisting her T-shirt in her hands. “What if he says no?”
“Then you move on. Taylor, isn’t it better knowing you gave it a shot rather than wishing you had?”
She stares out the window, lost in thought. “Is that what you did with Sam?”
I blush at the mention of his name. “In the end, yes. I got over my fears and decided I wanted to be with him.”
“I still can’t quite believe you’re dating him. He’s so cute.”
I can’t help but grin. “He is. And so nice. He’s kind and sweet and funny.”
I feel a warm pressure in my chest.
Taylor smiles, shaking her head. “Man, you’ve got it bad.”
“Maybe.” My blush deepens.
Bad? I’ve got it so much worse than bad.
I return my attention to Taylor. “Wait for Tiffany to move on and then ask him out.”
She bites her lip. “Okay.” Her face breaks into a smile.
“Atta girl.”
We polish off the bottle of wine, order pizza and watch
an interesting documentary on the Suffragette movement—on the History Channel, of course. Sam is filming tonight, so we have to have a night apart. Miss him as I do, I so need my sleep. We don’t do a lot of that when we’re together.
Then there’s my new job. I need to be the best stylist’s assistant known to humanity. After all, it’s vital I show Jessica I can do more than embarrass myself—and Estil—on national television.
* * *
The following afternoon, tired from a string of personal styling appointments, I catch a glimpse in my rear-view mirror of my stalker. She’s watching me, dressed in head-to-toe black once again.
I get out of my car and lock the door, pretending not to have noticed her. I briefly consider whistling to show her how relaxed I am, decide against it: it would be a little too obvious. Plus, there’s a journalist lurking outside my apartment block again.
Instead of heading towards my apartment block I casually walk down the street in her direction. Seeing me coming, she slips around a corner. Ignoring Sam’s advice not to make contact with a stalker, I sprint as fast as I can towards her, determined to catch up with her.
I want answers, and I’m going to get them.
Stalker Girl takes off. I reach out to grab her and miss her arm by a fraction of an inch. Dammit!
Although she’s in sneakers I gain on her as she enters the alleyway at the back of a building. It’s a dead end.
Aha! I have you now.
Realising she’s trapped she starts to pace around like a caged animal.
I corner her and dance from side to side, my arms outstretched so she’ll know I can grab her if she decides to dart in either direction.
“Who are you?” I demand, puffing as I hop from foot to foot.
I search her face. Although she’s shorter than me and has blonder hair, there’s something familiar about her, although I can’t work out what.
“I’m… uh… nobody.” She lifts her chin in defiance, sweat beading across her forehead.
“Well you’ve got to be somebody. Why are you following me?” I’m still doing my dance.
I’m a cop, making an arrest. Any moment I’ll cuff her, read out her rights, and take her downtown.
She stops pacing and faces me head-on. “I have my reasons,” she protests, crossing her arms defensively. “You . . . you don’t understand.”
Falling for Grace Page 15