“You’re not going to be twenty-five forever, princess. I’m going to remember that joke and trot it out at a very deleterious moment.”
“If I knew what that word meant, I might be worried. By the way, how was it when they first discovered fire? Those must’ve been exciting times for you and the other Neanderthals.”
Grace raised her mug to her mouth and sipped her coffee to hide her smile. “Homo erectus had fire way before the Neanderthals, sweetie.”
This exchange was making me testy. “Someone please tell me we’re not actually sitting here discussing cavemen, when we could be discussing something so much more interesting.”
Grace and Chloe turned their attention to me.
“Like . . . my birthday present?”
Grace pretended ignorance. “I’m so glad you liked that Coach bag I bought you. That color will really go great with your—”
“Oh, shut up! Tell me what you thought! Was it too much? Was it weird? Was it sweet?”
They knew exactly who and what I meant, of course. I knew Chloe was on board with the whole Nico thing, but it was Grace’s input I really wanted. Of our little group, she was the one with the most sense. Not that I regularly paid attention to it, but still.
“It was . . . ” Grace pursed her lips in thought. “All of those. I’m leaning mainly toward weird, though.”
“It was romantic, not weird!” Chloe protested. “You’re just mad about not getting strippers.”
“He flew the mariachis in, Chloe. Do you have any idea what a logistical nightmare that must’ve been, putting that together in one day? And the cost? All for a woman Nico’s known for two weeks? To me that leads right back to our conversation in Lula’s about men who aren’t used to hearing ‘no,’ and what happens once they finally get a ‘yes.’”
Grace’s words chilled me. Was that all Nico’s present was? Another attempt at getting to a “yes”?
If it was, it was definitely working. I’d admitted as much to him last night.
“I suppose I shouldn’t tell you the other part, then.” Chloe waited for Grace and me to take the bait. We did, leaning forward to talk over each other.
“What other part?”
“Did it ever occur to you, Kat, to wonder why Nico chose lavender roses instead of red?”
I blinked. “No. Why?”
“Because of what it means.”
Grace and I shared the same expression of confusion. “Because of what what means?”
Chloe looked at the two of us as if we were speaking in tongues. “The color of the rose!”
“Red means love and passion,” said Grace with authority.
Chloe nodded. “Exactly!”
That was a little disheartening. Nico had chosen a rose that wasn’t about love and passion? “And lavender means, what? Like, friendship? Respect? Oh—trust!”
Chloe looked as if she had a piece of delicious cake in her mouth that she had to talk around. “No. Lavender means love at first sight.”
It sat there between us all for a moment, heavy and huge, until Grace rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Remembering how Nico had looked at me the day we met, how I’d felt when I’d looked at him, I was at a loss for words. “Wow. That’s . . . ”
“Ridiculous. Seriously, love at first sight? What is he, twelve?” Grace obviously wasn’t suffering from a loss of words at all. She didn’t let Chloe’s sour look deter her. “Chloe, even you have to admit that’s just silly for a grown man.”
“It’s not about what I think. It’s not about what you think, either, Grace. It’s about what Kat thinks.”
They looked at me expectantly. The words “hot seat” came to mind.
“Two weeks ago, I’d have agreed with you a hundred percent, Grace. And part of me still does. A big part. But I’m doing the best I can, trying to take it slow and see where it leads.” When Grace sighed, I added, “Which might be nowhere, you’re right. He might get bored as soon as he has me. I mean, I’m just . . . me. Not too many bells and whistles.”
Grace scowled. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! Any man would be lucky to have you—”
“I know you’re only trying to protect me. And believe me, I’m trying to protect myself, too. My eyes are open. But—and please don’t kill me for saying this—it just feels different. It feels right. He feels right.”
I left out the part about the little, worried voice telling me to watch out. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the Queen of Denial!
“He said almost the exact same thing about you.” Chloe’s voice was quiet. “When he came into the shop to set this all up yesterday. It’s why I was late getting here; I had to make sure things were all set before I left.”
“Nothing like waiting until the last minute,” Grace muttered.
“Actually, he didn’t know until the last minute,” Chloe corrected, looking at me pointedly. “Because someone didn’t tell him until the last minute. Anyway, he wanted to know if you had any favorite flowers, and what all the colors of the roses meant, and how much he needed to spend to make it amazing. And when his buddies made fun of him, he just said you felt right. And that they could go fuck themselves.”
“Nico brought his friends with him to go flower shopping for a woman?” Judging by Grace’s startled expression that seemed to carry some deep meaning.
“Two of the guys from the band. Brody, the lead guitarist I think, and A.J., the drummer.” Chloe made a face. “And that A.J. was a total jerk! Do you know he actually had the nerve to growl at me when I got too close to where he was standing on my way into the cooler? Like what—he’s so important I can’t even walk around my own shop?”
She huffed, which was the extent of her temper. I’d once seen her snap at a waitress who’d accidentally dumped a plate of spaghetti in her lap. Chloe felt so bad about snapping, she left a tip even bigger than the bill and wrote a five-page apology letter to the restaurant, even though the silk dress she’d been wearing was ruined. She was a marshmallow.
“Wait, back up. You’re telling me Nico brought his bandmates to go flower shopping? From the band?”
Chloe frowned at Grace. “Yes, his bandmates from the band. As opposed to his bandmates from the IRS?”
I was worried now. “Why? Is that bad?”
“Well . . . no. It’s just not what I would’ve thought a man like Nico would do. Showing his tender underbelly in front of the other predators, and all.”
“Grace, has it ever occurred to you that not every man is a predator?”
Grace scoffed. “Show me a man who isn’t a predator and I’ll show you a woman.”
“That’s a terrible attitude for a marriage counselor!” Chloe had gone into prim schoolmarm mode, pinching her mouth and looking disapprovingly down her nose at Grace. Which of course made Grace laugh.
“You’re right, Chloe. I’ll try to remember your wise words during my next session.”
“With Mr. Wet Work? Are you seeing him this week?” Chloe had already forgotten her disapproval. She wanted details. I thought that was a terrible idea, considering we were both nursing ugly hangovers. With a pounding head and a queasy stomach, there’s only so much talk about urine you can take.
The doorbell rang.
“Who’s ringing my bell at the crack of dawn?” I grumbled, making no move to get up.
“Eleven o’clock is hardly the crack of dawn, Sleeping Beauty.” Grace rose from her chair and swept off to get the door. Since she was the only one of us who currently looked like a human being, I thought that was a good idea.
Boy, was I wrong.
Grace’s shocked cry jerked me out of my seat. I looked over just in time to see her slam the front door in the faces of what appeared to be a small mob with cameras gathered on my doorstep, jostling and shoving one another in their eagerness to get a look inside.
Paparazzi.
From behind the closed door—which Grace had flung herself against—they began s
houting questions.
“Miss Reid, what’s your relationship with Nico Nyx? Is it true you’re pregnant? Have you secretly married?”
Chloe’s mouth hung so far open her jaw looked unhinged. Grace looked wildly around my living room, as if for a weapon. As for me, I was glued in terror to my seat, having absolutely no idea what to do.
From the corner of my eye, I saw movement in the yard outside the kitchen window. Standing there with a video camera on his shoulder was a guy in a TMZ T-shirt. He was grinning. He pointed to the lens and mouthed, “Smile!”
That did it.
I launched myself from the chair, stormed to the window, and, after giving him the finger, yanked the shades down. I then strode through the living room, cursing, pulling all the drapes closed, trying to keep the bacon I’d just eaten from making a reappearance.
“Chloe, call the police!” Grace made sure the front door was locked, then ran to the back door and did the same while I tried not to panic, or puke. Chloe dialed 911 and reported to the operator that we were under attack. The operator seemed to be having trouble understanding her story, because a near-speechless Chloe was uttering such enlightening gems as, “People! Cameras! Swarming! Help!”
I took the phone, identified myself, and gave my address. “Please, send officers right away, there’s a group of paparazzi in my front yard trying to take my picture!”
There was a pause. “Ma’am, are you in physical danger?”
“What? Yes! I mean, no, they don’t have guns or anything, but they’re all over my yard! They’re asking questions, and shooting video!” The operator was quiet. I tried to make myself sound reasonable. “They’re trespassing, right? This is private property!”
“Do you live in a gated community, ma’am?”
“No.” Did that matter?
“Is your home accessible from a public street, or behind gates or a private driveway?”
I could already tell this wasn’t going well. I grudgingly admitted my house was indeed on a public street.
“Is anyone attempting to enter the residence? Have you been verbally or physically threatened with harm? Are there any minor children at the residence?”
“No to all three. But they can’t just walk all over my property, can they? They’re probably thrashing my lawn!”
I was dismayed to hear the operator’s voice grow bored. “I’ll send a unit to check on you, ma’am. Please stay indoors, and don’t engage with anyone until an officer arrives. If you feel in imminent physical danger or there is any other emergency, please call us back—”
“Wait—you’re not seriously telling me this is OK? They can’t stalk me like this, right? This is my home!”
“I understand you’re upset, ma’am. We’ll send an officer as soon as we can.”
She didn’t sound as if she understood. She sounded as if she thought I was overreacting, and wasting her time, and taxpayer resources. Fury exploded inside me like a bomb.
“You know what? I know these calls are recorded. So if I get killed by one of those psychos outside my front door, I want the whole world to know it was because you couldn’t be bothered to do your job! How are you going to feel when they play this back on the news after I’m dead? I bet if I was Angelina Jolie you wouldn’t take such reckless chances with my life!”
Through the receiver came the faintest, weary sigh. “Ma’am, please calm down. If you like, I can stay on the phone with you until the officer arrives.”
Through the closed kitchen curtains I saw shadowy figures moving around the side of the house. Dear God, were they looking for some way in?
“No, I do not like! I need help! Now!”
Beside me, Chloe looked worried that I was shouting at the police, the people who were supposed to come and help us. Only I had no idea if and when they actually would.
“Give me that!”
Grace snatched the phone from my hand. She launched a scathing verbal smackdown on the 911 operator. Her rant included some excellent points about common decency, constitutional rights to privacy, and the sanctity of a person’s home. At the end of it, the operator was still unmoved. Finally Grace threatened to write a strongly worded letter to the mayor of LA—a client of hers—and hung up.
Almost immediately, my phone rang again. Without looking at the number, hoping against hope the police were calling to say a squadron was on its way, I answered.
“What’s wrong?” Nico’s voice was instantly tense. I supposed he could tell by the frantic way I’d answered the phone that all was not well in the land of Kat.
“Oh, thank God, Nico, it’s you!” I was ridiculously relieved to hear his voice. Not only because it was him, but also because it had just occurred to me that if the paparazzi had my address, they also might have my phone number. Was I going to have to stop answering my phone?
“Kat! What is it?”
“The fucking paparazzi are camped on my doorstep! And tromping around my backyard! And asking questions about me and you—”
“Give me thirty. Don’t answer the door, don’t talk to them, don’t go near the windows. Just hang tight. I’ll be there in half an hour, and I’ll take care of it. You hear me?”
He rattled off these instructions with the bluntness of a drill sergeant, fully expecting to be obeyed. I was even more relieved; he seemed to have some idea of how to handle this. Naturally he would, having probably handled this exact scenario many times before. He was much more reliable than that awful 911 operator who didn’t care if I lived or died. I should have told her the house was on fire.
“Yes.”
“Good. And pack a bag, enough stuff for at least two days.”
He hung up. I stared at the phone, my head pounding, wondering if we’d yet had a conversation where I’d been the one to end the call. And pack a bag? WTF?
“What did he say?” Grace stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her face red with anger.
“He said he’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
“What then? Is he bringing a machine gun?” She looked as if she hoped this was a possibility.
Chloe said, “You have some strangely violent tendencies for a therapist, Grace.”
“Trust me, if murder was legal, I’d have killed dozens of people by now.”
In light of the situation, I let that disturbing statement go unchallenged. “I’m sure Nico’s dealt with this a million times before. He’ll know better how to handle it than we do.”
“So, in the meantime, we just hang out?” Chloe glanced nervously around.
I understood her anxiety perfectly. Thirty minutes seemed an awfully long time to wait. Unless the cops got here first, which seemed unlikely.
“Well, if we’re relegated to standing around like a bunch of cows awaiting the slaughter, we might as well make good use of our time.” With that unattractive visual, Grace went to the fridge, and began rummaging through it.
“You’re not seriously thinking of food right now.” My stomach turned at the thought. The bacon I’d eaten was starting to put up a fight.
“Don’t be silly. We need stronger fortification than that.” She emerged from the fridge with tomato juice and Tabasco. She grabbed a bottle of vodka from the freezer, retrieved three glasses and the pepper shaker from the cupboard, and began to prepare a trio of Bloody Marys.
My legs no longer willing to support my weight, I sank gratefully into the chair at the kitchen table. I wasn’t entirely sure if my shaking hands were the result of the hangover or current events.
“Grace, you’re a genius.”
She glanced at the front door, the kitchen windows, the drapes obscuring the patio doors. Then she looked back at me.
“Well, sweetie, one of us has to be.”
In less than fifteen minutes, I heard the distinct, high-pitched cry of sirens.
Peering out a crack in the drapes, my fortifying Bloody Mary clutched in hand, I spied three black-and-white LAPD cars roll to a stop in the middle of the street outside.
> The red and blue lights were flashing, but the sirens only occasionally barked. It seemed more a crowd-clearing technique than the typical full-bore emergency wail. And it was working; the paparazzi began to dutifully traipse off my lawn to stand on the sidewalk across the street.
From their bored expressions and snail’s pace, it seemed like getting rousted from private property by the cops was just another day at the office.
“That was fast.” Over my head, Grace was looking out, too.
“Your threat about the mayor must’ve worked.” Chloe had already guzzled her Bloody Mary. Grace had made her drink two glasses of water afterward and take vitamins and an Alka-Seltzer. She already seemed better. I, on the other hand, was too freaked out to have more than a sip of my own drink, an occurrence that had Grace wondering aloud if that might be a sign of the apocalypse.
“Maybe the 911 operator felt guilty about my imminent death.” I watched six burly officers emerge from the parked police cars. Four of them started talking to the group on the sidewalk while the other two made their way up the brick path toward my front door.
I was right: the lawn had been trashed. Also, many of the bud vases lining the walk had been toppled, and one of the large floral displays in urns lay in ruins on its side. Bastards! At least the hydrangeas lining the fence still looked intact. Maybe I could plant them.
If I didn’t have to move to Iceland in order to escape the paparazzi plague.
“I’m sure paparazzi don’t actually kill people.” Chloe sounded more hopeful than certain.
Grace said, “I have two words for you. Princess Di.”
With that chilling pronouncement, the doorbell rang. I ran to answer it, Grace and Chloe at my heels.
“Miss Reid?” One of the officers—blond, dimpled, square-jawed—looked hopefully at Chloe. She looked back at him as if he were Prince Charming, just arrived on his trusty steed.
“That’s me,” I said, interrupting the mutual admiration society.
Blond Cop tore his gaze from Chloe to regard me with less enthusiasm. He inclined his head. “Ma’am.”
Why wasn’t I “Miss”? Christ, did I look that haggard?
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