by Lisa Plumley
“I notice everything when it comes to you. You’re fascinating to me. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Well, for the sex, of course.” Talia counted that off on her fingers. “Also, Pinky and the Brain trivia. Sex. Joint subterfuge perpetuated on the paparazzi. Sex.” A wide, beautiful grin broke over her face. “Oh, and frequent sex.”
“Mmm-hmm. While I’m not denying that I love the sex,” Walden said, taking her into his arms, “because I definitely do love that, there’s a lot more going on here between us.”
“Like the way I love having your arms around me?”
“Yes, there’s that.”
“And the way I love hearing your voice when I come in to work, and seeing you creating something amazing, and knowing that no matter what it is, you can always make it sweeter?”
“Um, maybe that.” Walden frowned in dawning confusion. “Are you giving me a pastry chef recommendation or—”
“I’m saying I love you, too, dummy!” Laughing, Talia shook him. Or at least she tried to. Given the discrepancy between his big body and her smaller one, she mostly accomplished a sort of wobbly shove. “You’re the most impressive man I’ve ever met.”
“It’s the dreadlocks. They make me look cool.”
“It’s you,” Talia disagreed, tipping upward to kiss him. She stroked his face. “You have integrity, Walden. You have the ability to make the whole world brighter, just by being in it. So if you think you can put up with a wisecracking sidekick—”
“Yes.” Emphatically, he nodded. Then he reconsidered. “That’s you, right? You’re not sneakily nominating someone else for the job of wisecracking Walden sidekick?”
“It’s me,” Talia said. “It’s definitely me.”
“It’s always been you.”
“It’s always been you. Took you long enough to notice.”
“Took you long enough to notice.”
For a single wholehearted minute, they gazed at each other.
Then, “Maybe we ought to have a moratorium on discussing how long we were both too clueless and scared to approach one another,” Walden suggested. “What matters is we’re here now.”
“We’re here forever,” Talia agreed, snuggling closer.
As though punctuating their agreement, a knock sounded at the door. This time, Walden had no interest in answering it.
“Go away!” he yelled merrily. “We’re busy.”
The knock only sounded again, louder this time.
Talia made a face. “I don’t think they’re going away.”
“Whoever it is, I’ll make them go away,” Walden announced. Gently, he disentangled himself from Talia. With his heart full of happiness and his mind full of provocative thoughts of how they could best commemorate their newly declared love, he strode to his front door. He cast Talia a loving backward glance. “I’ll be right with you. This is just a short break in the action.”
“Not if I come over there with you!” Talia said gaily.
So she did. And that’s how they were both standing there in Walden’s doorway, full of sentimentality and flirtatiousness, when Walden opened the door and unleashed the full-bore media ambush that was waiting for them on the other side.
Cameras flashed at them. Camcorders focused on them. Portable boom mikes hovered overhead. Multiple voices spoke up at the same time as the paparazzi crowded onto the doorstep.
At their head, a smarmy-looking “reporter” shoved a microphone into Walden’s face. “Walden! Access Hollywood here. How about an exclusive? Why did you pretend to be—”
Then the Access Hollywood guy suddenly glimpsed Talia. A rapacious expression crossed over his face. He abandoned Walden in a heartbeat, instead thrusting his microphone at Talia.
“Talia! Access Hollywood here. Why did you impersonate Heather Miller?” he asked aggressively. “Are you a deranged fan, or just a bored yokel with nothing better to do?”
As though that were a reasonable question, he angled his head expectantly to the side. Beaming an obnoxious grin, he held his microphone-wielding hand outstretched to await her answer.
Surprised and flustered, Talia stepped back. She boggled at the sea of journalists and photographers—and at the satellite vans parked across the street in the snow. More questions were shouted. More photographs were snapped. Flashes blinded them.
Their hoax had obviously been discovered.
But how? Walden wondered. Had one of the paparazzi followed him and Talia back to his place? It had to have been that. They’d been too giddy to be ultracareful. It wasn’t as though they were professional-caliber celebrity impersonators.
Once someone tailed him and Talia home, Walden realized belatedly, they would have had an easy time learning exactly who they were, what they were up to, where they worked....
Uh-oh. If things were this crazy here at his apartment, what might they be like downtown at the Galaxy Diner?
Most likely, the media had swarmed the diner, too. Just in case the Heather-and-her-bohemian-boy-toy impersonators they wanted to waylay for gossipy “comments” and jittery video footage weren’t at home during their regular stalking hours.
Somehow, he and Talia had to warn Kristen.
“No comment.” Shielding Talia with his body, Walden held up his hand. He tried to shut the door, but the Access Hollywood guy had wedged himself in the entryway. There were too many other journalists behind him, holding up the media onslaught, for him to back up now—not that he showed any signs of wanting to relent. “Everyone, please just leave us alone,” Walden tried.
That only incited them further. “Talia!” someone else shouted. “What happened to your hair? Are you impersonating someone else now? Are you a serial impersonator or just crazy?”
Looking panic-stricken, Talia shook her head.
Still wearing her incriminating leopard-print coat, she tried to help Walden push the door closed. Even between the two of them, they were no match for the journalists, though, who seemed perfectly willing to be crushed, if necessary—to sacrifice any one of their number for the sake of a juicy story.
“We’ve got to warn Kristen,” Talia said to Walden in an undertone, holding up her arm to ward off photographs. “She won’t know what’s going on if these guys head for the diner.”
Despite everything, Walden felt weirdly pleased they were on the same wavelength, thinking the same thoughts. He knew that Talia was right about the dangers to Kristen. He also knew that, as the one who’d actively pretended to be Heather, Talia was in for a much worse backlash than he was. He wanted to protect her.
“I’ll distract them,” he told Talia privately. “You go for the phone. There’s no other way out of here except the windows—”
“And they’ve probably got those covered, too.”
“—but at least you can call Kristen and get yourself out of the line of photo fire.” Giving Talia a heartfelt look, he squeezed her hand. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, Talia.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I won’t leave you here alone.”
“I won’t be alone,” Walden said above the din. “I’ll know you’re waiting for me. Everything else is temporary.”
“Everything except my love for you,” Talia pledged. Then, as Walden nodded at her, she gave him a smile and ducked inside.
Fortified by her affection, Walden straightened. Heroically, he scoured the assembled media with a determined look. “All right. One question at a time, please,” he announced.
In a furor of shouted inquiries and busy cameras, he was officially on his way—saving Talia and (he hoped) allowing just enough time for Talia to give Kristen a heads-up before the media caught her off guard and ruined her Christmas completely.
Chapter 21
ZUGZWANG (TSOOK-tsvahng) noun: a position where one is forced to make an undesirable move
On set in Kismet, Michigan
December 11
“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Jackson.” After shaking hands with Casey, Heather leaned back
in her on-set dressing room’s make-up chair. The lighted mirrors nearby offered a funhouse version of her own image—woebegone and faintly tear-streaked—along with an annoyingly perfect version of The Terminator’s image—handsome and capable. Deliberately, Heather looked away from both of them. “I’ll give the crew more time to wrap up my holiday TV special.”
“And I’ll surprise Kristen with this distribution deal for her baked goods.” Looking pleased, Casey tapped the paperwork on the dressing room’s table. “I had no idea you were going to be representing the new ad campaign for Torrance Chocolate’s luxury cafés and chocolate boutiques, Heather. That was the missing link in this deal. Once Torrance Chocolates adds Kristen’s pies-in-a-jar to their lineup of custom chocolates and Bandini Espresso drinks, their business ought to go through the roof.”
“Right.” Heather didn’t care about Torrance Chocolates’ business success. She didn’t care about much of anything, frankly, since Alex had walked out on her. All she wanted now was to finish her disastrous TV special and go home to L.A.
She’d already spoken with her parents about her plan. While they’d been a little disappointed that she wouldn’t be in Kismet for Christmas, their outlook had improved once Heather had offered them a New Year’s Eve jaunt to Cabo.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Casey continued. “I’m impressed with how much you’ve accomplished since you came back to work this morning—”
“Being heartbroken will do that to you, I guess,” Heather muttered. Stupid Alex. Why had he had to betray her? Why?
“—but I’m just not sure that pushing the crew this hard will lead to the kind of results you’re hoping for.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Whatever, Heather thought privately. “That’s why we made the deal, isn’t it? So everyone’s happy, happy, happy?”
Casey looked closely at her. “Are you all right?”
No. I’m heartbroken. “I’m fine!” Brightly, Heather picked up a make-up brush. She swabbed on some bronzer. It didn’t help. She still looked wan and unhappy. Now she looked fake, too.
If you ever decide to get real, look me up.
Ha. Alex had been barking up the wrong tree with that line. If Heather Miller ever dared to “get real,” her fans would revolt. They would desert her. They would not watch her special.
Speaking of that . . . The on-set hubbub picked up outside, in the spruced-up bungalow that the production had rented—and then totally redecorated and sprayed with fake “stunt” snow—as a stand-in for Heather’s supposedly cozy hometown “homestead.”
Heather sighed. Even her televised “homecoming” was bogus. Nothing around her was real anymore. Except heartbreak.
She just wanted to get this over with. But first . . .
“Don’t forget to tell Kristen about the ad campaign!” Heather trilled. She wanted Casey to do that part, not her. She added even more bronzer, hoping she might at least look awake on camera. “You don’t know how long I’ve been trying to get her to do a project like this with me. Like, forever, it seems.”
For the first time, Casey Jackson appeared uncertain.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be thrilled,” Heather assured him—and herself—mustering what she hoped looked like an impressive amount of cheerfulness. This deal was her consolation prize to herself for losing Alex. She deserved it. She was determined to feel happy about it. “Me and Kristen, together in commercials to promote her baked goods being available at TC cafés? Fab!”
“Fab!” echoed several members of her entourage, who’d been standing faithfully nearby. “You’re fab, Heather! Good idea!”
Unnervingly, it occurred to Heather that maybe—just maybe—her glam posse wasn’t entirely sincere in their admiration of her. But she felt too hopeless and too miserable to worry about that right now. She eyed Casey. He wasn’t as cute as Alex was (who was?), but he was still pretty easy on the eyes. He wasn’t as scary as his reputation had led her to believe, either. It was almost enough to make Heather feel sorry for misdirecting him—for making him break the ad-campaign news to Kristen and for making him “babysit” her little sister when they’d first met.
On the other hand, her impulsive plan had inadvertently led to this “fab” new project between her and Kristen, so that was good. At least it would be good for Heather. She’d been wanting to include Kristen in her celebrity life for a long time now. She’d been wanting to feel closer to Kristen, despite their different lives. But why did Casey Jackson look so concerned?
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked kindly, letting her know that’s why he looked concerned. He was worried about her. “Because you’re putting bronzer on top of your lip gloss.”
“Bronzer on lip gloss is fab, Heather!” her friends enthused robotically from the peanut gallery. “We love it!”
Casey ignored them. “And it looks like you’ve been crying.” All but emanating caring, he took the make-up chair beside hers. He took away her make-up brush. He held her hand. “What’s wrong?”
Heather gazed into his compassionate eyes and practically burst into tears on the spot. This was why Casey Jackson was called The Terminator, she realized too late. Because he was devastatingly good at recognizing when things were hopeless.
Worse, he was devastatingly good at making it seem as though those things could be fixed, when Heather knew darn well that the situation between her and Alex was insurmountable.
Insurmountable. She was going to have to take a Brillo Pad to her brain to try to scrub out all those Words of the Day.
“It doesn’t matter.” She straightened, searching her muddled memory for the posture-improving Pilates move she’d learned last year. She waved her free hand. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be more than fine, Heather!” chorused her glam posse. “You’ll be better than ever! You’ll be an Emmy winner!”
At that, Heather briefly perked up. She could win an Emmy for her holiday TV special, it occurred to her. But then she realized that if she did, she would not have Alex to accompany her to the awards ceremony at the Nokia Theatre. All the tentative hopefulness she’d felt drained away in an instant.
Beside her, Casey looked squarely at her friends.
“You know what?” he said nonchalantly to her parrotlike posse. “I think Heather could really use a nice decaf matcha latte right now. Will one of you fetch that for her, please?”
Her cadre of hangers-on and sometime friends all but stomped over one another to be first to the dressing-room door.
Left alone with Casey, Heather shook her head. “That was a nifty way of clearing the room just now—and thanks for that, too—but I really don’t need anything.” Except Alex, she wanted to wail. “Besides, I don’t think matcha comes in a decaf version. Since it’s a shade-grown Japanese konomi tea, destemmed and deveined by hand and not aged like black or oolong tea, matcha can’t tolerate the usual decaffeination processes.”
Casey blinked. Whoops. She’d accidentally said something knowledgeable. To compensate, Heather giggled inanely.
“Also, it’s, like, Incredible Hulk green, so it’s totally radioactive or something. I think. That’s what I heard once.”
But it was too late. Casey had already glimpsed the truth.
“You’re smarter than all this, Heather.” Illustratively, he waved at her improvised “down-home” dressing room with its lighted mirrors and excess of bronzing powder. “You’re capable of more than this. I know you are. You’re a good person.”
She snorted. “Not everyone thinks so.”
He seemed unconvinced. “Who doesn’t think so?”
“My parents. My sister.” Alex, she was about to say. He thinks I’m awful! But Casey broke in before she could.
“I haven’t met your parents yet, so I can’t speak for them,” Casey told her, “but Kristen loves you. She thinks the world of you. She’s rearranged her whole Christmas for you.”
Surprised, Heather withdrew her hand from his. “No, she hasn’t. I’ve barely made a dent in
Kristen’s Christmas. I made sure my homecoming special would hardly affect her.”
Defensively, she informed Casey of the deal she’d made with the paparazzi to leave Kristen alone at her diner and at home. It didn’t seem necessary to Heather to mention that she’d only done that at the urging of Kristen’s busybody Super Friends quartet, Gareth, Talia, Avery, and Walden. He didn’t need to know that.
Besides, the truth was, she’d have done it on her own anyway. If it had occurred to her. Which, initially, it hadn’t.
“That was a good idea,” Casey said, smiling to give Heather proper credit, “but it didn’t stop everything else from snowballing out of control. It didn’t stop your fans from camping out at the diner, hoping for a glimpse of you. It didn’t stop the town from declaring the second day of every December an annual ‘Heather Miller Day’ holiday, with banners and billboards and posters of your face everywhere. It didn’t stop the animatronic reindeer or the artificial snow or the gossip. It didn’t stop your parents from canceling their plans with Kristen so they could maintain their@Heather_Hotline Twitter account.”
Gob-smacked, Heather stared at him. “Their what?”
Briefly, Casey told her about everything that had been going on while she’d been busy with her Christmas TV special—busy (fruitlessly) trying to make Alex fall in love with her.
“You know,” Heather mused when he’d finished, “this doesn’t sound like random interest in your assignment’s little sister.”
“That’s because it’s not random interest,” Casey said.
He let loose a dazzling grin. It was . . . captivating.
It also told Heather everything she needed to know. The Terminator—no, Casey—and Kristen were an item. They were in love! And just because she’d failed at love—here, Heather stifled a self-pitying sob—that didn’t mean her sister couldn’t win big.
“I’m happy for you,” Heather said sincerely. Because she was. Also, she was pleased to have brought Casey and Kristen together in the first place. Props to her! “But I’m afraid this means that you should probably cancel that distribution deal.” She cast a reluctant glance at the paperwork she’d signed earlier. “And the advertising campaign. And all the rest of it.”