A-List Kiss: A Laugh-Out-Loud Romantic Comedy

by Brenda Lowder

  I came out in my second-best dress, basic black and neckline plunging enough to put my assets on display. Gavin was in a tux. Oh, my. Was I dating a guy who was not only a world-famous movie star but also voluntarily wore a tuxedo? Jackpot.

  “You look fantastic,” I said. “Are you sure you want to go to dinner?” I traced my finger down the neckline of my dress and raised my eyebrows at him. It didn’t hurt to ask. I couldn’t wait to rip off the tux he’d just put on, and I wondered if the sex would be as good without the unseen entourage audience. I couldn’t wait to find out.

  He looked down his nose at me with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He had an awesome nose, straight and then sloped a little at the end like the perfect ski slope. It was the kind of nose a storybook prince would have. I could stare at it all day. “It is what we came here for,” he said with a smile. He held out his arm to me.

  “Let’s just see if these mashed potatoes are worth flying halfway around the world for…and postponing round two.” I smiled as I took his arm.

  ∞∞∞

  “Gavin, there are no mashed potatoes on this menu. None at all.” I spoke very little French, but thanks to French 101 freshman year I knew potatoes were “pommes de terre” and those words were nowhere to be seen.

  “I know.” He flashed me his trademark grin. “We have to ask the chef to make them for us.”

  “And he doesn’t get so angry that the uncouth Americans are asking for something off-menu that he spits in our food?”

  “Um, no, that doesn’t happen here.” Gavin cocked an eyebrow at me as if I’d spent my childhood as a penniless urchin living on the streets without access to made-on-demand mashed potatoes.

  “Just checking.” I continued to study the menu despite already knowing that whatever happened tonight, I was getting the steak.

  Our head waiter directed the filling of our water glasses, and Gavin ordered the filet mignon for both of us. He asked if the chef could make his mashed potatoes despite the fact they weren’t on the menu.

  “But of course, monsieur.” The head waiter poured our champagne with a flourish and covered the bottle with a linen napkin. He beckoned to his four assistant waiters and they arrived in perfect unison to present a variety of breads and rolls, butter with sea salt, and an amuse-bouche, compliments of the chef.

  We were seated by the window, and all of Paris lay at our feet. The height was dizzying. The Jules Verne Restaurant was located on the second level of the Eiffel Tower, several stories in the air. We had a clear view of the city below us through the supporting struts of the tower. I could see why it’s still called the city of lights. Below us, twinkling lights, brilliant against the velvet sky, sketched the shape of streets, buildings, and the Seine in sparkling patterns. As we sat at our table, the light changed from the glow of after sunset to the satin darkness of full night.

  Our meal was nine courses at the Michelin-starred restaurant, three of which were dessert, and Gavin was right that the mashed potatoes were the most delicious I’d ever had in my entire life. I decided I was moving to Paris, regardless of the fact that I didn’t speak the language and didn’t have an apartment or job. I was in love with the city already.

  Gavin entertained me with inside stories from behind the scenes of his movies. I hung on every word and tried not to geek out on him. I thought it must be weird for him to be dating a big fan who thought she knew so much about him already. Did that happen a lot? I wondered but kept myself from asking. I thought it’d be better to find out about him from him. I made the right call because he talked a lot, opening up about all kinds of things that the articles in my Gavin scrapbook never mentioned, like his obsession with one-eighth scale model train sets. No wonder he never let that get out. And his short stint at playing the drums in his high school marching band.

  After dinner we took the private elevator that runs from the Jules Verne Restaurant on the second floor to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Because Gavin was Gavin, we were alone except for one of his ever-present security guys. Gavin wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned into him.

  We kissed, and already I was building the memory in my mind. “Remember that time we kissed in Paris at the top of the Eiffel Tower?” I just hoped that Gavin and I were together long enough that I’d have the chance to say, “Remember when?” For now I’d try to enjoy the moments for everything they were…and, of course, unavoidably, wish for more.

  I stepped to the edge of the tower, which was enclosed by a chain-link fence that extended high into the air and angled overhead, making it impossible for daredevils to get too close to the edge. Gavin followed me, dragging his feet, hanging back as I pressed forward. My breath caught at the sight of the lights below us, stretching out in all directions. The city pulsed with possibilities, and I was part of it.

  The wind whipped around us, exposed as we were at the top. The early autumn air was crisp and chilled. I hugged my arms to me, rubbing them for warmth. Gavin joined me at the edge, putting his arm around me and pulling me in.

  I felt so pleasantly aglow with the fabulous meal, delicious wine, and unequaled company. This may have been the closest I’d ever been to transcendent bliss—unless you counted one or two moments in Gavin’s bed on the plane last night. Or was that today? I yawned. Gavin steered us onto the private elevator.

  “Sleepy? Or is that a hint to get me in bed again?” His grin was sexy as he ran a hand through his hair.

  “Both.”

  Gavin pulled me against him and kissed me as the elevator doors closed. When they opened at ground level, blinding flashes of light stunned us. A crowd had formed around the elevator, blocking our exit.

  The paparazzi had found Gavin.

  They flung loud questions, some in French, some in English. All I wanted to do was make our way through so that we could get back to that gorgeously sumptuous hotel room and make sweet love until I expired from exhaustion. I stepped away from Gavin, not wanting to be in the pictures.

  “Gavin, over here!”

  “Hey, Gavin!”

  “Gavin, are you filming here?” They called out questions faster than I could process what they were asking. Gavin was not so overwhelmed and answered the questions that landed the loudest and were the most polite. He didn’t raise his voice or try to get rid of them. Instead he stood his ground, allowing his private life to be his public life. It was his job. I admired that.

  As a small-time reporter, I hated it when I showed up somewhere and just got yelled at. As a media fan, I hated watching celebrities complain about how hard it was to be in the public eye when being there was what had made them a celebrity in the first place.

  I just wondered if they’d rather be digging ditches for a living or working at the fast food drive-thru, because guess what? There isn’t a paparazzi “problem” at those jobs. If the world loved you so much that they wanted to learn everything they could about you—and perhaps make a scrapbook preserving the details of your life—then I think an ounce of humility and gratefulness for the fans who had made you those millions of dollars was not too much to ask.

  Gavin’s beefy security guard number one made slow progress through the crowd, but he took up a lot of space and held out his arms so Gavin and I could inch along behind him. It was more than a little claustrophobic—tight spaces were a problem for me—so I inched behind the security guard, silently urging him forward faster so we could break free of the pack.

  “Why are you in Paris, Gavin?” a paparazzo called out, snapping a picture of us.

  “I’m in Paris because I’m crazy about this girl!” Gavin yelled out to my surprise. He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back to him and planted a huge, showy, Hollywood kiss on my mouth.

  Wow. Wonderful. But was it for me or for the cameras? I slowly pulled away, feeling numb and trapped. I wanted to get through the crowd, but Gavin stood still and put his arm around me, holding me next to him. I smiled out to the crowd, since about a zillion pictures were being taken, and I didn’t want
to look like a mess—or worse, someone unhappy to be standing next to Gavin—but I had to get out. My chest was constricting, and my breathing was shallow in the suddenly too small, too tight, too confined space.

  I took a deep breath, willing my heartbeat to slow to normal. Gavin had me clasped firmly to his side, waving and smiling at the crowd. He knew what he was doing. After everyone had taken our picture and asked Gavin their questions, they drifted away. There were still hangers-on, but I no longer feared being crushed by the mob. Gavin’s second security guy joined the first and escorted us forward when Gavin gestured that we were ready to go. They cleared a path in the dispersing crowd to the limo, then held the door for us. I slid into the back seat. After another smile, wave, and pose for the crowd, Gavin joined me. We’d survived.

  ∞∞∞

  Muted yellow light seeped past the edges of the curtains covering the window in our suite. I blinked until I could focus on my surroundings and recall where I was. When I did, I rolled over and grabbed Gavin, loving the silky feel of the exquisitely high-thread-count sheets around us, and pulled him toward me. He was nice and soft and squishy…but then I gained full consciousness and realized I was in bed alone, hugging his pillow. I rolled back over and looked at the clock. It was six a.m. I looked at the window again and realized it wasn’t morning light yet, just the lights of the city glowing past the edges of the curtains.

  Where had Gavin gone so early? After our excursion last night to the Jules Verne and the top of the Eiffel Tower, we’d returned to the hotel and made love before falling asleep. The frequent sex was doing my jet lag a world of good. We both woke up at three a.m. and enjoyed another round and fell asleep again. But here it was unfashionably early in the morning and he was gone without a word.

  I showered in the luxuriously appointed marble bathroom then took my time on my makeup and hair. By then it was seven thirty and there was still no sign of Gavin—or breakfast. I switched on the very large flat-screen TV and camped out on the couch. How long should I wait for him before ordering breakfast for myself? I decided to give him until nine.

  I wasn’t going to last that long. I needed a snack or a Coke or something. And I wasn’t going to pay sixteen dollars for candy from the mini-bar—even if it was on Gavin’s tab. Did they have vending machines at the Georges V? I was about to find out.

  Patting my pocket to make sure I had my room key, I left our suite. The burly security guard was no longer standing at attention outside our door. Nice to know he was Gavin’s accessory and not mine. Though maybe I should worry that with me being left unprotected, bad guys might kidnap me to get to Gavin. I shook my head and rejected the notion. Gavin wasn’t Spider-Man.

  I turned left down the opulent hallway and looked for a vestibule big enough to contain a Coke machine. Since the penthouse seemed to take up the top floor, there weren’t a lot of places for a vending machine to hide. I decided to expand my search to other floors.

  I headed into the stairwell and tromped down a flight of stairs, turned on the landing to continue down, and nearly collided with a tall man climbing up.

  My steps faltered. “Matthew!”

  He caught my arm, steadying me, then immediately released me, looking as surprised as I was.

  Except he couldn’t be.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice echoing against the concrete and metal of the stairwell.

  He assumed a casual smile. “Vacation. How about you?”

  “You’re not on vacation.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re wearing a suit, for one.”

  He looked down at himself like he hadn’t known what he was wearing. “People wear suits on vacation.”

  “They really don’t.”

  “Of course they do.” He stuck his hand in his suit jacket pocket and struck a casual pose.

  “Name one person who wears a suit at seven thirty in the morning while on vacation.”

  “Gavin Braddock.”

  Silence fell between us. His steel-blue eyes studied mine.

  I folded my arms. “Are you here for him or for me?”

  Matthew looked down at his grasp on the handrail and back at me. “Which one would you want it to be?”

  Confusion, annoyance, and a rogue sense of interest warred within me. If Matthew was here for Gavin, it would mean he was investigating him for something. Maybe their presence at the same hotel in Pasadena was not such a coincidence after all. If Matthew was here for me, he could think I was involved and had ruined his case on purpose. Or he could think Gavin was up to something and I was in on it. Or it could mean anything.

  I didn’t want it to mean anything.

  “Isn’t the movie star a little old for you?” he asked after a pause.

  “I’m twenty-five and he’s thirty-nine.”

  “Practically geriatric.” His tight smile mocked me.

  I picked at the chipping nail polish on my thumb. “Do you think Gavin’s mixed up in your case?”

  “Why would he be?”

  “Exactly.” Gavin had no reason to mess around with industrial espionage.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you know anything about what Gavin’s been up to?”

  I turned and started walking back up the stairs. “Have a fun vacation in your suit, Special Agent.”

  ∞∞∞

  At eight thirty a.m. I was back in the room and watching TV when Gavin entered, looking sweaty and athletic dressed in a track suit and toweling off his hair.

  “Good morning!” He kissed my forehead and collapsed on the couch across from me.

  “Good morning. Did you get up early and work out?” Or something more sinister the FBI had to follow him to France for? I switched off the TV and put the remote on the table.

  “Yes, I should have mentioned it to you. I work out every morning at five.” Gavin bounced his leg up and down. He still had energy to burn? I was ready to go back to bed. To sleep.

  “Even on vacation?”

  “Especially on vacation! I can’t eat like we’ve been eating and then skip my workout too. Can’t blow everything, even if it is vacation.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought about it. I worked out about three times a week for forty-five minutes after work most weeks, but I’d never been a get-there-by-five a.m.-and-work-out-for-three-and-a-half-hours kind of girl. Maybe that’s why Gavin was the movie star with the rock-hard abs, and I was the curvy girl who could stand to lose a few pounds. Ugh! And I had just gone a record twenty-four hours without feeling like I wasn’t possibly hot enough for a movie star to date me.

  Not that Gavin had said anything, but it suddenly felt like an insurmountable disparity. Would there be a time in my life that I’d want to spend three and a half hours a day working out? What did that say about the differences in our lives?

  I pushed the negative thoughts away and asked Gavin what he wanted to do for breakfast.

  “Oh, sorry, I already had a protein shake, but you can order whatever you want and have it sent up, okay? I’m going to shower and get ready.” He gave me another quick peck and headed for the bathroom.

  I was left to order breakfast feeling like I should order a protein shake—could you even get those from room service? Gavin did, but maybe his special chef or staff or someone had made his. And maybe it wasn’t in their job description to make mine. I was just the companion, after all, not the star. They didn’t want to wait on me. Besides, I didn’t even want a protein shake. I hated protein shakes. What I really wanted was the authentic French breakfast full of cheese, chocolate, and bread, both crusty and flaky. I desperately wanted to get my hands on some chocolate croissants. My mom said those were incredible. I mean, when in Paris, right?

  I called down and ordered the chocolate croissants—pain au chocolat—some hot chocolate, fruit and cheeses, and some plain croissants. Moments later I was ensconced in an orgy of deliciousness, and I wasn’t a bit sorry. This was my first time in Paris! Who knew if I’d ever make it back? I could die
t at home. The pain au chocolat was still warm. The pastry part dissolved in my mouth. The chocolate center was still melty. I put a little of the delicious European butter on it—why didn’t American butter taste this good? I was glad I hadn’t opted for the protein shake.

  Gavin returned from his shower dressed in some gorgeously hip-hugging dark jeans, a navy T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. His sexy, dark blond hair was as tousled as ever, and it finally dawned on me that he must actually work to get it to look that casually untouched. His hair grazed his cheek, framing his chiseled features just like in that scene in October Waiting when he was harvesting the wheat and Penelope Everest came up over the hill and he threw down his scythe and they ran into each other’s arms. The way his hair fell into his eyes and he looked up, all intense and expectant. I watched that scene forty-two times. It was sheer poetry. Oh, how I loved that man.

  “Are we going out?” I put the last bite of my croissant down with reluctance and wiped my mouth with my cloth napkin.

  He typed something on his phone. “If you want to.” He looked up from his screen. “I was planning to look at a piece of property. I love France. I’ve been thinking for a long time about getting some land here and building a house. You don’t have to come with me. You could go shopping or sightseeing or something.”

  Buying land and building a house? Outside the US? In interviews he’d always said he lived at Chateau Marmont because he didn’t want that permanence. And here he wanted it outside the country. Was Matthew right? Was Gavin up to something? And what was my role in all this?

  I wanted to go with him, but did he really want me to? Didn’t sound like it. Nowhere in his mention of it did there seem to be an implied “I’d love to have you come along.” I was disappointed that he didn’t want to just spend time with me doing tourist things. I wanted to see Paris! Maybe the tourist scene was boring for him since this wasn’t his first trip here. But I didn’t want to see the fantastic sights of Paris and have no one to share them with.

  “I’d love to go with you.” I tried to sound believable.