Tadd does a hangover groan. “Nine. We’ve got tomorrow off.”
“I’ll call Bob and let him know we’ll need a bodyguard and a car, possibly separate cars on the way back.” I’m bringing somebody back with me, that’s for damned sure. Emma is proving more elusive than I expected her to be, and I need someone to take the edge off.
***
When we meet downstairs at nine, Bob and Jeff are waiting to usher us to a car. Tadd comes down last. Alone.
“Is Graham meeting us later?”
“He said he’s staying in tonight.”
I pull to a stop in the middle of the lobby. “What?”
“He said he’s still recovering from last night and he’s going to stay in.” Liar. He was the least drunk person in the room last night. Tadd bumps me and keeps walking. “Come on, dude. What’s the big deal? Let’s go.”
I have no choice but to follow. The paparazzi are handled deftly by Bob and Jeff and two minutes later we’re in the car heading to a martini bar Tadd heard about.
“What are the girls doing?” That didn’t come out as offhand as I’d intended, but luckily Tadd doesn’t care.
“I ran into Brooke and Meredith earlier—they were planning a girls-only night. Brooke looked as relieved to have a night off from you as you look about a night off from her.” He has the nerve to smirk that I’m relieved to know where Emma’s going to be tonight. Wow. This is already way more high-maintenance than I’m used to.
Quinton leans up. “What’s going on between you two anyway?”
“Nothing, man.” I share a quick look with Tadd and shrug. “We had a thing, like years ago, and she’s apparently not over it.”
Quinton bumps my fist with his, grinning. “Here’s to always leaving them wanting more.”
I don’t tell him that wanting more is not exactly what’s between Brooke and me.
*** *** ***
Emma
My hangover is gone, but I need a quiet evening. I was planning on a long talk with Emily, but she has a date with a guy who works at Abercrombie, a few doors down from Hot Topic, where she works. (I pointed out that this scenario contains serious odd-couple potential, which she didn’t appreciate as much as I did.) She’s been through a long dry spell, and the possibility of starting her senior year with no boyfriend and no prospects is “intolerable.”
There’s more to my recuperation plan than ditching the lingering headache. My father and Chloe are arriving tomorrow and will be in Austin for five days. I’ll need my strength to deal with both the grueling filming schedule and the stress of having her that close at the same time. It’s too much to hope that she’ll recede to the background. Chloe doesn’t do background.
I’ve excused myself from tonight’s Austin nightlife tour—guys in one group, girls in the other. Room service delivers a spinach salad and the television plays music videos, volume low. Feeling restless, I wander onto the tiny balcony that overlooks the street and lean on the stone railing, staring at the big black sky, where I can only make out a few of the brightest stars. Downtown is too illuminated for star-gazing. People mill around below, and even this far up, I catch jumbled bits of conversation and laughter. And a trace of tobacco?
“Emma, hey.” Graham is two balconies over, straightening from the railing, smoking. His eyes, meeting mine, are black with the darkness and distance. He takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing red near his silhouette in the dim light from the streetlamps and headlights below.
“Hey, yourself. I assumed you’d gone out with the guys.”
A momentary breeze kicks up, and he shakes the hair out of his eyes, exhales a trail of smoke that dissipates in all directions. “I decided to opt out tonight.”
I nod. “Me, too.”
He takes another drag and resumes his posture of leaning on the railing, staring down at the swirls of color and noise at street level. He doesn’t speak again, and though I’m curious about the call that interrupted our earlier conversation, I can’t think of a casual way to ask about it. I walk back into my room without interrupting his thoughts. I consider hauling one of the cushy chairs out onto the balcony to read, but if Graham is still outside, it might be awkward.
After perusing the dessert menu and convincing myself not to order a slice of double chocolate cake, I grab the novel I bought this morning and settle on the bed. My stomach growls in protest, unshushed when I mumble, “Shut up.” Opening the book, I feel the familiar brush of pleasure—the crackle of the pages and the binding, the inky smell. And then I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone on the nightstand rings at full volume.
“Hello?” I answer, heart pounding, looking for the sound control switch.
“Emma? It’s Graham. I, uh, don’t have your cell number…”
“Oh.”
“So… I ordered this chocolate cake from room service, and it’s even more monstrous than it looked in the menu… and I was thinking we could share it. If you want. I understand if you’d rather be alone, though.”
I smile, having planned for an evening of precisely that, just as I’d originally planned to run alone every morning. “I just convinced myself that I didn’t need that cake... But I guess if I share yours, it won’t really count.”
“Exactly. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I could order up coffee?” Because that’s what I need at nearly 10 p.m. when I had intentions of going to bed early—coffee.