I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out in a minute. Production set up the reservation.” I don’t plan to tell her I was contacted for the specific arrangements of said reservation, so I know exactly what ‘your suite’ indicates.
The chrome and glass entry doors slide open soundlessly as we walk up to them, and the concierge meets us just inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Alexander, Ms. Pierce. Right this way, please.”
The suite is a two-bedroom penthouse. A bellhop transfers the luggage upstairs while we’re getting our keys and I’m signing my name and halfway listening as the concierge rattles off the various rider-required items he’s handled for us ahead of time.
For me: grilled chicken and hardboiled eggs from room service available at any time, a shower with a clear glass door—not a curtain, minimum 1200 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, ten goose down pillows, two 700-fill down comforters, fresh flowers daily, dry cleaning picked up and returned twice daily, a full gaming system and games (type TBD), wireless controllers and batteries, minimum 52” flat screen television, four new toothbrushes per day (different colors), a lint roller, and a box of Crown condoms.
Emma’s list: cold bottled water and a bowl of fruit. Shit. In comparison, I come off sounding like J. Lo. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to be listening, staring at the key in her hand and looking apprehensive.
Once we’re in the penthouse elevator—which requires one of our room keys to enter—I lean against the pebble-flecked wall, arms crossed loosely. “Are you okay with us sharing a suite? I guess production fell for their own buzz. Just so you know, I’ve stayed here before, and the bedrooms inside the suite are completely separate.”
The elevator deposits us directly into the living area, the wall of windows opposite displaying an unobstructed ocean view. “Wow,” she says. I don’t think she’s going to object to the suite.
“Come look.” I walk to the window. When she follows and looks, I point left. “Mexico.”
“Wow,” she repeats.
“What time do you want to have dinner? We can go out, or have a chef come up and cook for us.” I have to laugh at the look on her face—eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. “Are you sure you want to give all of this up to go to college, Emma? I’ll bet your agent is already getting daily requests for roles someone wants you to consider…”
She turns and walks into the Asian-décor seating pit, plopping onto a sofa. “He is. And I admit it’s tempting.” She gazes around the room, her fingers brushing the soft leather under her hand. “This is tempting. But there are things I don’t want to give up, even for all of this.” I sit opposite her. “I’ve never been able to choose my own direction. My own future. What I wanted was assumed, based on other peoples’ opinions. My dad meant well, but meaning well isn’t really good enough, you know?”
I can’t follow her reasoning about wanting to study theatre instead of becoming a huge film star, but it’s easy enough to understand the motivation to direct her own destiny. “There’s only one problem with making all of your own decisions,” I say, and she waits for me to elaborate. “If you make a mistake, whether career, relationship or wardrobe-related,” I smile and she does, too, “it’s no one’s fault but your own. You take all of the responsibility, all of the consequences.”
She nods. “True.”
“So. Dinner. I vote for trying the chef. Like, soon.”
She laughs. “How can you be hungry enough to think about food again? I’d look like a side of beef if I ate like you do.”
I flex a bicep at her. “Are you saying I don’t look like a side of beef?”
***
The text from Brooke is almost exactly what I thought it would be—photos of her with Graham. But instead of the two of them out together, she’s standing on the stoop at his house, smiling up at him and running her fingers through his hair. And then they go inside. The accompanying article is all conjecture about what they were doing for the three hours and fifteen minutes she was there. There’s a perfect shot of her leaving the apartment with her Cheshire cat smile.
Me: So operation graham went as planned?
Brooke: His kid was there
Me: Um, what
Brooke: Shit
Me: He has a kid??? Calling you.
“Does Emma know? Of course she knows… what the hell, Brooke?” My head is spinning. I’m trying to keep my voice down since Emma is somewhere in the suite with nothing more than my flimsy bedroom door between us, but I’m pacing like crazy.
“Reid, you cannot say anything about this to anyone,” Brooke hisses.
“He knows he can’t keep this a secret right?”
“Of course, but you have to promise me—”
“I’m not going to say anything. He knows about our secret indiscretion, after all. That’s why you told him, isn’t it?” Obviously. It even makes a weird sort of sense. “What about your photographer flunky? No way would she not reveal this.”
She releases a sigh. “She doesn’t know and I’m not telling her—yet. I want the first public photos of Cara to be the three of us, together.”
I come to a solid stop. She has this more intricately planned out than I gave her credit for. “You are beyond frightening. You realize that, right?”
“What do you mean?” She knows exactly what I mean.
“Nothing.” Nothing except I’m glad she’s not manipulating me—without my knowledge. “Emma and I are in San Diego. Next week we do a couple of San Fran stations and Ellen, and the week after that Conan, and then the premiere. She’s a little too comfortable at the moment. I’m going to throw her off balance a bit, make sure she knows I’m still interested.”