Starfire (Peaches Monroe #3)(47)
Author: Mimi Strong

I put on ankle socks and lace-up sneakers, and wore a loose blue tunic on top with a green belt. The green belt had a carved wooden closure, but it also had a tendency to suddenly spring open without provocation, so I had to use a hair elastic to keep it fastened. The things we do for fashion!

Dalton was putting on his shirt when I walked back into the bedroom. He’d chosen dark gray pants and a black T-shirt with a graffiti print, sun-bleach lines, and a dozen tiny holes in it—the kind of shirt a charity shop would just garbage directly from the donation bin.

“Dalton, tell me the truth. Did you get that shirt from a designer shop, or off the back of a hobo?”

“I’ll never tell.”

I struck a pose at the doorway. My blond hair was swept back in two pigtails, like a little girl.

“What do you think of my outfit? Do I look like Chelsea?” I asked.

“Who?” He blinked a few times.

“Chelsea. The girl who lived next door.”

“Right. Ha ha. No, you look like an adult, which is a good thing.”

Something felt off, so I decided against the pigtails and quickly pulled out the elastic bands.

We gathered our things from the room and headed out to the elevator. I wore my brand-new watch and kept admiring it every time it caught my eye.

“Wow, it’s noon already,” Dalton said. “We completely missed our cake appointment. I’ll tell them it’s all your fault.” He gave me a devilish grin.

My mind wasn’t on what he was saying, because I was still thinking about the pigtails, and Chelsea.

We got down to the lobby, where I found out he’d rented a scooter for the day, and Vern wouldn’t be joining us until later.

A scooter? I wasn’t thrilled, but decided to politely give it a chance.

Even as we donned our helmets and climbed onto the scooter, I kept troubling my mind over what he’d told me about Chelsea.

Could I ever trust anything that came out of the smooth-talking actor’s mouth? Or his motivations?

The big fight that broke us up initially was over his indie movie—specifically, the fact he’d started dating me as acting research into dating a bigger girl.

This new story of his, about having his first love be a chubby neighbor… well, it seemed awfully convenient. Why hadn’t he mentioned her earlier?

Also, his story about the family next door had been rather detailed, as though constructed. My heart sunk. He’d probably made the whole thing up to win me over. Why else would he have not known who I was talking about when I said Chelsea’s name? It’s not that common of a name.

And let’s not forget about the wardrobe. Was it normal for a man to spend so much time on his appearance?

Sitting on the back of the scooter, trying not to feel self-conscious about the view of my roundness ballooning out the sides, I wrapped my arms tighter around Dalton’s lean torso. I could hold on to him as tight as I could, but he was liable to slip away in the light, like San Francisco’s fog.

I had to ask myself those questions—the ones so many women in LA must ask themselves daily.

Can you ever truly know an actor? Can you ever trust him?

~

We did miss our appointment with the bakery, but we got to the florist right on time.

This visit was different from the dress shop. The people knew who Dalton was and fawned over him, but they weren’t friends.

I was annoyed by how uptight everyone at the florist seemed—as if it was their duty to educate me about why certain flowers I liked the look of weren’t appropriate. They wanted to do orchids, no doubt because they would be more expensive.

“Absolutely not,” I said after they pushed the third orchid package on me. “My mother would be appalled. She’s a member of the Beaverdale Orchid and Dandelion Wine Society.” I suppressed a smirk, amused at myself for haughtily name-dropping a club nobody outside of Beaverdale would have heard of.

“Then of course she would love orchids,” the man said.

“Do you like puppies?” I asked.

He nodded.

I explained, “If you went to a wedding and they had the chopped-off heads of puppies, would you be happy?”

The man gasped.

Dalton, who’d been smirking, stood abruptly and grabbed my arm to help me up.

“Thank you so much for everything,” Dalton said to the agitated florists. “My fiancée has been under too much pressure from me to get everything arranged on such short notice. I must apologize. It’s my fault that I can’t wait to marry this gorgeous woman, and enjoy her marvelous sense of humor forever.” He grinned at me, his eyes flashing additional messages. “Very funny joke about the puppies,” he said.

“Yes, it was a joke,” I said slowly.

“We’ll come back after my fiancée has had a rest,” he said.

I frowned at him, sending a wordless message into his brain: Not here! I hate these people.

His eyes widened: Of course not here. Let’s get out without making a scene, because I am a famous actor, and I do not need more bad publicity thanks to you.

Me: I want to throw something at someone.

Him: Calm the f**k down.

(At least that’s what I thought he meant by the eye flashes and tense expression.)

Squeezing my hand firmly, he led me out of the florist amidst a flurry of apologizing and ass-kissing by the staff.

I stepped out of the door. People jumped at us. I shrieked while what seemed like a hit squad of people surrounded us, cameras flashing.

CHAPTER 21

Someone at the florist shop must have tipped off the media, and here were this city’s paparazzi. They weren’t as insane as the ones in LA, but they did shout their demands:

“Show us the ring!”

“Peaches, are you going to wear white?”

“Nice watch, but where’s the ring!”

“Kiss for us! Come on, just one kiss! You look so beautiful together.”

“Kiss for your fans who love you both!”

Dalton grabbed my shoulder and steered me around to face him.

“Shall we make it official?” he asked.

“Kissing for the paparazzi makes our engagement official?”

“Do I really need to answer that?” He dialed up his grin to full-vampire-smirk.

I tilted up my chin in response. The flash frequency increased, and he leaned down to kiss me in full view of everyone. This kiss was different from his usual ones. Our lips barely touched. It was a very cinematic kiss, and not the good face-mashing kind, which probably wouldn’t photograph as well.