Where You Are

“That must be laundry pickup, for the dress.” My voice is breathless, and he smiles.

Reaching behind me, he retrieves the dress from the hook and hands it down, and then he opens the door. On the other side is not a hotel employee. The forceful knocker is Graham, his smile fading when he sees Reid standing right behind me, in my room. I’m still holding the dress. I turn and shove it into Reid’s hands, and he rehangs it without comment.

“Hi.” I push the door further open, to let Graham in. To let Reid out.

Moving into the doorway, Reid turns back to me. “The concierge will call when the limos get here. I suggest you and I share one of them on the ride to Grauman’s, so the exit will be simple. There will be too many flashes to be able to see. You’ll never locate anyone who isn’t already right next to you.”

“Okay.”

Reid turns to Graham. They’re standing two feet apart—the tension rocking between them like punches thrown. And then suddenly Reid is completely at ease. “Graham,” he says.

Graham’s jaw remains rigid. “Reid.”

Boys.

*** *** ***

REID

I learned years ago that the most defenseless you can ever be is when you believe yourself to be in love. I say I don’t believe in love, but that’s not really true—love is just the name of an emotion. It’s like on steroids. It’s lust with ethics. And emotions—fear, hate, whatever—come and go.

What I don’t believe in is the notion of being in love.

People talk about falling in love as though it’s accidental. As though it surprises the hell out of them. I understand those impressions, because that’s how I felt with Brooke. Unlike most people, though, once it was over and I got some emotional distance, I saw it for what it was—an obsession.

Consequently, believing myself to be in love isn’t a high I crave—it was a total loss of control that I hope to never experience again. I’m attracted to Emma. I’m amused and distracted by her. I can even say I care about her. But I’m not in love with her. There’s no need to sacrifice my metaphorical heart on a platter when all I want is a temporary diversion.

***

With the whole cast assembled along the red carpet en masse, the paparazzi are like barracudas in a feeding frenzy. Between their usual catcalls and the screaming fans, the noise level is insane. The bodyguards have their hands full keeping people from jumping the velvet cords. I take Emma’s hand as we exit the limo, and she accepts the support, clutching my hand so tightly I’m worried she’s about to freak out. Every time I glance down at her face, though, she’s smiling and seems perfectly calm.

The dress, as I predicted, is stunning on her—the green of her eyes more potent next to the silky emerald fabric, the silver threads shimmering with every flash. I can’t resist the thought of trailing my fingers down her bare back, or slipping the straps from her shoulders. She looks like a goddess, and I’d be content to worship at her feet. She eclipses everyone here, even Brooke in her predictable little black dress.

My ex-lover is jealous. Posing for photos between Graham and Tadd, she smiles charmingly, but when she directs one unguarded look in Emma’s direction, the resentment is palpable. When her gaze shifts to me, my deliberate grin makes her eyes blaze.

Yeah. She’d still definitely kill me if she could.

None of us can see for five minutes after we finally complete the extended fifteen-minute walk from the limo to the theater doors, and we’re half-deaf as well. I take the seat next to Emma, and Graham takes her opposite side. Her body language is clear. When he leans closer to make a comment or observation, she sways towards him like gravity is involved. Brooke takes the seat on the opposite side of Graham.

The movie isn’t perfect, but none of them ever are. It’s a little sugary, trying too hard to be like the classic novel on which it was based. That will carry box office sales, though, and girls will gobble it up like candy. Sorry, boyfriends everywhere—you’re doomed to sit through an hour and forty-seven minutes of syrupy drivel. The payoff? Between my face, Tadd’s abs and Quinton’s biceps, your girl will be ready for takeoff as soon as the credits roll. You’re welcome.

The official after-party is being held on the third-floor terrace of the hotel. Some of us take the opportunity to change outfits, some don’t. I’m glad to see Emma doesn’t. All the guys remain in dark suits and ties, though jackets are ditched, ties loosened, buttons undone and sleeves rolled. Tadd’s wearing the bolo tie and cowboy hat he bought in Austin, and next to him is MiShaun in the silky white and gold number she wore to the theater. Meredith and Jenna switched to jeans, and Brooke swapped her black gown for a powder blue micro-dress that matches the frosty blue of her eyes and shows off her runway-smooth legs. Her effort yields striking results, but not enough to surpass Emma.

“Nice dress,” I say when Brooke joins me at the table. No one else is sitting there at the moment, everyone either admiring the buffet with its ice sculptures and chocolate fondue setup, or rubbing elbows with other Hollywood elite. “Matches your eyes.”

I laugh when she narrows those eyes at me.

She glances around to make sure no one’s near. “You know where the rooms are located, right? Graham’s is in that alcove area on the other side of the elevators, and Emma’s and mine are in between yours and his.”

I nod. I’d checked out the locations she’d given me before leaving. “Did you have something to do with where our rooms are, Brooke?”