All the Feels, page 20
Texts with Marcus: Saturday Night
Marcus: Sorry, I meant to check in earlier
Marcus: I was busy with normal convention stuff, but also April and I worked things out
Alex: Congrats, dude, I’m happy for you both
Alex: Please give her a hug from me
Alex: Which shouldn’t be difficult, since you’re no doubt clinging to her like plastic wrap
Marcus: Well, you’re not wrong
Marcus: Obnoxious, but not wrong
Marcus: You doing okay? After everything that happened last night?
Alex: Great!
Marcus: . . .
Alex: No lawsuit + no fines + no press junket = ROAD TRIP!!!
Alex: With Wren, obvs
Marcus: Obvs
Marcus: I hope you noted the sarcasm there, because it was distinct
Alex: Nope, I spotted nothing but sincerity
Alex: Anyway, on Wednesday, we’re heading up the coast to Stacia’s wedding
Alex: I plan to woo her along the way in my own unique, extremely charming way
Marcus: So you’ve finally realized you’re into her?
Marcus: Thank fuck
Marcus: I thought we’d both be sitting in our rockers at a nursing home before you noticed
Alex: Self-reflection is not my strong suit, dickwad
Alex: Also, please note how I didn’t make a dirty joke about the “into her” bit
Alex: This is just part of my transformation into a gentleman worthy of Lauren’s affection
Marcus: She seems fond of you as you are
Marcus: If I were you, I’d just stay an asshole
Alex: I should probably be offended, but we both know it’s true
Alex: Wish me luck, dude
Marcus: Good luck, drive safely, and let me know how it goes
Alex: It’ll be great
Alex: As I always say, CLEAR EYES, SMARTASS, CAN’T LOSE
Marcus: You’ve literally never said that before
Alex: Let me rephrase
Alex: CLEAR EYES, SMARTASS, FUCK YOU
Marcus: Love you, man
Alex: FINE, I LOVE YOU TOO, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW
Marcus: Yes, very much so
Alex: Good, you deserve it
Alex: Still, fuck you
20
“I’M EXCELLENT COMPANY ON ROAD TRIPS.” ALEX AIMED A blinding grin Lauren’s way before turning back to the traffic. “Charming. Witty. A veritable fount of wisdom and knowledge. So stunningly attractive that I’m essentially my own tourist attraction and/or scenic overlook. By the time we’re amongst the redwoods, you’ll be having such a great time, you’ll wonder how you ever traveled without me.”
It was just after noon, and they’d only recently hit the road. Because . . . Alex.
Despite his insistence on an early start time that morning—“You already made me wait until Wednesday, Wren, which is essentially next year”—he’d had them sit down for one of Dina’s delicious, huge breakfasts before they departed. Because, he claimed, Lauren owed him the consumption of croissant-based French toast stuffed with a heavenly cream cheese–strawberry mixture, since he’d defended her.
Then he’d confessed that he hadn’t packed yet, and insisted on modeling way-too-flattering outfit possibilities for her and parading around shirtless as he changed, and . . .
Well, they’d gotten a late start. But as he’d pointed out, this was meant to be a vacation, and they had plenty of time and nowhere in particular to be before Saturday.
It was wonderful, frankly. All of it.
The travel plans. The uninterrupted time to talk. The lack of divided loyalties. The car.
The shirtlessness.
“I’m going to have a great time? That’s odd.” She angled herself toward him. “I seem to recall a brand-new bumper sticker on your very expensive car reading—and I quote—NO FUN. In all caps. I assume it was purchased for this trip?”
The sight of it had stopped her dead in her tracks that morning, as she’d approached the mini-castle. Alex had pulled his car up just outside the front door, and she couldn’t miss the decorative addition. Not with its bright red letters against a stark white background. And yes, the car itself was that same shade of cherry red, but the sedan was also sleek and pristine and entirely unsuited to smartass bumper stickers.
Upon second thought, maybe the combination of car and sticker was perfect for Alex. Slick lines and gorgeousness leavened by a healthy dose of the ridiculous.
“The bumper sticker’s an homage,” he declared loftily, his attention on the road, his eyes hidden by his stylish sunglasses. “A nod to our past as Nanny Clegg and her irascible yet irresistible charge.”
“I see,” she said dryly. “I didn’t realize it was an act of historical commemoration. My mistake.”
The sun blazed overhead, and the car’s air-conditioning battled valiantly against the July heat. The rolling hills surrounding them were parched and golden, with patches of green from brush, and she couldn’t wait to get even closer to the water and the ocean breeze. But to be perfectly honest, she’d barely managed to glance outside the passenger window so far. Because Alex might be aggravating, but he was also right: He was irresistible.
He’d modeled countless outfits for her, all of them glorious on him. But in deference to the temperature, he’d chosen to wear a plain white tee today. Or at least, it would have been plain on almost anyone else. On him, it was an artful garnish on a perfectly plated dessert.
Oh, heavens, it was tight. It strained against his biceps and lovingly clung to his broad shoulders, and its immaculate whiteness made his skin glow golden in the sun.
The snug fit of his faded jeans showcased the shifting muscles of his strong thighs as he braked and accelerated over and over, the rhythm hypnotizing. And between those thighs—
No, she wouldn’t look there. Not again.
Truly, her current preoccupation with his lean, strong body was his fault entirely, and it had started even before the half-naked fashion show. As soon as he’d spotted her standing on his circular drive that morning, he’d come bounding out of the mini-castle, his face creased in a huge, beaming smile, and stridden directly to her.
He hadn’t stopped a discreet foot or two away or waved from a distance. Oh, no.
Instead, he’d moved close and punctured the generous, invisible bubble of space that usually surrounded her and opened his arms wide, and what could she do then, really? What else could she do but walk forward into those arms, into his all-encompassing embrace?
He’d bent low to rest his cheek against her hair, and he’d murmured, Finally, you exasperating shrew, finally, and he’d wrapped around her like—
Like the blanket he’d given her, maybe. Warm and luxurious. More beautiful than anything she’d ever hoped to have or even dared to want.
But she did want him. And she’d had him for endless seconds on that driveway, maybe even a minute or two, because he hadn’t given her a quick squeeze and let her go. No, he’d held on tightly, and she hadn’t moved away either.
As they’d stood embracing one another, the warmth of his skin soaked through his clothing and heated to scorching against her fingertips on his back, her arms around his waist, her cheek on his chest. His jeans rubbed against the smooth fabric of her leggings, and the friction rippled through her until she swelled and ached between her thighs. Despite the barrier of her cotton bra and T-shirt, she was very much afraid he could feel her nipples harden against his stomach, and if she didn’t know better—
Well, surely she’d been mistaken. That was his phone or his wallet, not . . .
At the sense memory of that firm ridge against her upper belly, she reached desperately for her water bottle and took a long, long drink from the condensation-beaded plastic.
She would not look at his zipper placket again. She would not.
Even though, when they’d finally stepped apart on his driveway, she could have sworn his jeans fit a bit . . . differently . . . in that region than they usually did. And the kiss he’d pressed to her flushed skin then hadn’t landed on her temple or forehead.
He’d kissed her cheek, maybe a bare millimeter from the corner of her mouth.
Friends, she told herself for the millionth time that morning. He’s my all-too-affectionate friend, and he doesn’t understand what he’s doing to me.
When he spoke again in the hushed, intimate cocoon of the car, she had to jerk her gaze up from—dammit—where it kept drifting, despite her best intentions.
“That bumper sticker is essentially a monument, Wren.” He glanced behind him before switching lanes. “Also, my car isn’t that expensive.”
He was smiling at the road ahead and the bumper-to-bumper traffic it contained. When a song he especially liked played over the discreetly placed speakers, he hummed along, off-key. His shoulders were loose, his movements easy and fluid.
Despite all his professional woes, she’d never seen him look so relaxed and entirely pleased with himself and the world.
His happiness didn’t hinge on her presence, of course, but the sight of his joy still ignited a spark of pleasure inside her. Because he was able to let down his guard in her company. Because he deserved every bit of his seeming delight. Because he wanted her beside him in this car—which was, no matter what he claimed, unmistakably luxe.
“Really? It’s not that expensive?” Brows raised high, she traced a fingertip over the pleated interior trim on the passenger door. “Because I don’t remember fabric folded to look like origami inside vehicles in my price range. Or massage settings for buttery-soft leather seats.”
She did not like the speculative glance he darted her way then.
“Don’t even think about it, Alex,” she said sternly. “If you buy me a damn car, I’ll immediately donate it to charity.”
“You’d do it too.” It was a grumble. “Harpy.”
She snuggled deeper into her seat, satisfied. “Correct.”
He heaved an aggrieved sigh, despite the smile still creasing his bearded cheeks. “Okay, so this model wasn’t cheap, but a bunch of my costars have sports cars instead. Plural.”
A sports car couldn’t possibly be any more luxurious than this. She caressed the sleek, polished wood on the dash, tracing the herringbone pattern with her fingertips.
They were stopped in traffic for the moment, and he appeared to be staring at the dashboard too, although the sunglasses made it hard to say for sure.
His white teeth sank into his lower lip, and the car ahead of them accelerated.
They didn’t.
“Alex?” Even as she pointed to the now-open road, the SUV behind them honked. “Alex, we need to move.”
The next honk was way longer and part of a growing chorus of discontent, and he jumped a little before facing forward again and stomping on his own accelerator.
He cleared his throat and paid careful attention to the road. “Sorry. Lost focus for a minute there.”
He jabbed at the control screen to lower the temperature and raise the fan speed for his side of the car, high color burnishing his cheekbones.
Another tap. Another. “It’s fucking hot in here. Shit.”
Maybe the sun was more intense on the driver’s side, because she was pretty comfortable.
She frowned. “Do you need more water?”
“Nope.” His tone did not invite further discussion. “Anyway, my mom has the same model as mine, just in a different color. I kind of liked the idea of us driving matching cars.”
He’d clearly bought her that car, and the sweetness of the gesture pierced Lauren’s heart.
He rarely mentioned his mom, although Lauren knew the two of them talked regularly on the phone. She’d wondered about their relationship, but now she knew: Alex loved his mother. He wasn’t a man to love half-heartedly, and their matching cars were further proof.
“Does she live in California?” Lauren asked.
They were nearing Santa Monica. Soon, they’d merge onto the Pacific Coast Highway and drive right along the water for miles and miles, heading up the coast on that famous ribbon of road sandwiched between the vast, sparkling ocean and steep, rugged mountains. Decades had passed since her last extended trip along the PCH, and she couldn’t wait.
Maybe his mom lived somewhere along their route?
He shook his head, his mouth tight. “Florida. Near where I grew up.”
What kind of woman had raised the man beside her? And why hadn’t Alex—who chatted at frankly ludicrous length about everyone else in his life—discussed her more?
Lauren twisted to face him more directly, readjusting her seat belt so it didn’t bite into her neck. “Are you two—”
“I have a favor to ask,” he interrupted, the words abrupt. “How do you feel about filming me?”
The images that appeared in her febrile brain should have embarrassed her. But she was too busy wondering why he’d cut off that line of conversation so decisively, and also too busy melting into a puddle of lust all over his lovely leather seats, to feel the appropriate level of shame.
“What, uh . . .” Another long, not-cold-enough sip of water. “What exactly do you want me to film?”
Probably not what she’d just imagined, sadly.
“You’re not online much, right?” When she shook her head, he steered them down the California Incline, and then they were on the PCH at last. “Carah—do you remember her? From the charity event?”
Here, next to the Pacific, the temperature wasn’t scorching, but pleasantly warm. The blue, blue water stretching into infinity loosened something long-knotted inside her, and the ocean breezes beckoned. Without even bothering to ask first, she turned off the AC and rolled down her window. He shot her a pleased grin, then lowered his too.
The whipping wind roared in her ears, and she raised her voice to be heard. “Carah Brown. Very kind, very funny, uses the word fuck more than any other human alive?”
He snorted. “You remember Carah. Anyway, she films herself eating weird foods suggested by viewers and posts the clips all over the internet. When we were texting yesterday, she suggested making my own videos on the trip as a way to connect with my fans outside of Gates, and I thought it was a decent idea. But I need a camerawoman.”
“Me,” she said.
“You,” he confirmed. “Assuming you’re willing.”
In theory, she was, but . . . “I know nothing about filming people.”
“Luckily, I know a lot about being filmed.” He set his left elbow on the windowsill, and the arm of his T-shirt rippled in the rush of air. “It’ll be fine, Wren. It’s just an experiment. If it doesn’t turn out well, I don’t post anything. No problem.”
Well, she’d warned him. “Okay. I’ll do it. You want me to use your phone?”
“Yup.” Leaning back in his seat, he dug out his cell from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. “Why don’t we do a test run in Malibu?”
His phone had more features than hers, and she took a few minutes to learn the various options as they passed Pacific Palisades. By the time they neared Malibu and veered inland, she thought she could at least shoot a basic video. Probably.
She turned toward him as far as she could and propped her elbow on the dashboard to steady her camera hand. “Ready for your test run?”
The traffic had turned heavy, and he took advantage of a temporary stop to check himself out in the rearview mirror. As she could have told him, he didn’t need any adjustment. He was already the epitome of casual, sun-kissed stardom, his dishevelment only adding to his appeal.
“All right.” He let off the brake for a few feet, then had to stop again. “Let’s do this, Wren. Three, two, one, and . . . action.”
She tapped the red circle on the screen and kept the camera focused on his profile in the driver’s seat.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Alex Woodroe”—he shot a brief grin in her direction and winked at his audience—“the beloved and exceedingly attractive star of Gods of the Gates and various films, some more low-budget than others. I’m driving up the Pacific Coast Highway on a multiday road trip, and I thought you might like to hear about where I am and where I’m going.”
Doing her best to keep the phone still, she nodded encouragingly.
He waved a hand, indicating their surroundings. “Right now, we’re in Malibu, where L.A.’s rich and famous come to hunt the Sasquatch of Youth.”
At that, she choked on thin air, and tried to cough-laugh as silently as possible.
He frowned. “You okay?”
When she waved him on, he added confidingly, “As everyone in Hollywood knows, if you catch the Sasquatch of Youth, it’ll grant you an extra decade of casting viability in exchange for its freedom. For that reason, sasquatch-hunting is the main local industry in Malibu. The city should really advertise it more.”
If this was a test run, she could respond without ruining anything, right?
With her free hand, she groped for her water bottle and took yet another huge gulp. “Alex, are you entirely sure these are the sorts of travel insights you want to share?”
“It’s the only explanation for Carah Brown, Wren.” When the car came to another stop, he turned to look directly into the camera. “Did you know that Carah is ninety-three years old?”
When Lauren laughed out loud, so did Alex, and she couldn’t resist engaging with his nonsense. “Maybe she has a Vanity Fair cover portrait that’s aging for her?”
“Solid literary allusion. Nicely done.” When he reached out for a high five, still grinning, she gave it to him. “Anyway, Carah’s ancient, and the Sasquatch of Youth lives here. That’s really all you need to know about Malibu.”
He held up a finger, as if he were a scholar making one final, crucial point. “Oh, and some people in Malibu try to keep their beaches private and only accessible to the super-rich, which is total bullshit. But I suppose they need seclusion for sasquatch-hunting purposes.”
Oh, holy crackers.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your scintillating view of me and Malibu’s delightful stop-and-go traffic.” He flashed another bone-melting smile in the camera’s direction. “Thanks for watching, and remember to get out there, have fun, and don’t let Carah Brown fool you. She’s pretty, but she’s also old as fuck and mean as hell. Can’t say I didn’t warn you, people.”
