All the Feels, page 7
He’d figured her indifference to GBBO was an act. It had to be. Who could resist Nadiya’s sweet, emotional ascent to baking triumph? Also the hilarious duo of Sue and Mel?
“—or, more likely, go online and order something a lot less pretty but also a lot less expensive. Then get it hemmed. Which we, fourth, do not have time to do, since the event is tomorrow night. So, fifth, we need to drive to my duplex and decide which of the few dresses I already own might suffice.”
Oooh. He was going to see his stern minder’s inner sanctum? Her Fortress of Stultifying Solitude? He couldn’t wait.
“You’re bringing me home?” He widened his eyes. “But you haven’t even taken me out on a real date yet. I don’t want you to think I’m cheap.”
“For the love of . . .” Now she was rubbing her forehead as well as her temples, and he would feel worse if a tiny little smile weren’t also curving the corners of that wide mouth. “I’d planned to visit my apartment soon anyway, since the clothing I packed for a Spanish vacation isn’t the same clothing I want to wear here. So we might as well take care of everything today. I’ll drive.”
He sprang to his feet. “Let’s do this, Thelma.”
“Sit down, Louise.” She pointed a commanding finger at his chair. “You’ve barely had anything but coffee. Last week, you repeatedly complained about stomach pain because of your medicine, and you told me the best way to prevent that pain was eating more breakfast. So let’s make sure you do that.”
He hadn’t realized she’d been listening to him. If he had, he might not have mentioned—
Oh, who was he trying to fool? Of course he’d have mentioned the issue. Not saying things was unnatural, which he’d also explained to Lauren multiple times.
She was still talking, so apparently she’d listened to him then too.
“—the label on your pill bottle, you should be taking your medication with plenty of water,” she told him. “We’ll bring a bottle in my car, and you can drink it along the way.”
What he ate or drank wasn’t in her realm of professional authority over him. Then again, the concern in her voice didn’t sound professional either.
It was personal. It was present.
He couldn’t see her glorious green eyes, but he knew they’d be warm. Worried.
So he sat his ass back down and ate his remaining Danish without argument before they headed back to the house. Which made her lips quirk that tiny bit again.
He liked it.
He wanted more of it.
LAUREN’S FUCKING DUPLEX. It had a steeply pitched roof and cream stucco siding, and for the entrance—
It had a goddamn turret. A small one, but definitely, positively, a turret.
If Alex lived in a mini-castle, she lived in a mini-mini-castle.
No wonder she’d lost her shit at the sight of his house yesterday. Hell, he was losing his shit now, because what were the odds?
“Keep breathing.” She parked inside the detached two-car garage and thumped him on the back. “I told you not to take a sip of water before we turned onto my street.”
Once he stopped cough-laughing and finally caught his breath again, he needed more details. “What’s that architectural style called?”
“Dilapidated.” Dry as the Santa Ana winds. “Also, according to the real estate agent, storybook. Or Hansel and Gretel.”
“Did you know—” He had to stop for another fit of laughter. “Did you know that Ian has a castle too? And it’s the tackiest fucking place you’ve ever seen? He got it a month after I moved into my house, so I think he bought it as some sort of weird dick-measuring thing.”
She choked a little too, seemingly on thin air. “Like, my turrets are taller and more upright than yours?”
“There are made-up coats of arms and long axes on the walls inside.” Ah, happy memories. “The one time I visited there for a cast thing, I told him straight-faced that my castle had a long axe too, and it was longer than any of his. The next time we were filming together, he showed me a photo of his brand-new custom axe. The shaft was twelve goddamn feet long, Lauren, no lie.”
And there he had it. She was actively laughing again, her eyes bright, her smile wide.
“Now, then,” he said with satisfaction, “let’s go inside and survey the lackluster contents of your wardrobe. We don’t have all day for your chitchat, Nanny Clegg. Chop-chop.”
She stopped laughing and glared at him, then sighed and got out of her hybrid.
The turret was fun, but the interior of her duplex—which she apparently shared with her best friend, Sionna, who was at work and thus not available for his interrogation—wasn’t especially prepossessing. The apartment had decent enough wooden floors and casement windows, but also a tiny, tiny bedroom and an equally tiny kitchen that had, at some point in its lamented past, undergone disastrous updating.
He recognized the IKEA furniture from his lean years in Hollywood, pre-Gates.
“Hey, Billy!” he greeted the bookshelves as he moved past them. “Long time no see!”
She just rolled her eyes and waved him into her bedroom, which was disappointingly neat and free from clutter. Any personality she had here, she kept locked away, apparently. He really needed to get a closer look at those bookshelves, or possibly her nightstand.
Women kept all sorts of fun stuff in their nightstands. He knew that for a fucking fact.
Like her kitchen, her wardrobe was outdated and disastrous. At least, assuming she wanted to wear anything other than tees, jeans, leggings, black pants, or neutral button-downs for the rest of her benighted, boring-ass life. Which she apparently didn’t, since the clothes she kept packing in a suitcase were from those groups.
“You have a suck-ass wardrobe, Nanny Clegg,” he told her.
She blew out an exasperated breath. “My nicer clothes, I brought with me to Spain. They’re already in the guesthouse.”
He tried to think back. “I don’t remember any nice clothes.”
“I wore a dress to dinner that first night!” She threw up her hands. “A swing dress! It’s dark green and pretty!”
He’d like to see her in it again. At the time, he hadn’t paid sufficient attention, clearly.
“Maybe so, but it’s not a cocktail dress either.” He perched on the end of her bed, and holy Jesus, the woman needed a better mattress, stat. “What do you have that’s sparkly?”
Another withering look. “I don’t do sparkly.”
When she produced a black dress, he nodded. “I see. You do funereal instead.”
“It’s lace.” She shook the hanger in his face. “It’s a lovely dress, and I feel good in it.”
That brought him up short. If her depressing black dress and unmemorable green swing dress helped her feel comfortable in her own skin, he’d have to be a real asshole to insult them.
He frequently was an asshole, of course. But maybe not so much today.
“Let’s see it on,” he said.
“What?” Her face scrunched up in confusion, and honestly, it was kind of adorable.
“Try it on.” His flick of the hand directed her toward the bathroom. “If it’s not appropriate for the red carpet, we’ll figure something else out. I can call in some favors, or there’s always Gates’s wardrobe department. They’d probably be able to whip up a suitable dress in time.”
“I’m not playing dress-up with you,” she said dampeningly.
“Why not?”
She didn’t have a good answer to that, apparently, because she bustled into her bathroom with the dress. Or, more accurately, stomped, which was a different sort of victory.
After several minutes, she poked her head around the door.
“This has to be good enough, Alex.” Her mouth was pale and tight with tension. “I don’t want you to call in favors, and I don’t want your costume department to do extra work for me.”
From what he could tell, she didn’t like anyone doing much of anything for her. Ever.
“Okay.” He reclined back on the bed, bracing himself on his elbows. “Look, here’s the deal. When we walk the red carpet, all the photographers will just tell you to move anyway. They’ll want you out of their shots, because I’m the dude their audience pays to look at. Not a random woman they’ve never seen before and may never see again. So as long as your dress isn’t actively embarrassing, it doesn’t really matter what you wear.”
“Then why all this talk about couture?” Her voice contained entire worlds of strained patience.
He shrugged. “I like sparkly shit.”
“Of course you do,” she said in that dry Santa Ana voice.
When she stepped out from behind the bathroom door, he had to smile. Genuinely smile, because yes, that dress was clearly not couture or even high-end, but it was lovely on her. It might have been black, black, black, but the floaty knee-length skirt and peeks of pale skin beneath the lace were pretty.
“The dress is fine. You’ll be fine.” He collapsed down onto the bed and waved her away. “I may not be, however. I need to work on my speech for the auction and get it approved by Ron before tomorrow.”
The bathroom door shut again, and she called out from behind it. “What’s the charity?”
“A local organization that works to prevent domestic violence and provides shelters for abused women and children.” He scratched absently at his beard. “I’ve been involved with them for a few years. Hopefully my exceedingly handsome face will bring in some high bids, because my speech is currently as heinous and inadequate as your daily wardrobe.”
He needed to script a better speech, and he would. It might be especially hard to bear down and finish projects when he was tired, but he’d had years of specialized therapy to help him through situations just like this.
“Are there any other big names coming?” she asked, her voice still muffled.
He closed his eyes, suddenly tired again. “Asha had planned to attend, but she’s evidently on a quest to make out with her pop star boyfriend in every Mediterranean port. She sent a big honking donation in apology.”
He had to admit, he was a bit jealous. Not of Asha or her ginger boy toy, but of what they were experiencing right now. That all-consuming need to be with another person. The sort of raging desire and attraction that meant you couldn’t—wouldn’t—be parted for long.
He hadn’t felt that for years. Maybe for more than a decade now.
“Otherwise, the big names are my cast friends who live in the area. Carah Brown. Maria Ivarsson. Peter Reedton.” He hadn’t bothered issuing an invitation to Ian, and Mackenzie had already given money on Whiskers’s behalf. “I don’t think you’ve met any of them. They’d all finished filming before you arrived.”
Marcus would have come too, but he was currently in San Francisco and utterly preoccupied with a geologist named April, and Alex wouldn’t get in the way of that.
He’d just make sure Marcus sent the charity a healthy donation later.
Lauren’s voice came from near the bed, and he startled.
“Let’s get you home,” she said quietly. “We both need lunch and a nap, and you need to work on your speech.”
She was back in a nondescript tee and jeans, lovely eyes sympathetic as she surveyed his limp, supine form. Her beaky, crooked nose caught the light from one of the casement windows, and he stared.
Maybe she was right after all.
Maybe flashier clothing would only compete with her distinctive features and frame. Maybe they’d distract from what made her interesting and unique.
Not that he’d ever tell her that.
When she held out her hand, he took it. She helped him off the bed, and he gave her fingers a little squeeze before letting go.
“Don’t think I missed the wedge heels you packed into your suitcase.” He sniffed in judgment, hoisted her luggage, and swept out her bedroom door. “Hasn’t the Killjoy Guild of America discussed the dangers of such sartorial folly and extravagance?”
She snorted, and he smiled, content.
Lauren’s Email
From: l.c.clegg@umail.com
To: KingRon@godsofthegates.com
Subject: Weekly report and tomorrow’s event
Dear Ron—
As promised, here’s my first weekly report as to Alex’s behavior. I know you didn’t want to tell him I was sending you regular updates, but as you may recall, I deliberately remained silent and didn’t argue, but also did not agree to that stricture. Thus, I informed him on our first day together that I would be writing you every week, and reminded him of that again today. He said to send “regards so warm they might as well be afire, which, now that I consider the matter, may help prepare him for the afterlife” his regards.
Thus far, his behavior has been irritating as hell, but essentially unobjectionable. On set, as you know, he was hardworking and professional. Whenever and wherever we have encountered fans, he has been kind and charming and patient about selfies. He has also been very welcoming in his home.
Finally, despite your concerns, he has not shared any confidential or damaging information about the production or the final season’s scripts, and he has not consumed alcohol to excess on any occasion. Are you entirely certain he was drunk the night of the bar fight?
If you desire other information from me, please let me know, and I will consider whether your requests constitute an invasion of Alex’s privacy we can discuss the matter.
I know that I am supposed to accompany him to his red-carpet charity auction tomorrow, but I’m unclear as far as what is expected of me at the event. Do you intend for me to walk the red carpet by his side? He has indicated that he expects that, but surely he should have someone better suited to such events accompanying him I wasn’t certain.
Also, what explanation do you wish me to give for my presence? Alex has indicated that he wouldn’t mind my telling everyone “this is Nanny Clegg, the perplexingly short albatross I must carry in penance for my previous misdeeds” the truth, but I don’t think that reflects well on either him or your production. If you can, please advise me before tomorrow night.
My mother sends her regards, which, unlike Alex’s, would be genuinely warm, because she doesn’t know you very well.
Sincerely,
Lauren
7
LATER THAT EVENING, AFTER ALEX HAD LUNCHED, NAPPED, wrestled his speech into something workable, received Ron’s approval, and eaten supper with Lauren in his dining nook, he thumped down into his office chair and made two calls he’d been avoiding.
First, his agent. In theory, that could be a video call, but nah. As was his right as an American, Alex reserved the option to make faces at his phone when displeased by the conversation.
“Alex, finally,” Zach answered, and fortunately could not see the eye roll he received in response. “Stop dodging my damn emails. We have things we need to discuss.”
“Unfair, dude.” Alex leaned back in his office chair and swiveled it from side to side. “I didn’t dodge your emails. After reading them with laudable—nay, remarkable—speed and attention, I simply determined that they didn’t require any immediate response.”
From the other end of the line, there was an odd sound. Teeth-grinding?
Zach enunciated each word very carefully. “In recent weeks, I’ve received multiple messages from the producers of your upcoming projects asking about your current behavior. They’re all checking in to discover whether you’re, as they put it, ‘still spiraling out of control.’ ”
Alex and Zach had discussed the very same topic at least half a dozen times since the incident in Spain, and not once—not a single time—had Zach actually asked him what happened. Even though they’d been working together since the beginning of Alex’s career, both Hollywood hopefuls fresh out of high school and waiting tables to fill empty bank accounts.
It was a simple question, and one Alex had deserved after so many years.
“You said all this in your emails.” A better person would mute the phone as he yawned, but Alex didn’t bother. “Was there anything else?”
A heavy sigh. “In my emails, I also asked whether that woman Ron assigned you is keeping you contained, because another major scandal, and you’ll run afoul of the good-behavior clauses in the contracts you signed. You’ve failed to answer the question. Multiple times.”
Keeping you contained. As if he were a zoo animal. A lion, perhaps?
If so, something about Zach’s tone in reference to Lauren had rubbed Alex’s lush, gloriously abundant mane the wrong way.
He sat up straight. “ ‘That woman’ is Lauren Clegg. Or, rather, Ms. Clegg. And she is doing an exemplary job of stamping out all stray sparks of joy and exhilaration I might happen to experience on a daily basis, rest assured.”
“Fine. Good.” The edge in Zach’s tone matched Alex’s own. “Ms. Clegg better continue to do her damn job, because we can’t afford another screwup.”
“Whatever her job description might be, I am responsible for my own behavior. Not her. No matter what happens, she’s not at fault. I want that absolutely clear.” The fucking nerve. “Is that all? Because I have better things to do. I haven’t flossed for several hours, and I hear my future producers are also considering whether my plaque levels are within contractual bounds.”
A long silence stretched over the line, and Alex half wondered whether this was it. The moment, the conversation, that would sever their partnership at long last.
The prospect should probably frighten him, and maybe it would later, but it didn’t now. Either Zach showed Lauren respect, or he could fuck off to somewhere else in Hollywood.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Zach’s voice was tight.
“As much as I ever did,” Alex said, then ended the call.
To cool his temper afterward, he read a Cupid/Psyche fic where Psyche was a small village’s intended human sacrifice to a clan of werewolves headed by Jupiter—at least until Cupid, Jupiter’s grandson, fell in love with her and spirited her away from danger.
After that, matters got rather heated, and it was all extremely delightful.
