Dazzled (27 page)

Clare

I could have slapped those dumb surfer broads for making Miles feel bad. He’d been almost happy when he left for his swim. But when he came back, he looked plain miserable.

I hadn’t helped either. After my comment about him having terrible taste in girlfriends, he’d been quiet and withdrawn. I hated to think I’d hurt his feelings even more – but what I’d said was true, although I wasn’t sure that was a good enough reason for saying it.

“Do you regret it?”

He stared at me, his gray eyes nearly black as the afternoon drifted into evening.

“I mean, do you regret coming to Hollywood, the film? All of it?”

He stared at his tea, now cold, then tossed the dregs onto the sandy ground.

“Honestly? Sometimes, yeah. I loved making the film and everyone was really great – helping me and that…”

“Except for Pencil Dick.”

He managed a smile. “Yeah, except for him.” He glanced over at me. “And it was great having you there. It felt good to know that I had a friend watching my back.” He sighed again. “But the rest of it? No, that pretty much sucks. I hate talking about myself, so interviews are horrendous. I try and turn it around so I talk about the work – about the movie – as much as possible. It’s weird, people acting like they know me. They recognize my face, but they believe the hype. I don’t even feel like the person they’re talking about is me – I don’t know who he is – that guy. Does that make sense? I don’t know. It makes me a little crazy, I guess.”

“You could walk away.”

He continued to stare at his empty mug.

“Yeah, I guess. I could be that guy who was in a hit movie once. That wouldn’t bother me but…”

“But what?”

He looked up and met my eyes.

“It’s not like I’ve got anything to go back home to in London, is it?”

I laughed lightly, even while my heart was screaming,
Me! What about me?

He frowned. “I mean, apart from mum, and your family. Bloody hell, if Nazzer and Paul are the best I’ve got going for me, I may as well stay here.”

I nodded because I couldn’t speak.

“Shit, sorry, Clare. I’m being a real emo bitch, aren’t I. Let’s find somewhere to get some food.”

“Yeah,” I choked. “Pity we can’t buy any booze.”

He gave a slight smile. “Actually, we don’t have to. I gave Earl a hundred bucks to sort us out with beer and tequila for the road trip.”

“Well, okay then! But we still have to buy marshmallows and then you can be all manly and build a fire.”

“We could toast ‘s’mores.”

“What the hell is a ‘s’more’?”

“Crackers with a marshmallow in the middle, I think. Oh, and with chocolate spread or something.”

“How do you toast a cracker?”

“Buggered if I know.”

“Think I’ll stick to marshmallows.”

“You’re a lightweight,
Milton. Let’s get hammered.”

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Clare

“What’s that rattling noise?” Miles said, quietly. “Can you hear that?”

“It’s my t-t-t-teeth! I’m so c-c-c-cold! I thought C-C-California was supposed to be h-h-hot?”

I heard a shuffling sound, and suddenly Miles’ arms were pulling me into his chest, his warmth radiating through me.

“It’s December,” he laughed, softly. “And night. C’mere. I’ll warm you up.”

Suddenly, I was wide awake. Even half frozen, I’d been only semi-conscious, but the moment Miles touched me, my whole body was on red alert. Or maybe it was on green, because it definitely wanted to go. I was primed and ready, almost breathless with desire. The fire shooting up from my belly was intense and instant. You’d think that having spent 24/7 with him for the last three days, I would have been somewhat desensitized, but no. I was like some supersonic radar, or giant satellite dish, tuned to his broadcast.

I held my breath as he moved closer, thanking every deity I could think of that the campervan had a system of seats and benches that could be turned into one reasonably large double bed at night.

Miles hadn’t even so much as blinked when he set out our borrowed sleeping bags. But my heart was galloping as if I’d just run the Kentucky Derby on foot with my arse on fire.

As always, I played it cool, and slid down onto the improvised bed, trying to get warm.

Miles pulled me back into his chest and draped an arm over my body, languidly rubbing my shoulder.

“By the way,” he said, sleepily. “I meant to say – you looked beautiful in that dress. Blue really suits you.”

Oh, I really wanted to hear him say those words again.

“Sorry, what?”

“Mmm, hot,” he mumbled.

I wanted to yell,
Speak up! Stop muttering!
What did he mean? That he was too hot, or that the dress was hot? Maybe he even meant that
I
was hot, which seemed less likely.

I wanted to beat him about the head and shoulders until he gave me a proper answer. Instead, his warm breaths stirred my hair softly and I realized he was asleep.

Bloody, bloody men!
Just as they start saying something that we might actually want to hear, they bloody well fall asleep on us! Surely torture like that is prohibited under the Geneva Convention?

And then I wondered what would happen if I just jumped his bones. God, he was so clueless, he’d probably apologize for somehow falling underneath me! Maybe if I told him how I felt.

Miles, you’re the most clueless man I’ve ever met. But you’re also the sweetest, nicest, funniest, kindest person I’ve ever met. You’re fuck hot, and every time I’m petting the poodle, I think about you launching your meat missile and sinking me with your pink torpedo.

God help me! If I actually came out and said that, it would be up there with,
I carried a watermelon
.

My own thoughts made me cringe. But at least the blushes were heated, and I drifted away, dreaming of the promised land that was currently breathing softly behind me.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt warm and almost comfortable. I realized with a start that I was lying across Miles’ chest and had my hand under his t-shirt, resting on his heart.

I shifted my leg, embarrassed when I noticed it was hooked over his hip. And, holy shit! That was some morning timber I could feel, even through two layers of sleeping bags.

My movement woke him up.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
I hadn’t even had time to pull out my camera phone.

“Hi,” he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

I tried to disentangle myself, dragging my hand down his firm chest and across his taut stomach. Suddenly, his eyes were wide open. His look was surprised then heart-stoppingly intense. And for a moment, for a brief, indescribable moment, I really thought he was going to do it – I really thought he was going to kiss me.

I felt my cheeks flush, and he blinked.

“Oh, sorry,” he muttered, moving away from me. “Sorry, um…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I squeaked. “Uh… um… I’ll… I’m going for a pee, and… um… and… um… I’ll make some tea… later.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, looking toward his lap. “I’ll… uh… just need a minute.”

Oh by the love of all that’s holy, STOP TALKING!

I kicked off the sleeping bag and pulled on my jeans, Miles’ words running through my brain on repeat. I opened the door of the campervan, the sea breeze cooling my hot cheeks, and fell face first into a dune.

“I’m fine!” I shouted through a mouthful of sand, then crawled commando style so he wouldn’t see me from the window. “I’m fine! Just… fine!”

Please don’t look! Please don’t look!

He looked.

“Clare! Are you alright because I heard you…” he paused. “What are you doing down there?”

Looking for the center of the earth. Hoping a giant meteor will crash down. Wishing that Matt Bomer wasn’t gay. Praying you’re not looking at me!

“Um, nothing. Just dropped my toothbrush.”

There was a short silence.

“You left it on the table. Do you want it?”

I stood up, brushed the sand off my knees and face, and looked him in the eye.

He was trying not to laugh. I scowled, and a huge smile lit up his face.

“Here’s your toothbrush. And, um, happy birthday!”

I snatched my toothbrush out of his hand.

“Fuck off,” I said.

His laughter followed me all the way to the washrooms. At least I made him laugh. I was good for something.

Despite the complete absence of anything approaching civilization, I had to admit the whole camping experience was more fun than I was expecting.

We took long walks, found small, out of season cafés to drink coffee and eat donuts. We talked a lot, and Miles tried to explain again why he loved acting, despite the tons of shit that seemed to accompany it. He told me about the house he’d seen online that he wanted to buy for his mum – just a few streets from where we all rented now, so she’d still be near her old , as well as my parents. He described some of the job offers that Rhonda texted him about on a daily basis. He offered to pay off my student loans, and although I was grateful, I declined. We argued a bit about that. He called me a “stubborn mare” and I called him a “patriarchal git”. Fun times.

Plus, he’d insisted on paying for
everything
. I mean, I wasn’t even allowed to pay for a cup of coffee. It was irritating – I’d always paid my way before. But Miles ignored me and my wallet. I teased him, calling him Mr. Moneybags.

But the truth was, it was just so hard to take in that Miles was, well, rich.

Mum and dad phoned to wish me a happy birthday just before dinner. It was good to hear their voices, but I rushed them off, worried how much the call must be costing them.

I spent my birthday evening with Miles having a romantic meal in an Italian restaurant, improbably named ‘Mama’s Meatball’. When I say romantic, I mean the setting, you know? Candles on the table, low lighting, fantastic food, table for two, and the most beautiful man in the world sharing forkfuls of food with me across a starched linen tablecloth.

Our waitress did a double take when she saw us – well, when she saw him. I could see her wondering if it really was who she thought it was, but when she looked at me, it was like the sum didn’t add up.

Him + her = ?

I could practically hear the cogs in her brain coming to a grinding halt.
Does not compute. Does not compute
.

I was resting my stomach after a wonderful starter of grilled mushrooms with gorgonzola, and a main course of penne al pesto, and was hoping I’d find room to fit in at least a taste of tiramisu from the dessert menu. Miles had already given up and was sitting back sipping his alcohol-free beer, as that was all he’d been allowed to order.

It was irritating that he’d got carded on my birthday, but he shrugged and said he’d make up for it later. I ordered half a carafe of red wine for myself. I offered to share it but he shook his head.

“Yeah, so I got you a present,” he said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“You did?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Of course! It’s your twenty-first! I’ve had it for weeks.” He looked slightly apprehensive. “I hope you like it.”

“I’ll love it whatever it is, you dope!”

He grinned and turned to dig something out of his jacket pocket that was hanging on the chair back. At the same time his t-shirt rode up to reveal a hint of toned stomach.

I wanted to leap across the table and yell,
You! I’ll have you for my birthday! On the table – now! And I’ll smear tiramisu over your whole body and lick it off slowly!

“What?” he said studying my face, which must have looked a picture.
Yeah, not that sort of picture
.

“Nothing.”

He shook his head, bemused, then placed a small box on the table, the name
Harry Winston
inlaid in gold on the top.

“Wow! Seriously, Miles! What did you do?”

He laughed. “That’s just the damn box – try opening it!”

I gave him an evil stare but he just rolled his eyes.

I popped the catch, giddy with anticipation, but when I opened it, all the breath froze in my lungs. I swear my heart stopped beating.

It was a small silver bracelet, like a charm bracelet, but every tiny charm was a heart. And in the center of each heart…

“Bloody hell, Miles! Are those diamonds? Real diamonds?”

He shrugged, trying to look casual but I could tell that my reaction had pleased him – and made him a bit uncomfortable.

“It’s not just for your birthday,” he said. “It’s to say thank you for, well, everything. Coming out last summer when I was freaking out, you know. It meant a lot to me. So, yeah. Thanks.”

Moving slowly, he lifted the delicate-looking bracelet out of the box and waited for me to hold out my left hand. Then he fastened it carefully around my wrist and sat back, a satisfied look on his face.

“Happy birthday, Clare.”

“It’s… it’s beautiful,” I said, watching the diamonds glinting in the candlelight. “The silver is so delicate and… what?”

He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“What?” I said again, irritated.

“Um, it’s not silver. It’s platinum,” he said.

My mouth dropped open with a soft pop.

“Oh.”

“You deserve the best,” he said, quietly.

I had no idea how much a bracelet like that cost. Probably enough to pay off my student loans.

Not that I’d sell it.

Ever.

Not that it would leave my wrist.

Ever.

“How did you get to be so smooth, Stephens?” I said.

“No idea, Milton,” he batted back. “Are you impressed?”

“Well, um, it’s really… just… thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, softly.

Yeah, it was perfect and romantic.

We walked back to the campervan, hand in hand, and shared a bottle of champagne that Miles had kept hidden away. I even got to snuggle up to him that night, our sleeping bags side by side. All that was missing was the knee-trembling, after dinner kiss – oh, and mind-blowing sex.