The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (15 page)

“I will, thank you.”

“Have a nice day, ladies.”

As soon as the door is closed behind him, we’re both in stitches. “I think you’ve got a fan,” I sputter.

“Right, he’s a fan of my C-cups like every other guy.”

“Pssh, you’re a beautiful girl.”
Go on, Stupid! Say something else that’ll give you away! Tell her that
you’re
a fan of her C-cups, too, why don’t you?
With breakneck speed I add, “In this town that will get you anything you want.”

“I’d rather get what I want by working for it,” she scoffs.

The elevator dings and the “PH” light illuminates. “Here we go.” I take the handle of the cart—mostly so I can show her that pretty girls aren’t afraid to do actual work—and push it down the hall. She follows close behind.

“There aren’t any other apartments on this floor?”

“It’s a penthouse thing,” I say, then slide the key into the lock.

The second she steps foot through the door, her eyes go wider than an anime character’s. She spins in a slow circle and looks up the winding glass staircase leading to the study. She marvels first at the high, glass ceiling then shifts her attention to the first floor.

Admittedly, the apartment is a bit excessive. It’s 5,500-square-feet and kind of resembles something you’d see on an episode of MTV Cribs. When I bought the place, it had a skate ramp smack in the middle of it! I had that removed and replaced it with a sensible billiards table and lounge area. Now, the first floor is wide open; its flow is extraordinary. The exterior walls aren’t really walls, but huge windows, and there is no division between the kitchen to the left and living room to the right. The bedrooms are separated from the kitchen and living room by a glass partition. Both the master and guest bedrooms are accessible through sliding doors in the sheet glass and are separated from each other by a wall made entirely of black bamboo. Each bedroom is equipped with floor-length privacy curtains, which can be pulled across the panoramic windows and the glass partition.

I wheel the cart through the living room to her bedroom. “You’ve got your own bathroom,” I call out to her. When I reenter the living room, I catch her gliding her hand across the arm of one of the white leather couches.

“Where’s the pool?” she asks, a hint of sarcasm to the question.

“Through the ranch sliders right there,” I point to the doors opposite the wall-mounted flat screen TV.

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t,” I reply and motion with my finger for her to follow me up to the study.

She stops dead at the top of the steps and gasps. “Holy fuck!”

A roaring cackle escapes my lips. In all the years I’ve known her, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her drop an F-bomb. For some reason, it’s the funniest thing she’s ever said. “I didn’t know anything about how to set up a studio,” I say once I’ve recovered from my laughter. “I asked Mark Carter to come in and put it all together. He tried out all the equipment, made sure it all works properly.”

“Mark Carter, as in, the producer?” Her voice is so low, it’s like she’s merely mouthing words.

Could you be any cuter?
“That would be him, yeah.”

“You’re saying one of the world’s most badass electronica musicians put this whole thing together, and also actually
used
all this stuff?”

“Yep, that’s what I’m saying.”

Tears well up in her eyes. I can’t quite describe the way she’s looking at me, but if she doesn’t kiss me
right now,
she won’t ever kiss me.
Please! Please, do it! I swear on all that is good and holy, I will kiss you back.

“Wait here.” She takes off down the stairs.

Okay, that is
so
not the reaction I was hoping for.

A few minutes later, she reappears. In her hands, she holds a present wrapped in shiny green paper. “It isn’t much, but Merry belated Christmas.”

I slip the foil off. The box reads “Lenox.” Inside the box is a framed 8x10 photo of Payton, Sarah, and Jared in front of the tree at Rockefeller Center. They are all smiling.
She is smiling
.

“I thought you could stash it away in your room or something.”

“Nope! No way. This is going right on the mantel over the fireplace in the living room where every last person who enters this house can see it.”

“Oh, great,” she smirks.

“Seriously, it’s awesome. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Thank
you
for all of this.” She sweeps a gaze around the room.

I stare at my feet. I can’t look at her, or everything I’ve got bottled up inside me will come spilling out in waves. “We should probably get you unpacked.”

“Good idea. I’m gonna throw on a pair of shorts first, though.”

“Cool,” I say, though it’s really not. My head is still reeling from the sweatshirt thing earlier.
Lord, help me.

❄ ❄ ❄

We’ve been unpacking her stuff for a good hour. Every time she moves or bends over to pick something up, the goddamn shorts ride up and expose more of her impeccable thighs. Obviously, there is some kind of nascent physical lure going on here, and I doubt it’s a passing inkling because I seriously feel the need to find out who designed those shorts so I can write them a long, heartfelt letter of gratitude.

“Houston to Kendall. Come in, Kendall.”

“Huh?”

“I asked if it would be cool for me to mount a guitar rack on a wall upstairs.”

“Yeah, duh, it’s cool. It’s your place now, too. Go crazy.”

“Cool,” she says and then leans over to grab a pair of shoes from her suitcase.

I clear my throat and remind myself not to stare.
Kendall, if you need to remind yourself of that, there’s a good chance you may be royally screwed.
“So I was thinking we could take a drive downtown tomorrow. I want to show you where MALA is and all the cool stuff there is to do around there.”

“You don’t have to work?”

“I’m taping an interview with MusicTube at ten, but I’m free after that.”

“Okay, that sounds awesome.”

“Great. It’s a date!”

“Hold on,” she lifts an empty duffle up to me. “I think we’re finished!”

I exhale a sigh of relief. “Thank god for that. I’m crazy thirsty. You want some water?”

“Definitely.”

I snap my fingers and head into the kitchen. She tails me out to the living room then curls up in a ball on the couch. I’m filling a pitcher of water at the sink, about to hobble over to join her, when my Blackberry buzzes. I check the caller ID. It’s Lauren. I contemplate sending her to voicemail, but decide that would be kind of rude. “Hey, hun,” I answer.

“Hey. Guess what?” Her voice is cheery. I’m intrigued.

“What?”

“My agent called. It seems you and I will be working together again.”

“You got the part? That’s awesome! Congratulations!” Working with her will make this project infinitely more fun. “Are you excited?”

“Hell yeah, I’m excited! I was thinking I could celebrate with my co-star over dinner. Are you busy tomorrow night?”

Tomorrow night? I should probably check with Payton before making any plans. I can’t go out and leave her home when she’s only been here for one day. And anyway, I would love to celebrate her arrival by taking her out for a night on the town. It’s probably a good idea to introduce her to new people, help her make friends. “That sounds great, but my roommate just flew in from Jersey. Would it be cool if she came out with us?”

“Absolutely. I’ll make a reservation for three at Diamante’s at eight?”

“Diamante’s at eight? That’s the hottest place on Santa Monica right now. You can get us a rez on such short notice?” I feel like that’s a stupid question. If I called there tomorrow at seven for a reservation at eight, they’d go all Rain Man on me. “Ms. Bettencourt, we can definitely,
definitely
do that.” It’s yet another perk of the job. Shallow, I know, but convenient.

“Remember the ex I told you about?” Lauren questions. “She’s the Sous Chef there. She owes me one.”

Awesome. Friends in high places are so much more convenient than fame. “Hang on a sec,” I say, then cover the mouthpiece and peer out into the living room. “Payton, think you’ll be up for a night out tomorrow?”

She shrugs, “Yeah, sure.”

I smile and bring the phone back to my ear, “Lauren, you’re on.”

“Cool. I’ll see you girls then. Ta-ta,” she replies and hangs up.

I grab two glasses with one hand and the pitcher in the other, totter out to the living room, and collapse onto the couch. Payton relieves me of my full hands and fills the glasses.

“My friend Lauren found out she got the second lead in
The Relishing
. We’re all going out for a celebratory dinner.”

She smiles apprehensively. “That’s cool.”

I pat her thigh without thinking about the tremors I will inevitably experience at the contact. “What’s with the sheepish grin?”

“Well, my first full day in town is going to end at a Hollywood hotspot with two movie stars. That’s sort of daunting.”

“Ridiculous. Lauren is totally down to earth. You’ll like her, I promise.”

She huffs. “Okay. We’ll find out.”

“Yeah, we will. Now, what do you say about a quiet night with Chinese food and
Alice in Wonderland
?”

She smiles. “I say let’s do it.”

❄ ❄ ❄

Lawrence meets me at MusicTube Studios. He surprises me with coffee while I’m in hair and makeup. I’m not sure why he’s here, let alone why he’s bringing me coffee. In the very early days of his employment as my publicist, he bombarded me with instructions at every press event, but for the last little while he’s pretty much trusted me to do and say all the right things without having to babysit me. Over the last few weeks, he’s been attached to my hip. “What did I do wrong now?”

He examines my reflection in the mirror. I guess he’s pleased with what he sees, because he straight up lies to me. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Yeah, like I buy
that. “Then why are you here?”

“Moral support.”

“I’m calling you out on your bullshit. You’re here to make sure I don’t blank out again, aren’t you? Look, Lawrence. I’ve already got a father, okay? I don’t need
another
one.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know what’s going on with you lately,” he says, his voice clearly annoyed. “But you’ve been about as responsive to these interviewers as a fresh corpse. Your mind is elsewhere when it needs to be in the moment.”

He can be a real ass sometimes, but even then, he’s usually right. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder to focus.”

“Kendall, if there’s something you need to talk about…”

“There isn’t,” I say sharply.

“Are you sure? I could call your mother if you’d rather talk—”

“No!”
Hell
no. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than talk to my mother about pretty much
anything
other than the weather. “I’m dealing with it, okay? But thanks for your concern.”

“Hey, that’s my job.”

An assistant enters the dressing room to give me a five-minute warning. I walk toward the sound stage.
Here we go.
Don’t mess it up.

“Remember to smile,” Lawrence says, sending me on my way with a pat on the back.

The host asks me routine questions about
Idol
: Can I describe my character, did I have fun on set, how did I feel about having to sing in a film, did I need any special music training? But then he gets down to the good stuff: How was it filming the girl-on-girl sex scene?

My instinct is to be honest, tell him it was the scariest experience of my life—that it was the moment I realized I might have been wasting my time kissing boys when maybe I’ve always wanted to be kissing girls—but my jaw clenches up faster than a bear trap can snap shut. I glance over the host’s shoulder and see Lawrence backstage. “Be vague,” he mimes.

“You know, all sex scenes are technical. It’s pretty much up to the director to tell you where to touch your scene partner and how to kiss them. Basically, sex scenes are the total opposite of sexy.”

I look over to Lawrence again. He gives me two thumbs up. The host laughs and finishes up the interview by thanking me for being on his show. I thank him for inviting me. End Scene.

“Great job,” Lawrence says when I meet him backstage.

Really? It felt like a total bomb to me.
“I’m going home.”

He nods. “Good idea. Get some beauty rest.”

❄ ❄ ❄

By the time I get back to the house, Payton is ready to go exploring. I insist that she drive downtown. She protests. I tell her that it’s the same as driving in New York City, but that makes her more hesitant. After a good twenty minutes of arguing about it, I convince her that she needs to get used to LA roads if she’s going to live here.

Finding a parking space in Bunker Hill is usually nothing short of a miracle, but Payton manages to do it, nearly cutting off another car in the process. I tease her about being a “goddamn Jersey motorist.” She retorts with a sassy, “you know it, baby.”

We find MALA and explore the campus for a while. She seems happy with its size and location and impressed by the number of students we spot carrying instruments of all shapes and sizes. There’s an excited light in her eyes.
God, I love that light.
“It’s like you belong here already.”

She nods. “Yeah, but now we need to get out of here. I’m
starving
.”

I agree wholeheartedly. “There’s an awesome Peruvian restaurant around the corner. I guarantee they’ve got the best flan you’ve ever tasted.”

She smiles at me. I liquefy like ice cream in the hot summer sun.

“Okay, but you gotta take those ridiculous glasses off your face while we’re eating.”

I accept the condition.

We walk down the street side by side. I’m so tempted to grab her hand, but I know I couldn’t justify it. I keep hoping for the bulls of Pamplona to come rampaging down the sidewalk so I’d have a reason to lace my fingers with hers. Seeing as we’re in LA, I know that isn’t going to happen.
I should take her to Pamplona for the San Fermin festival
.
I think we’d both get a kick out of watching the sad attempts of silly people at dodging the deadly horns of one-ton monsters.
“Do you want to go to Spain with me next summer? I say next summer because I know I’ll be filming
The Relishing
this summer, which is a bummer because I’d much rather be on vacation.”