The Gravity Between Us (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (17 page)

“That’s the real reason I agreed to this move—not to be your music teacher, but your personal barista.”

“That’s fine by me,” she retorts before taking another sip.

“So, I decided you were right. About Lauren, I mean. I’m going to give it a chance with her. If she’s interested, that is.”

“Oh, she’s interested,” she speaks into the side of her coffee mug. “I’ve been hanging out with her a lot lately. She’s good people. Before you know it, the two of you will be celebrating your one year anniversary together in Paris.”

A disbelieving laugh seeps from my mouth. “Counting your chickens before they’ve hatched much?”

“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, gets up, and saunters over to the fridge. She peers over her shoulder at me. “We’ve got no food.”

“What did you expect? You’re always eating out,” I reply.

She looks at me straight-faced then starts chuckling uproariously.

I don’t get it.
“What?”

“You are the
worst
lesbian
ever
.”

“What?” I repeat. She strains her neck at me all like, ‘Come on!’ I take a moment to consider what could be so funny about the phrase, “you’re always eating out.” And then it hits me like a Mac truck. “Oh,
dude
!” I howl. “Your mind lives in the gutter, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, right next door to the mind of a horny sixteen-year-old boy. They get along well.”

“Good. I’m glad your mind has friends.”

She wiggles her eyebrows at me then quickly goes quiet again. Something really serious must have popped into her head. “Let’s go to Whole Foods. You’ve got time for grocery shopping before your hot date with Lauren, right?”

My hot date with Lauren. Yeah, there’s plenty of time before
that
happens.
“You’re driving,” I say.

“Okay. Go get dressed,” she replies, and a puckish little smile flickers into being.

❄ ❄ ❄

Whole Foods is ridiculous, and I’m not talking about the prices. It’s like someone called a meeting of the Hollywood high council or something. Every famous person in the state of California must be here doing their food shopping. Normally “star-struck” cannot be used to describe me, because honestly, who cares? Celebrities are only people with deep pockets. But today, I feel downright out of place like a peasant in the presence of royalty.
This is no way to act like a rock star.

“Will you relax, please?” Kendall grabs a bunch of bananas and places them in the cart. “They’re just people. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with, like, regularly walking among them.”

She laughs. “Walking among them? What are they, aliens? And if they are, what does that make me?”

“I don’t know, the next queen of the colony?”

“Well, if you’re keeping company with the person who’s next in line for the throne then you must be a VIP, so start acting like one.”

“Okay.” I reach for the sunglasses she’s pushed into her hair, slip them onto my face and adopt an “I am so amazing. You
just don’t know it yet” stance. “Better?” I ask in my most laid-back, surfer-dude voice.

“Yeah, much better.”

I push the cart down the next aisle. “Cool.”

We run into Rebecca Gordon, Kendall’s co-star from
Idol Worship
, in the canned goods aisle. Kendall introduces us. Weirdly enough, my first thought is to ask her what it was like to kiss Kendall, because that’s something I’d die to have the chance to do. Instead, I nod in her direction. “Hey,” I say like I imagine a rock star who is thoroughly unfazed by anyone’s fame would do. She and Kendall have a polite chat about stuff no one actually cares about. I pretend to be completely disinterested in the whole conversation and wander off to examine the nutritional facts on a can of creamed corn, which I already know has absolutely
no
nutritional value.

I pinch a jar of dill pickles from the shelf and place it in the cart. A little while later, I hear Rebecca call, “Glad to meet you, Payton.” I lift the Aviators off my face. “Glad to meet you, too.” I somehow manage to make it sound like I couldn’t have cared less to make her acquaintance.
Kendall wants a VIP, then that’s what she’ll get—Payton 2.0.

“That was very suave,” Kendall says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means where did this Cooler than Thou thing come from?”

I put the sunglasses back on. “You told me to be cool, so I’m being cool.”

“I meant be the awesome, charming person you are, Payton, not be an incredible asshole.” She quickly turns on her heel and walks away from me.

Okay. Apparently Payton 2.0 needs some refinement
. “I’m sorry,” I mutter once I’ve caught up with her. “I need some time to get used to being out here in your world. I’m feeling completely out of my element right now.”

She turns quickly to face me and throws a giant chocolate bar in the cart. “In my world, all you need to do to fit in is be yourself, okay? Do that and everyone you meet—celebrity or not—will like you. You were completely yourself at dinner last night with Lauren, and she was so taken with you that she
asked you out
!” She sighs. “Don’t you get it? You’re so damn
likeable
. And if given the chance to really get to know you, you’re actually loveable.”

I am? Crap.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to that. “I said I was sorry. I mean it, I’ll try harder not to be weird.”

“Please do. Now, let’s finish shopping. I told Lauren I’d have you ready to go by one. I intend to do exactly that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply and make a ridiculously goofy face.

She smiles. “That face.”

❄ ❄ ❄

“I like how I introduced you to Lindsay Pratt on the checkout line and you were all like, ‘Oh hey, you were really good in that movie where you played a prostitute. I think only you and Julia Roberts have ever pulled that off well.’ And then everyone around us started laughing about it,” Kendall says as she places the tangerines in the fruit bowl.

“She
was
good in that movie.”

“Yes, she was. Hey, it’s noon. You’d better go take a shower.”

“Right.”

“And wear something sexy,” she shouts at my back as I’m retreating to my room.

“Feel free to go ahead and pick something out for me,” I call to her.

When I get out of the shower, I’m not surprised to find a pair of destroyed hip hugger jeans and a cut-off black tank with the word “OBEY” printed across the front laid out and ready to wear. It’s been a running joke between Jared, Sarah, and Kendall that my “boobs make everyone obey” ever since I bought the damn shirt. It’s a little embarrassing, but sometimes I think it might actually be true, especially when I catch random guys staring at my chest.

I dry my hair, get dressed, and walk out into the living room. Kendall is sprawled out on the couch watching some terribly written, even more horribly acted soap opera. Once she notices me standing next to her, she does a double take. “Mmhmm, I should have been a stylist,” she says, her mouth creeping into a satisfied grin.

“I’m stealing your Aviators. I think they’ll complete the look.”

“They will, definitely.” She sits up and digs through her purse. “Come sit down.”

Despite my qualms, I join her on the sofa.

“Look up.”

“You’re so weird,” I reply as I raise my head.

“Pssh, not with your head! With yours eyes.”

I look at her, momentarily confused. “What? Why?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof her mouth. “Will you do it, please?”

I shrug, lower my head and roll my eyes toward the ceiling. I feel all her weight shift on to me as she repositions herself to straddle my lap. My lungs deflate with a sting as though her body has literally knocked the wind out of me. I flinch so hard at the contact that I nearly knock her to the floor. She anchors herself by latching on to my shoulders.

“Don’t jump,” she says sharply. “I’m gonna do your makeup. How do you feel about the smoky-eye look?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good, ‘cause that’s what you’re getting.”

Once she’s settled and balanced, I become extremely aware of how petite she is. She can’t be more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’s
so
tiny and seemingly fragile, I’m almost afraid I’ll break her. “Why are you sitting on me, anyway? I could’ve sat, and you could’ve stood.”

“It’s easier this way. We’re at eye level.”

Actually, we’re more at lip level, but whatever. All I want is for her to finish doing my makeup and get off of me. Lying next to her is one thing, but I can’t handle this much physical contact between us. If I die of a coronary, it wouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

The intercom buzzes. Mike’s voice calls up from the front desk. Unfortunately, Kendall ignores him to focus on my mascara. “Perfection,” she murmurs, still straddling me.

“Excuse me, Ms. Taylor,” Mike buzzes up again, “Ms. Atwell is here to collect you.”

“She’s here to collect me? I
knew
you famous people were aliens!” I guffaw.

Kendall leans into me and laughs, her forehead meeting my shoulder.

Oh, man. Move, Kendall! Please!

“All right.” she scoots off me. Into the intercom she says, “Send her up, Mike.”

As we wait for the elevator to reach our floor, she looks me over, admiring her handiwork. I spin around without her telling me to. “How do I look?”

She brings her thumb and forefinger up into a mock-pistol position and makes a popping sound with her lips. “Killer.”

There’s a knock at the door. She instructs me to take deep, steady breaths.

I haven’t been on a date in forever. It’s going to take more than breathing exercises to get me to unwind. I lean against the back of the couch, trying to seem cool for when Lauren walks in.

“Hey you,” Lauren greets Kendall with a chipper note to her voice, her slight southern drawl ringing through.

“Hey,” Kendall replies. They do that weird air-kissing-on-both-cheeks thing.

Lauren’s eyes meet mine, and I can literally see her breath hitch in her throat.
Okay, it feels
pretty damn good
to get that kind of reaction from someone.
“Payton, you are a vision,” she says.

“Thank you. You’re looking quite fine yourself.”

“Are you ready to go? I’m kind of double-parked,” she snickers. “Oops!”

I nod.

“Oh, here,” Kendall places her mirror-lensed sunglasses in my hair and smiles.

“Thanks.”

Lauren offers me her hand. I take it. “See you later, Kendall,” she says as she leads me toward the door.

I notice Kendall staring at our clasped hands. “You kids have fun,” she hollers as she closes the door behind us.

❄ ❄ ❄

We arrive at the shop on Rodeo Drive and are greeted by the designer herself. Lauren embraces her like they’re old friends. She presents me as, “Payton, my lovely date to the Time Zone Ball.”

“I’m a huge fan of your designs, Ms. Westfeld,” I offer my hand for a proper introduction.

She shuns the norm and sucks me into the Hollywood pastime of the cheek-to-cheek greeting. “Please, my friends call me Victoria.”
All right, then. Ms. Westfeld it is.
Victoria does an indiscreet lap around me then gets straight down to business. “How tall are you?”

“Five nine and a half, though I don’t usually count the half.”

“Models should
always
count the half,” she replies seriously.

That’s great, but I’m not a model. Why do people keep likening me to one?
“Okay, thank you.” I leave out the “that’s good to know” I was planning to say in an attempt to quell my instinctual sarcasm.

“And you’re what, a size four?”

I bury my hands in my jeans pockets. “On a good day. Most of my clothes are a five in juniors.”

“Hmm. You found yourself a diamond in the rough with this one,” she mutters to Lauren, then disappears behind a heavy black curtain.

“What is she talking about?” I whisper.

Lauren sniggers. “She likes your body-type. I can’t say I blame her.”

“Oh.” I’m instantly uncomfortable. I feel like a piece of meat on display in a butcher’s storefront, and I really don’t appreciate it.

Victoria emerges from behind the curtain with a stack of dresses in hand. They’re all dark colors and buckles and zippers—extremely extravagant and expensive, no doubt. “Let’s start with these.” She hands over three dresses from the pile and leads me into a dressing room.

A few moments later, I step out wearing the first selection. It’s a halter top—black and dirty-gold, long and tight. Its sides can’t quite be called sides, since they’re nearly non-existent; my hips and obliques are exposed for all eyes to feast on.
I might as well be naked
.

No joke, Lauren is practically dribbling on herself. It’s kind of flattering, yet somewhat off-putting at the same time. Victoria is nodding her head up and down like one of those bobble head figurines on display in the rear window of ancient Volvos. “Don’t bother with the rest of them,” she murmurs. “This dress was made for you.”

Lauren leers at me for a while longer. Eventually, she motions her thumb at Victoria. “What she said.”

“Okay. That was easy,” I mumble as I head back into the dressing room. I return with the dress draped over my outstretched arms. Victoria takes it from me and zips it into a garment bag before I’ve gotten a chance to take a gander at the price tag. “Um, I’m sorry, what does it come to?” I fish through my wallet for my credit card.
My mom will be thrilled when she sees the bill.

Victoria shoots an amazed look at Lauren. “You haven’t been in LA long, have you?”

“I’m sorry?”
Was that meant to be some kind of insult? It sure sounded condescending.

Lauren catches the annoyance in my voice. She tries to explicate the situation to me. “Most of the time when a designer dresses someone for an event, it’s more like they’re lending the attire rather than selling it.”

“In this case, it’s my gift to you,” Victoria adds. “Think of it as a welcome present.”