Page 35 of From LA to London, With Love

Oh. My. God.

My heart pounded with adrenaline. Did he want to make out with me on the chaise lounge? Despite my misgivings, if he made a move right now, I wouldn’t hesitate. Who could say no to hanky panky with Mr. Darcy crossed with an arrogant duke?

Chris pulled me onto the chaise lounge and looked into my eyes, his hand still holding mine. He had such deep, warm, brown eyes. I’d never looked at them this closely before. Were those flecks of gold?

Oh God. Was he learning forward slightly? Should I lean forward too? My heart almost jumped out of my chest. Was he going to kiss me? Surely, surely, I wasn’t imagining this chemistry. I bit my lower lip, moistening it in the process, and tentatively started to form my lips into a pout, ready for him.

And then he dropped my hand.

And proceeded to bounce comically on the chaise lounge, as if he were exercising on a fitness ball, a goofy expression on his face. My heart, stomach, everything, plummeted.

Yep, I’d imagined it. I was such an idiot.

“Yeah, we should be fine! I pronounce this chaise lounge hanky panky proof,” Chris said, bouncing energetically while it creaked ominously.

Chris was being so over the top that I couldn’t help but laugh, but inwardly I groaned. My feelings for him right now were excruciating.

“On a more serious note,” Chris said, bringing his face only inches from mine. What was he going to say now? He had a strange expression on his face. He opened his mouth and then paused for a moment. “Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly, his tone changing. “They’re serving lunch now, so we can grab food if you are. It’s usually pretty good.”

“Sounds great!” I sprang off the chaise lounge, desperate to put some distance between me and Chris and breathe in some fresh air, which I hoped would help clear my head. We retraced our steps down the stairs and the driveway, picked Alfie up from Jenny so Chris could introduce him to some of the cast and crew who’d missed him last Monday, and walked toward a tented area near the trailers.

The tents sheltered long tables covered in large bowls of salads, plates of meat, sandwiches, and fruit platters. Crew members and actors piled their plates high and took their seats at tables nearby. After we helped ourselves, Chris led us to a table, gently touching my back to direct me. As usual, Chris’s touch sent a shock through my body. I sighed. These physical reactions were really starting to get to me.

We sat at the end of a long table, Elliot in his pram and Alfie at Chris’s feet, searching for dropped food. Focused on ensuring Elliot was comfortable, I didn’t register who was sitting across from us. I’d just taken an enormous bite into a baguette overflowing with brie, tomato and prosciutto, when Chris introduced us.

“Sophie, I’d like you to meet Clare. Clare, this is my friend, Sophie, who I was telling you about, and her son Elliot. And the infamous Alfie is somewhere under the table. Alfie!” Chris bent his head to look for him, leaving me staring at Clare Caldewell across the table. The Clare Caldewell. The Oscar and multi-BAFTA-winning Clare Caldewell.

Starstruck, I desperately tried to chew the baguette down without looking like a complete idiot. I may not have known who Chris was when I first met him, but I knew who Clare Caldewell was. Every Thursday night for three years, she’d transfixed British audiences by playing a tortured young detective tracking down a serial killer. She skyrocketed to fame locally before embarking on a successful international film career that had garnered her two BAFTAs and one Oscar.

Clare was an incredibly versatile actor. She’d won her Oscar for a devastating portrayal of an American mid-western woman who lost her family tragically in a fire and had to rebuild her life, but she’d also starred in one of my favorite enemies-to-lovers rom coms set in New York. In both films, she had an impeccable American accent. I knew Clare was co-starring with Chris, and I’d been excited at the prospect of potentially getting a glimpse of her, but I hadn’t thought I’d actually get to meet her. And now here she was, sitting directly in front of me while I hastily chowed down the baguette. She wore a dressing gown over a period dress with ornate beading and looked absolutely stunning.

Clare gave me a dazzling smile, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth. “So nice to meet you. I hear you’re to thank for Chris’s British accent being so good!” Clare said warmly.

I swallowed the last piece of baguette in one big gulp, the lump traveling down my throat uncomfortably. “I think all the credit needs to go to his voice coach. I just taught him how to say water, arse, and stupid.” I laughed nervously and winced. Now that was a stoopid thing to say.

She laughed, tossing her flowing brown hair back. “Three very handy words.”

Wow, she was lovely and beautiful. How had I even thought for a minute Chris was interested in me? Why would he be when he was around women like this all the time?

Come to think of it, I was pretty sure Clare was single. And, from what I’d gathered from tabloid headlines, it was common for co-stars to hook up in real life. I wondered if that would happen to Chris and Clare…

You don’t even want to date him, Sophie. Stop being so dramatic.

After Chris retrieved Alfie from under the table to introduce him to Clare, who’d missed both Alfie and the horse stampede last week, Clare and Chris started talking about their holiday plans. They had a break over Thanksgiving. Chris was flying home to Chicago, and Clare was planning to hire a private jet to fly her family to the south of France. That sparked a discussion about private jets, a topic that, unsurprisingly, I could not contribute to.

My stomach was queasy, and I didn’t think it was indigestion from forcing down that gigantic bite of baguette too quickly. Private jets seemed like a complete waste of money. It pained me that people spent money on extravagances like that, when Pride House might have to close because of lack of funding. How could anyone justify spending tens of thousands of dollars on a few hours in the air, when so many people in the world were in need? I bet a one-way trip on a jet to the south of France would cost more than what Pride House needed to stay afloat.

And were Clare and Chris flirting with each other? Clare was touching her hair a lot, and Chris seemed to be smiling more than was necessary. A knot rose in my throat. Private jets weren’t that funny. In fact, they weren’t funny at all.

I looked around, trying to distract myself. Wow, they hadn’t taken a leaf out of Shondaland’s Bridgerton and done color-blind casting, or hiring more generally, for that matter. All of the actors, and most of the crew, were white. And there were a lot of men. Chris was right—the film industry could do with help from a diversity and inclusion perspective. But with his star power, couldn’t he help? I remembered stories of male stars insisting their female co-stars got equal pay. He could do something similar.

I forced down the rest of my baguette, smiling and nodding along with Chris and Clare’s conversation and trying to hide the mixed bag of emotions threatening to overpower me. There was discomfort over the current conversation and lack of diversity, admiration for Clare who—despite her predilection for private jets—did seem, I had to admit, quite lovely, and jealousy, though I hated to admit it. I let out a breath in relief when Elliot started to get restless and I realized he was due for a feed. An excuse to escape.

“Chris, Elliot needs a feed. Is there somewhere quiet we could go?” Now it was my turn to sound abrupt, but I'd had enough.

“Of course, let’s go back to my trailer. I should start getting ready anyway.” Chris shoveled a few last mouthfuls of food down. Did a look of concern flit across his face, or was I imagining it?

We said goodbye to Clare, cleared our plates, and walked back to Chris’s trailer.