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"Crossing my fingers," I said. My father wasn't an easy man to evade, and the press was just as interested in us as we were hoping—which was both a blessing and a curse. "But do you promise? Hawaii? Someday?"
She smiled at me. "Sure. If we 'emerge victorious' like you said."
"We will." We have to, if I'm gonna finally turn my life around and you're gonna stay in the game. "Can I have some more wine? And will you please have some too?"
She grimaced. "I already ate dinner and had a beer. A big beer, remember? Do you know how many carbs that has?"
I sighed. "Do you think I give a fuck how many carbs it has? Do you need me to tell you how hot you are?"
"No," she said, that blush creeping up her cheeks again.
I grinned. "Are you sure? 'Cause I really don't mind."
Lowell
I took his glass and headed to the kitchen, pretending to give in. The reality was, I wanted a glass of wine. The reality was, I'd like to drink a whole bottle of wine and have an excuse to throw myself at Kyle, to run my fingers along that strong jawline and finally know what those lips tasted like… just once.
Just once, and nobody ever had to know.
Mental slap, I told myself harshly and slammed the glass on the counter, almost breaking the stem. Mental fucking slap.
* * *
The next few weeks fell into a surprisingly easy routine. I supposed that was because we'd lived in the same house before. Strangely, I didn't remember ever being as comfortable around him while we were kids as I was now.
Like a lot of other things, I was choosing to ignore that.
Every morning, we had coffee in our pajamas. Kyle and I took turns going out and offering hot coffee and baked goodies to the paparazzi. There were always a plethora of them out there, even early in the morning.
Then we got dressed in our workout clothes and held hands as we walked to my car, smiling for the press.
After a punishing two-hour workout—Kyle always made me post pictures to social media so Lucas knew we were working up a sweat—we headed over to Jamba Juice, always holding hands, followed by the press. We'd all gotten used to the routine—even the Jamba Juice attendants. They knew our regular orders and usually had our drinks waiting for us.
After that, we'd head home, shower, and eat lunch. Then I would read scripts and check email while Kyle checked social media sites for news about us.
Then we'd change and head out for our next public spectacle.
We went to Whole Foods. We went out for (fat-free) frozen yogurt. We hiked in the canyon. We went bowling. We went to dinner.
We held hands everywhere we went, and Kyle often kissed me in public. Just little kisses, but still.
But still. If I was being honest with myself, I would admit that I really looked forward to those outings.
Of course, I was being anything but honest with myself.
We'd come home after dinner, put on our sweats, and binge-watch the first season of True Detective. Kyle would have one glass of red wine while I had a seltzer.
Kyle's good behavior was impressive. He had comprehensively reformed—the Kyle I remembered would never have had just one glass of wine and gone to bed at a reasonable hour. When he was a teenager, he partied until dawn on a regular basis, sneaking back into the house while our parents slept in their own wing, oblivious to what was going on.
Having him around really was like having a live-in boyfriend, except we didn't kiss or hold hands when no cameras were around. And we didn't sleep in the same room and never had.
And never would.
Otherwise it was exactly like Kyle was my live-in boyfriend.
I still locked my door every night—to lock myself in. Of course I knew that was ridiculous. Like I would ever go find him at night.
Caroline hadn't called, and neither had Pierce. It was eerily quiet on the parent front. I knew that couldn't last, but I was choosing not to think about them.
