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30
Chris wasn’t dumb enough to waste even a second of this visit by not having Bronte in his bed. While she went up to her room to grab her stuff, he stayed in the lobby of the Westwood hotel, checking her out and paying the astronomical fee for canceling. It was worth it, though. She was going to be in his bed for the next three days.
When the elevator doors opened, he held out his hand for her. “Ready?” She nodded, and he grabbed her suitcase with the other, leading the way outside. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, moving in front of her so she stumbled behind him.
She poked her head around his shoulder. “What are you—”
Then the first flash went off.
Bronte shifted away from the cameras. “We were only here for fifteen minutes.”
“Enough time for someone to let them know where I was,” he said quietly, blocking her with his body as he walked back to his car.
Bronte let out a painful sound, and Chris glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“They’re taking my picture, and I look like the woman from Mary Poppins who feeds the birds.”
A big laugh burst out of him, and he whirled around, wrapping his arms around her. While she was upstairs, she had changed out of her super-sexy black tank top, jeans, and heels into an oversized cardigan and leggings. “Well, I think you make an adorable bird lady.”
He knew he was giving the paps exactly what they wanted, but if he could make Bronte feel at all better about the situation, he didn’t care about the assholes taking his picture. That was until they started whistling and catcalling.
“Ignore them,” he said, opening the passenger side door for her.
“I’m trying.” She jumped in, sinking down low in the seat as Chris got in the driver’s side, resisting the urge to throw the vultures the middle finger.
He sped away with screeching tires, checking his rearview mirror a few times. “You can sit up now.”
She did, reluctantly, seeming a bit shaken. It was her first real run-in with the paparazzi, and he was being rather blasé about it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for her hand. This was his life, and he forgot for a second that she wasn’t used to it. He tried again. “Are you hungry?”
“No, I just want a bed.”
“That I can do,” he said, gunning it toward the highway.
It was about half an hour later that Chris pulled into his private neighborhood in The Hills and pressed a button on his visor to open the iron-rod gate that led to his house.
Bronte gasped, leaning forward to get a better look. It was dark, but enough light illuminated the property to see the beautiful landscaping with flowering bushes, ivy, and tall trees, all a contrast to the white house. He put it on his mental to-do list to give the landscapers a raise for making Bronte smile.
Chris parked in the garage, then took her suitcase from the trunk, escorting her into the house. He hit the lights, and her jaw hung open for a while.
“It’s like The Jetsons.”
“Yeah, the guy who designed it studied with Frank Lloyd Wright. It was built in the ’60s.”
She made a slow circle, taking in the place. “Wow.”
Each room bled into the next, and she ran straight to the back of the house, pressing her nose up against the sliding glass doors, revealing the pool and sparkling lights of the city below.
He stood next to her. “That’s the canyon,” Chris said, pointing. “And look, the Hollywood sign.”
“Wow,” she said again.
“So, you like it?”
“Yes.” She turned, her eyes tracing the chrome and black furniture and Warhol-esque art on the walls. “It doesn’t seem very you, though.”
He glanced around, his hands in his pockets. A decorator had put all of it together. He could not have cared less back when he first bought it. Now? He wanted to decorate all over again with Bronte. “I guess not.”
