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He sounded like a broken record with all these apologies. He had a job to do, one that he loved; she knew that. She just didn’t like it right now.
Raising his hands, he stepped away, shutting his mouth, and she slid past him to the bathroom to get ready for dinner.
When Bronte finally made her way into the living room, Chris put down his guitar, a slow smile unfurling as his gaze swept over her. He was dressed in jeans and a blazer over a plain white T-shirt. Even with the ridiculous sideburns, he looked sexy and relaxed. It was infuriating.
“You look beautiful,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, and even through her anger, she couldn’t help but lean into him.
She grabbed her jacket and purse and followed Chris out to the car, enjoying the well-known sights of Beverly Hills as they cruised down Rodeo Drive, but when he pulled up to the valet at Spago, her pulse spiked.
She frowned, peering out the passenger side window at the paparazzi lined up on the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?” The question left her mouth right as the answer came strolling out of the restaurant. She didn’t know who they were, but each girl looked as if she had stepped off the runway in heels and fancy tops. They were gorgeous, smiling and laughing for the flashing cameras as they made their way into their waiting car.
“Is that…?”
“Iris Moon,” Chris supplied.
“The model? Didn’t you hook up with her?”
“No, I did not.”
“I thought—”
He rolled his head back with a sigh. “Don’t tell me you read it somewhere?”
“It might’ve come up in the Google search I did when I first found out who you were.”
“Well, it’s not true.”
Bronte pressed her fingers to her forehead. Even if it wasn’t true, she was still wildly out of her element in her ballet flats, jeans, and flowy top. Not exactly model material, and now the paparazzi had their lenses pointed at Chris’s car.
“Keep your head down and walk fast,” he instructed before opening his car door.
Bronte did as she was told, reaching for his hand when he jogged around the front of the car, while trying to hide her face with the other. They asked questions about her and made comments about Chris, obviously goading him for a reaction, but he kept his head down, walking hastily into the restaurant. Her heart beat a mile a minute, her legs barely keeping up with Chris as she felt bodies close in on her.
A man in a suit held his arms up, putting some space between Bronte and Chris and the cameras. He followed them inside and introduced himself as one of the managers of the restaurant. Bronte didn’t pay attention to their brief conversation; she was too busy blinking away the spots in her vision.
“We have your table in the back, right this way.”
Chris pressed his hand into Bronte’s back, ushering her in front of him, and she took cautious steps forward. The walls were white, but the lighting was dim, casting a glow throughout the place. They were seated on a patio surrounded by brick walls, twinkle lights strewn in the open space above them. There was a single candle lit on the table with small green plants on either side, while soft piano music was piped in.
It was really romantic. Too bad she was sitting across from Tom, who talked a mile a minute. Bronte didn’t have anything to contribute to the conversation, but even if she had, it wouldn’t have mattered. She was basically a piece of the scenery while Chris was busy playing CJ Cunningham.
“Excuse me.” She slid her chair back, the sudden clarity of her situation making her feel claustrophobic. Chris raised an eyebrow, yet didn’t say anything when she rushed away from the table, heading for the bathroom.
I don’t think I can do this, she texted the girls, leaning against the sink. Surprisingly, a response came back within seconds. Even though it was after midnight at home, it was only nine here for Laney since she lived in the Bay Area.
Do what? Be with Chris?
Be with CJ, she replied, wiping away a tear that formed in her eye.
Aren’t they the same?
