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Chapter 6
I’m falling short of appearing to be casing the Murphy house in search of the paint swatches Cheryl picked out. I thought she’d left them upstairs in the bathroom vanity drawer, but they weren’t there, so I try the mail sorter in the kitchen-slash-desk area. There they are, nine different shades of pale, pale blue and her hand-drawn asterisk next to the right one.
“Bingo.”
“Riffling through our mail now?”
I turn to find Allie in a short summer dress, white with a bright red belt. Her shoes are the same tall wedge sandals with her toes peeking out, and her hair is pulled away from her face into a ponytail. This is the first time I’ve seen her wearing makeup since she cried on me the day she arrived. I’m stunned stupid by how gorgeous she looks with it on. Without it, she’s naturally beautiful, girl-next-door hot. With it, she’s unattainable wealth and class.
“Uh.” I mentally press the reset button on my brain, and then hold up the swatches to show her. “Came by to grab these before I go to Lowe’s.”
“Right. Painting tomorrow. Can I come?”
She sounds serious, so I haven’t wrapped my head around it just yet. “Come…to Lowe’s?”
“Please?” She comes a step closer and tips her chin up, that long ponytail swishing over her shoulder. “I haven’t been anywhere since I got here, and honestly I’m nervous about being in public alone. I’m going insane.”
She makes a face that does look slightly unhinged.
“Sure. Okay.” What’s the harm? We’re trying to be “friendly” to each other, after all. Neither of us is interested in dating the other, and shopping for cans of paint sounds about as neutral and unromantic as errands get.
“How long have you had your business?” she asks as the cans shake in the loud clattering machine in the Lowe’s paint department. We’re standing in front of a wall of swatches and she’s holding a handful of them—mostly shades of pink.
“About eighteen months.” I pluck a brown strip and then tuck it back into the holder.
“That’s great.” Her tone is cautious. “You’re a better boss than employee anyway.”
“That an insult?”
“No! Not an insult.” She slaps my arm with the stack of swatches. “What I mean is you’re better at being in control of your own schedule. I wish I had that. I show up when someone tells me to, stand on a piece of tape in exactly the spot they want me, and emote whatever is written on the scripts. I’m a lemming.”
Her lips pull to the side like she’s unhappy by this assessment. I’m not happy about it, either.
“That’s what being an entrepreneur is, Mini. I show up for a scheduled job, work on the project I was paid to do. There wouldn’t be a business without someone hiring me to do it. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I’ve been feeling…underappreciated lately.”
“Is that why you stole Millie’s Oscar? Was she one of the celebrities underappreciating you?” I’m needling her and she seems to know it. She rolls her eyes but a hint of a smile tickles her red mouth. She’s always been sexy, but an air of mystery surrounds her now. Like if I gave into the urge and reached out to touch her she’d be remote, inaccessible. Or maybe she’d vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Sure. Didn’t you hear me tell Ellen DeGeneres that I’d do anything for an Oscar? I was practically foaming at the mouth when I said it, so the logical follow-up action would be to rob a decorated, beloved celebrity at her house party.”
She jams the various paint swatches into one slot and starts to walk away. I don’t let her. Hand wrapped around her biceps, I gently squeeze. She stops her forward motion and turns, closing her eyes and offering a subtle head shake.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t last a week in L.A.”
“You didn’t last a week in L.A.” She winks to let me know she’s not trying to start the mother of all arguments.
“Friendly. Remember?” My reminder doesn’t hold any venom, though. I release her and we retrieve our paint cans, walking side by side to the registers in a way that feels friendly to me.
She sets the paint cans on the counter next to mine. The extremely bored, gum-smacking teenage girl ringing us up asks about a Lowe’s credit card in a monotone as I’m pulling a Visa card from my wallet. I raise my head to find her staring, jaw dropped, pink gum dangerously close to falling out of her mouth. But she’s not staring at me. Her eyes are fixed on Allie.
“Omigod.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, and Allie bristles as she puts on a careful smile. “You’re Samantha from America’s Sweetheart. I mean, you’re Nina Lockhart. Omigod.”
Her voice is low, but a few other shoppers pick up on her reaction and stop to look over.
Allie slides the large dark sunglasses on top of her head down to cover her eyes. “I hear that all the time. But I’m not her.”
