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“He wasn’t married when he said that, but now he is, and your Godzilla act is getting old fast. You have two choices. You can play nice, or I’ll hire my own staff, and you’ll have to share your kitchen. Somehow I don’t think you’d like that.”
She and her yogurt headed back outside.
As Georgie’s footsteps faded, Chaz pressed her fists to her belly, trying to hold in all the hatred that wanted to spill out. Georgie York had everything. She was rich and famous. She had great clothes and a big career. Now she had Bram, and only Chaz was supposed to take care of him.
Outside the kitchen windows a hummingbird flew onto the veranda. Chaz grabbed a paper towel and opened the refrigerator door. The milk wasn’t where she’d left it, and a couple of the yogurt containers had fallen over. Even the eggs were on the wrong side of the shelf.
She straightened everything and wiped a smudge from the door. She couldn’t stand the idea of another person in her kitchen. In her house. She pitched the paper towel into the trash. Georgie wasn’t even that pretty, not like the women Bram went out with. She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve anything she had. Everybody knew she was only famous because her old man had made her a star. Georgie had grown up with everybody kissing her ass and telling her she was hot shit. Nobody had ever kissed Chaz’s ass. Not once.
Chaz gazed around her kitchen. The sunlight coming through the six narrow windows made the blue accents in the tiles sparkle. This was her favorite place in the world, even better than her apartment over the garage, and Georgie wanted to wedge her way in.
She still couldn’t believe Bram hadn’t told her he was getting married. That hurt the most of all. But something wasn’t exactly right. He didn’t treat Georgie the way Chaz had imagined he’d treat a woman he loved. Chaz made up her mind to figure out exactly why that was.
Georgie stayed out of sight while Aaron supervised the movers unloading her things. By late afternoon, he had her office set up, and she’d unpacked the wardrobe boxes that had taken over her bedroom but held only the clothes that weren’t in storage. By the time Aaron left, the walls had closed around her. Even though her Prius sat outside in the driveway, she couldn’t go anywhere by herself, not the fourth day of her marriage, when every photographer in town was staking out the house. She settled down to try to read.
Much later Bram found her standing by her bedroom balcony doors giving herself an internal pep talk about things like independence and self-identity. “Let’s drive to the beach,” he said. “I’m going stir-crazy.”
“It’ll be dark soon.”
“Who cares?” He rubbed his knuckles over his golden beard stubble. “I’ve already smoked two packs of cigarettes. I need to get out.”
So did she, even if she had to go with him. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, damn it! But I will be if I’m stuck here much longer. Now do you want to go or not?”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
As soon as he left, she consulted the “Super Casual” section of the three-ring binder Aaron kept updated with Polaroid photos of all the pieces in Georgie’s wardrobe, accompanied by April’s instructions on how they fit together. Maybe one day Georgie would have the luxury of leaving the house without worrying about how she looked, but she couldn’t do it now. She chose her Rock & Republic jeans, a corset top, and a simple Michael Kors kimono cardigan that April had noted would “pull the look together.”
Georgie was capable of dressing herself, but April did a better job of it. The public had no idea how clueless most celebrity fashion icons were, and how much they depended on their stylists. Georgie was forever grateful that April continued to help her out.
The paps waited for them at the end of the driveway like a pack of hungry dogs. As Bram pulled out, they stormed his Audi. He maneuvered through, but half a dozen black SUVs quickly fell into place behind them. “I feel like we’re leading a funeral cortege,” she said. “Just once I’d like to be able to walk out of the house with bad hair and no makeup and go someplace without getting my picture taken.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s nothing worse than a celebrity complaining about the hardships of fame.”
“I’ve been dealing with this ever since Lance and I started to date. You’ve only had to put up with it for a few days.”
“Hey, I get photographed.”
“Sex videos don’t count. And let’s see how cheery you are after another couple months of this.”
He braked for a stop sign, and they were nearly rear-ended, so she left him alone to concentrate on his driving.
The traffic was only moderately horrendous, and their entourage stayed with them all the way to Malibu. Several more SUVs joined the funeral procession, even though the paps had surely figured out Bram was headed for one of the semiprivate beaches.
First-time visitors to Malibu were always surprised to see long stretches of highway lined with private garages butting up to the road and forming a solid wall that restricted beach access to all but the privileged few who lived there. Just past Trevor’s house, Bram pulled off the road in front of one of the sets of dun-colored garage doors. Moments later, they were walking through Trev’s former beach house, the one he’d put up for sale.
Outside, the night was a romantic cliché. Moonlight frosted the tips of the waves. The surf lapped at the shore. Cool sand squished between her toes. The only thing missing was the right man. She thought about that scrap of conversation she’d overheard earlier with the mysterious Caitlin and wondered how long it would be before she found herself drawn into a second scandal involving another woman.
He slowed his steps as they neared the water. A ribbon of moonlight silvered the tips of his eyelashes. “You’re right, Scooter,” he said. “I was a jerk that night on the boat, and I apologize.”
She’d never heard him apologize for anything, but too much hurt and shame lingered inside her for a few words to make a difference. “Apology not accepted.”
“Okay.”
She waited. “That’s it?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what else to say. It happened, and I’m not proud of myself.”
