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She didn’t mind signing autographs for genuine fans, but something told her these would be up for sale on eBay by the end of the day.
“Just your signature is okay,” he said, confirming her suspicions as she took the felt pen and pristine piece of paper he handed her.
“Let me personalize it,” she said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
Personalizing a signature devalued it, and his loser’s mouth grew sullen as he realized she had his number. He muttered the name Harry. She signed, “To Harry, with all my love.” On the next line, she deliberately misspelled her last name, adding an e to York, so the autograph looked bogus. Bram, in the meantime, scrawled “Miley Cyrus” across the other piece of paper.
The kid balled up both signatures and stalked away. “Thanks for nothing.”
Bram slumped back in the chair and muttered, “What the hell kind of life is this?”
“Right now it’s our life, and we need to make the best of it.”
“Do me a favor and spare me the Annie sound track.”
“You’re a very negative person.” She made her point by launching into the chorus of “Tomorrow.”
“That’s it.” He shot to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
They set off down the sidewalk, their hands linked, his bronze hair glistening in the sun, hers desperately in need of a cut, and the paps trailing close behind. The trip took a while. “Do you have to stop and talk to every little kid you see?” Bram grumbled.
“Good photo op.” She didn’t reveal how much she loved talking to children. “And who are you to complain? How many times have I had to stand around while you flirted with other women?”
“That last one was sixty if she was a day.”
She’d also had a big mole on her face and bad makeup, but Bram had admired her earrings and even given her an eye-smolder. He did that a lot, she’d noticed, bypassing the beauty queens to stop and chat with their homelier sisters. For the space of a few moments, he made them feel beautiful.
She hated it when he did nice things.
Still, his generally foul mood had lifted her own, and when she spotted a pretty flower shop, she pulled him inside. The interior was fragrant, the flowers beautifully arranged, and the clerk left them alone. Georgie took her time studying the arrangements and finally chose a mixed bouquet of iris, roses, and lilies. “Your treat.”
“I’ve always been a generous guy.”
“You’re going to bill me, aren’t you?”
“Sad, but true.”
Before they got to the register, his cell rang. He glanced at the display and flipped the phone shut without answering. He was on the phone a lot, she’d noticed, but seldom where she could overhear. She held out her hand before he could pocket the phone. “Lend it to me, will you? I need to make a call, and I forgot mine.”
He passed it over, but instead of punching in a number, she flicked through the display to the most recent entry. “Caitlin Carter. Now I know your lover’s last name.”
He snatched the phone back. “Stop snooping. And she’s not my lover.”
“Then why won’t you talk to her in front of me?”
“Because I don’t want to.” He headed for the counter with the bouquet. As he stopped near a florist’s cart filled with frilly pastel blooms, she was struck by the contrast between his confident masculinity and those lacy flowers. Once again, she felt that distracting sexual stirring. This morning she’d even made an excuse to work out with him just so she could watch the show.
It was pathetic, but understandable. She was even a little proud of herself. Despite the current chaos stirred up by the photos, she was experiencing lust at its most elemental, separate from even a minimal amount of affection. Basically, she’d turned into a guy.
Bram gave her the flowers to carry from the shop. They’d been lucky enough to find a rare parking space close by, but they still had to get through the crowd of noisy paps stalking the sidewalk in front.
“Bram! Georgie! Over here!”
“Have you two patched up your fight?”
