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Before the end of their lunch, Georgie’s guilt got the better of her, and she invited him to dinner that weekend. She’d ask Trev, too, and make Meg stick around. Maybe she’d even call Laura. Her puppet agent was good at keeping conversations going, and with Bram and her father tossing darts at each other, she’d need a mediator.
Chaz threw a fit when Georgie told her she intended to hire a caterer. “My meals have always been good enough for Bram and his friends,” she declared, “but I guess you’re too high class.”
“Fine!” Georgie retorted. “If you want to cook, then cook. I was only trying to make it easy on you.”
“Then tell Aaron he has to help me serve.”
“I’ll do that.” She had to ask: “What friends of Bram’s did you cook for? He doesn’t seem to have a lot of people hanging around.”
“Sure he does. I cooked for his girlfriends. For Trevor. And he had that big director guy, that Mr. Peters, over a couple of months ago.”
Hank Peters really had met with him. Interesting.
The bad publicity from the balcony photos finally began to die down, but she and Bram needed to make another public appearance before it started up again. On Thursday, two days before the dinner party, they visited Pinkberry in West Hollywood. Bram hadn’t commented on their lack of a sex life in days. It was disconcerting. He behaved as if sex weren’t even an issue, except he couldn’t seem to keep his shirt on, and he touched her arm whenever he went by. Georgie had started to feel as if she were burning up.
He was playing her.
The West Hollywood Pinkberry had become a celebrity favorite, which meant the paps always hung around. Georgie chose navy slacks and a scooped-neck white blouse with a row of six retro red plastic buttons down the front. It had taken her an hour to get ready. Bram was still in the jeans and T-shirt he’d pulled on that morning.
Georgie ordered her frozen yogurt topped with fresh blueberries and mango. Bram grumbled about wanting a damned Dairy Queen and didn’t get anything. As they came out of the shop, the half a dozen photographers who’d gathered sprang to attention.
“Georgie! Bram! We haven’t seen you guys in a few days. Where have you been?”
“We’re newlyweds,” Bram shot back. “Where do you think?”
“Georgie, anything you want to say about Jade Gentry’s miscarriage?”
“Have you talked to Lance?”
“Are you two planning a family?”
The questions kept coming until a photographer with a pronounced Brooklyn accent called out, “Bram, are you still having trouble landing a decent job? I guess Georgie and her money came along just in time.”
Bram tensed, and Georgie snaked her arm through his. “I don’t know who you are”—she maintained her smile—“but Bram’s days of slugging photographers who act like worms aren’t all that far behind him. Or maybe that’s what you want?”
A few of the other paps regarded the man with disgust, but that didn’t prevent them from keeping their cameras ready in case Bram lost his temper. A shot of him throwing a punch would bring thousands of dollars, along with the possibility of a lucrative legal settlement for the photographer who’d provoked the attack.
“I wasn’t going to hit him,” Bram said as they finally broke clear. “I’m not stupid enough to fall for that crap.”
“Only because you fell for it so many times in the past.”
He cocked his head toward the paps, who were on their heels. “Let’s give them their money shot.”
“Which is…?”
“You’ll see.” He took
her hand and pulled her down the sidewalk, the paps trailing close behind.
Chapter 13
The small shop with its rich, mustard yellow exterior reminded Georgie of an old-fashioned British haberdashery. Above the door, an art nouveau figure of a woman curled around the glossy black letters that spelled out the shop’s name. provocative. The two os formed her breasts.
Georgie had heard about the upscale sex shop from April, but she’d never visited. “Excellent idea,” she said.
“And here I expected you to go all prudish on me.” Bram’s hand settled in the small of her back.
“I haven’t done prudish in years.”
