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As she reached for her cell, she grew aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere, an invisible electric current zipping across the patio. She looked up and her blood froze. Bramwell Shepard had just walked in.
Heads ping-ponged all over the patio, bouncing from Bram to her and then back again. He was dressed like the aimless second son of an exiled European monarch: a designer blazer—probably Gucci—great jeans that emphasized all six feet two inches of his height; and a faded black T-shirt that signified he didn’t give a damn. A pair of male models ogled him enviously. Madison Merrill half rose from her chair to intercept him. But Bram was heading right toward Georgie.
Car brakes squealed as the paparazzi dashed into the traffic from across the street to get the shot of the week, maybe the entire month, since they hadn’t been seen together since the show ended. Bram reached her table, ducked under the umbrella, and brushed a kiss over her lips. “Trev couldn’t make it.” He kept his voice low against eavesdroppers. “Unavoidable last-minute circumstances.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” She could believe it. Bram wanted something from her—maybe a public scene? She forced her frozen lips into what she hoped the cameras would register as a smile. “What did you do to him?”
“So much suspicion. Poor guy wrenched his back getting out of the shower.” Bram settled into the chair across from her, keeping his voice as quiet as hers and offering up his most seductive smile.
“Then why didn’t he call me and cancel?” she said.
“He didn’t want to bring up bad memories. Like the way Lance the Loser canceled your marriage. Trev’s thoughtful that way.”
Her smile broadened, but her whisper was venomous. “You’re trying to set me up. I know it.”
Bram faked amused laughter. “Talk about paranoid. And ungrateful. Even though Trev was writhing in pain, he didn’t want to make you sit here by yourself. You might not know this, Scoot, but everybody in town already feels sorry for you, and Trev couldn’t stand embarrassing you even more than you’ve embarrassed yourself. Which is why he called me.”
She rested her cheek in her hand and gazed at him with counterfeit affection. “You’re lying. He knows how I feel about you better than anyone.”
“You should be thankful I was willing to help you out.”
“Then why did you show up half an hour late?”
“You know I’ve always had trouble with time.”
“Bull!” She grinned for the cameras until her cheeks ached. “You wanted to make a big entrance. At my expense.”
He kept smiling, too, and she tilted her head and laughed, and he reached across the table and chucked her under the chin, and it was Skip and Scooter all over again.
By the time the server appeared, the crowd of photographers on the sidewalk had spilled into the street, and her stomach was a mass of knots. Within minutes these photos would be popping up on computer screens all around the world, and the circus would pick up steam.
“Crab cakes for Scooter here,” Bram said with an elegant flick of his hand. “Scotch on the rocks for me. Laphroaig. And lobster ravioli.” The waiter disappeared. “God, I need a cigarette.”
He picked up her hand and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Her skin burned at his unwelcome touch. She felt a callus on the bottom of his finger and couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there. Bram might have grown up in a rough neighborhood, but he’d never worked hard in his life. She came up with a merry laugh. “I hate you.”
He took a drink from her iced tea glass and let the chiseled edges of his mouth curl into a smile. “The feeling’s mutual.”
Bram had no reason to hate her. She’d been the good soldier while he’d single-handedly ruined one of the best sitcoms in television history. During the first two years of Skip and Scooter, he’d only occasionally misbehaved, but as the years passed, he’d grown more uncontrollable, and by the time Skip and Scooter’s on-screen relationship had begun to turn romantic, he cared about nothing but having a good time. He spent money as fast as he earned it on fancy cars, a designer wardrobe, and supporting an army of hangers-on from his childhood. The cast didn’t know from one day to the next whether he’d show up on the set drunk or sober, whether he’d show up at all. He totaled cars, trashed dance clubs, and shrugged off any attempts to curb his recklessness. Nothing was safe from him, not women, reputations, or a crew member’s drug stash.
If he’d been playing a darker character, the show might have survived the sex tape that had surfaced at the end of season eight, but Bram played buttoned-down, good guy Skip Scofield, youthful heir to the Scofield fortune, and even the most loyal fans were outraged by what they saw. Skip and Scooter was canceled a few weeks later, earning him the wrath of the public and the hatred of everyone connected with the show.
Their meal dragged on until Georgie couldn’t bear it. She set down her fork next to her dismantled, uneaten crab cake, studied her watch, and tried to look as if Christmas Day had unfortunately come to an end. “Aw…Too bad. I have to go.”
Bram speared the final bite of his ravioli and thrust his fork in her mouth. “Not so fast. You can’t leave Ivy without having dessert.”
“Don’t you dare prolong this farce.”
“Careful. You’re losing your happy face.”
She choked down the ravioli and pasted her smile back on. “You’re broke, aren’t you? My father invested my money, but you squandered yours. That’s why you’re doing this. No one will give you a job because you’re unreliable, and you need publicity to get back on your feet.” Although Bram still worked, he only got minor parts these days, playing morally weak characters—a cheating husband, a lecherous drunk—not even meaty villains. “You’re so desperate you have to piggyback off my press coverage.”
“You’ve got to admit it’s working. Skip and Scooter together again.” He lifted his hand for their server, who hurried over. “We’ll have the pecan shortcake with hot fudge sauce. Two spoons.”
When the server was gone, she leaned forward and dropped her voice even lower. “How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. I hate thee for making my childhood miserable…”
“You were fifteen when the series started. Not exactly a kid.”
“But Scooter was only fourteen, and I was naïve.”
