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I want to say that sounds like a dream, but it feels so corny to say. Still, it might be fun to take some time off and be in a regular house surrounded by someone’s ordinary family instead of assistants, publicists, a bodyguard, and someone whose sole job is picking up after Duchess.
A strange twinge bubbles up in my stomach.
I love my life in L.A. I love my friends. I like the parties, up to a point. I just wish I had someone to share this life with.
I’ve thought of Cian occasionally, mainly to wonder how he’s doing. And I feel bad that I didn’t try harder to stay in touch. I cried on his shoulder many times, like the drama queen I am.
But now something nags at me. Something that feels like I’ve got a second chance, and I’d better not screw it up this time.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
“Hardly a celebrity vacation,” he says.
“I’m still me. I’m still just Serenity.”
“You’re all that and a bag of chips, friend.”
“You mean crisps,” I tease.
This flirting is making me blush harder.
Ellen trots in and hands me a Ninja cup filled with something blue. “Blueberry acai. You look splotchy.”
Ellen’s solution for everything? Smoothies. Looking pale? Peach mango. Feeling tired? Protein kale. Bloated before the red carpet event? Pineapple.
“Thank you, Ellen.” I take the cup and drink while she returns to her day planner. The blueberry stuff is actually delicious.
And so is this flirting. I want to talk to Cian all day, but Ellen interrupts again with a panicked look. She waves me down, and I politely ask Cian to hold on.
“What?” I ask, barely masking my irritation.
“I didn’t set the alarm for your 8 o’clock. You have a facial and then have that big meeting at 9:30.”
Oh shit. The big meeting. With that director I idolize, who’s casting for the role of my dreams.
“Cian, I have to go. I’ll see you in Ohio.”
“So I’ll see you at the football game, or…”
“Sure! Absolutely, yes. I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” I say, struggling to pull on the new Adidas that the company sent me, hoping to get me to photograph them on the ’gram.
“Understood. Fuck, it was good to talk to you.”
“You too,” I say, smiling like an idiot. I remember how it took my dad a while to realize Cian’s cussing wasn’t meant to be offensive or aggressive. That’s just the way he talks.
And gosh, do I wish I could stay home in my pajamas, talk to Cian some more, and laugh at his many f-bombs. But I feel the next few weeks won’t afford me that luxury.
Ellen grabs my purse and pushes me out the door, down the walk, and into the waiting car.
I hate that I’m rushing him off the phone. I feel like myself after speaking with him. I feel seen. I genuinely hope he feels the same way.
“Looking forward to it,” he says, without the familiar teasing.
He’s so sweet, I want to reach through the phone and pinch his cheek.
ChapterThree
Cian
