10. Grey
Chapter 10
Grey
T he week after the fake-dating agreement, we continue filming scenes on Rodeo Drive. Aspen and I keep our distance as much as possible. Since this area is obviously highly populated we don’t want to risk being caught arguing again.
After shooting wraps on Friday evening, I shower off the day’s hair and makeup products as best I can in my trailer. Our teams haven’t told us what we’re doing yet, only to dress casually. So I quickly throw on some navy shorts, a white short-sleeve linen button up, and a baseball cap.
After I dress, I bound down my trailer steps and head toward the production tent. Somehow I’m the last one here. My eyes land on Aspen, who’s standing in the center of the gathered crowd wearing a flowy white sundress and kitten-heeled sandals, her long legs on display. Flanking her are two of my bodyguards and two others I assume are hers, as well as my PR manager and her PR manager.
“Nice of you to show up, Grey.” Her PR manager shoots me a look.
I check my watch. “I’m three minutes late.”
She ignores my comment. “There’s a farmers’ market about a five-minute drive away in Beverly Hills. I’ve already emailed you both the address. You two are going to walk a very public lap—that means take the hat off, Grey—around the stalls before sitting down on a bench and enjoying some ice cream or something together. You each have two guards so you can be yourselves without getting mobbed. If you two play your cards right, it’ll be a massive photo-op for paps, Angelenos, and tourists alike.
“The entire date shouldn’t take much more than an hour. Remember, we don’t want to come on too strong with this, or people will think it’s fake after that video last week. You need to portray yourselves as friends first. Maybe some subtle flirting, but nothing overtly couple-y for two or three dates. We need to ease the public into this in order for them to buy it. Kapeesh?”
“Kapeesh,” Aspen answers as rigidly as a soldier responding to her drill sergeant.
The woman turns to me.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Kapeesh,” I echo.
“Then hit the road. You want to get there while it’s still prime daylight.”
“Who’s driving?” I ask. There’s no way Aspen and I plus all of our guards could fit in a normal car.
“The studio offered but we think it’s best if you take one of your cars,” my PR woman responds.
“The guards will take a separate car, so park next to an empty spot and wait for them to pull up beside you before you get out,” Aspen’s drill sergeant clarifies.
“Let’s take my Bronco,” Aspen says.
I shrug. “Fine by me.”
“Let’s hit the road then,” one of Aspen’s guards says.
Nobody notices us when we get out of the car…for about fifteen seconds. I guess the hulking, all-black-wearing guards kind of give us away. As we walk toward the entrance, I see heads turn, fingers point, and phones pulled out, so I put my hand on the small of Aspen’s back. She shoots me a shocked look for a millisecond before her face melts into a soft smile that almost makes me think she likes me. Damn, she’s good. My hand hovers there for a few steps before I let it fall.
Aspen makes a beeline toward one of the first stalls, which leaves me no choice but to follow her. The stall is advertising homemade “amigurumi,” which, I guess, means little yarn animals, because that’s what’s covering every visible surface.
“Oh my gosh, these are so cute, aren’t they, Grey?”
“So cute,” I affirm with a winning smile, even though I don’t think they’re cute at all. Like most people, I assume, I’d prefer a plushy stuffed animal over one of these tiny little yarn ball things.
“I’ve always wanted to learn how to make them,” she continues, absolutely charming the elderly lady running the stall. “I know how to knit, but these are crochet, right?”
“Yes, they’re crochet,” the woman responds warmly. “It’s not too hard to learn, though. If you want, I can give you some beginner patterns.”
“That would be amazing. Would fifty dollars cover it?”
The woman barks a surprised laugh. “Oh no, dear, free of charge. It’s always a pleasure to pass on knowledge. Plus, these are all copies, I still have all of these patterns safely stored away in books.” She clumsily gathers upward of twenty sheets of paper.
“That’s so sweet, thank you,” Aspen gushes, accepting the papers. “How much for that little raccoon? It looks just like my cat, she has the same little striped face and tail.”
“Ten dollars.”
“How about a hundred?”
The old lady laughs loudly again. “I think you skipped a step on negotiations.”
Aspen scans the QR code and sends the woman three hundred dollars, which I see over her shoulder. “You run a hard bargain. I’ll take it for two hundred, but only because you threw in some patterns.” Before the woman can protest, Aspen swipes up the raccoons and patterns. “It was nice meeting you,” she calls over her shoulder as she hurries away from the stall, leaving me and the confused crafter in the dust.
“I have to admit, that was weirdly charming of you,” I say when I catch up to her. “Buying that old lady’s ugly toy and pretending to be interested in her patterns.”
Aspen furrows her brows. “I wasn’t pretending to be interested. I actually am.”
“You can drop it now, Jordan. She’s out of earshot.”
“I’m serious.”
I look at her with raised eyebrows. “Oh.”
We continue strolling through stalls in what I’m sure appears to others to be a comfortable silence until I spot an empanada stand.
“Come on,” I say, leading the way.
She grins when she sees where I’m headed. “I love empanadas.”
“I feel like we need a code word for when we’re being serious or when we’re acting,” I reply.
Before she can respond, a girl runs up to us and squeals so loudly I feel a tinge of pain in my inner ear.
“Can I get a selfie with you two?” she asks, a little winded. “I saw a post that you were here, so I ran around the entire market until I found you.”
“Sure,” Aspen responds graciously.
I move a few steps to the side to allow the girl to get between us.
“Grey, would you mind taking it?” she asks coyly. “You have the longest arms.”
“No problem.”
I take her phone and hold up my arm to take a selfie. I see her hand on the screen before I feel it press firmly into my chest. I take the photo as quickly as possible before stepping back to instill some distance. The girl thanks us and skips away.
“That was…weird,” Aspen acknowledges.
I grunt in response, not wanting to give it another second of thought right now.
“Does that happen a lot?” she prompts as we join the empanada line.
“Yeah.”
“And it bothers you?”
“Clearly,” I bristle. “Nobody likes to be groped all the time.”
“Why didn’t you say anything then?”
I lower my voice so the other people in line won’t hear—although they’ve given us a wide berth. People either give celebrities too much space, or not enough. They never can act normally. “We’re supposed to be on a date, Jordan. I’m not going to start telling off a fan and have that be the story the press runs tomorrow.”
“But the other times it happens?”
“Same philosophy. I’d rather have someone inappropriately touch me than have the press brand me as a dick for the rest of eternity for standing my ground.”
She sighs. “I know what you mean. The press out-of-the-blue just decided to hate my sister Willow a few years ago and they’ve never turned the corner. I’m the same as you, always on guard.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m always on guard,” I clarify. “I just know what I can and can’t get away with.”
“Next,” the empanada woman barks.
“I’ll have two beef empanadas and she’ll have two gluten-free vegan ones,” I reply.
“Twenty-four dollars. Swipe, tap, or insert here.”
“How did you know I’m a vegetarian?” Aspen asks as we leave the stand with our piping hot empanadas, headed toward a nearby, very public bench, just like our teams instructed.
“I didn’t. But I figured I’d cover all my dietary-preferences bases. This is LA, after all. You’d be hard pressed to find someone without a special diet.”
Aspen rolls her eyes. “Ah, just when I thought you cared. So, how about ‘review’?”
“What?”
“‘Review.’ For our code word to say when we’re being serious and not just acting.”
I shake my head. “Too boring. What about ‘criminal’? Like ‘empanadas are so good it should be criminal.’”
We reach the bench and sit, taking the first bites of our food. It’s a lot tinier than it looked from afar. Our thighs are touching and I can smell Aspen’s orange-scented perfume. Or maybe it’s her shampoo. Whatever, something on her smells like sugared oranges.
“Criminal is way too difficult to work into things. ‘I am serious about liking knitting. Oh look, there’s a criminal.’ No way; it would never work.”
“‘Review’ is no better. It can’t be anything too easy or we’d accidentally say it all the time. Words like ‘really’ or ‘interesting’ are too common.”
“How about ‘Bible’? Like ‘Bible, I like knitting.’”
I chew thoughtfully. “That’s weird, but it could work.”
“Agreed. One of my old costars always used to say it, though, so it’s still super applicable without being overly used.”
“Excuse me,” a female voice says from our left. “Are you Willow Jordan?”
I almost choke on my food with the laugh that escapes me. Aspen slyly elbows me hard in the ribs before responding sweetly. “No, I’m her sister, Aspen.”
The girl smacks a hand to her forehead in embarrassment. “I knew it was one of you. I’m so sorry, it was a fifty-fifty guess.”
“It’s okay. Really, it happens all the time. Some people even think we’re identical twins, even though I’m two years younger and two inches shorter,” Aspen rambles, trying to save the girl’s pride.
“Willow’s in a committed relationship, though, isn’t she? I don’t think she’d be out one-on-one with me.”
Both Aspen and the girl turn their heads to look at me, Aspen scowling and the girl curious.
“Who are you?” the girl asks.
Aspen’s face does a complete one-eighty as she begins laughing.
“I’m Grey Aldridge.”
“Are you like her bodyguard or something?”
I fumble with words for a second, which only goads on Aspen’s laughter. “No, I’m an actor. I play James Bond?”
“I’m unfamiliar.” The girl shrugs. “Would you mind taking a photo of Aspen and I?”
I begrudgingly take their photo, Aspen happy as can be.