Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
H eath is seriously bloody good when it comes to disguises. I barely recognise him when he appears from the dressing room in his baseball cap and sunglasses. His hair is twisted up so tightly, you can’t see so much as a glimpse of it, and his glasses block out any hint of his iconic eyes. There is no hint as to the shape of his brows, his shades are so big, and he’s dressed in a faded black t-shirt and bland grey shorts. Boring. Safe. Just a tourist set to blend into the background.
He told us to tone it down ourselves, so as not to draw any attention, hence I’ve opted for a basic cami dress and slathered myself in suntan lotion, rather than makeup. It feels odd to be bare faced, without fake lashes or scarlet lipstick on when I’m heading out for the day. Hell, I even wore eyeliner to the supermarket I worked at.
Josh looks different today, too – his hair styled flat and dull, the purple streak hidden under a blue baseball cap. He’s wearing one of Heath’s outfits – a beige vest top and some cutoff jeans.
We look so unlike our usual weirdo selves, I could almost laugh.
This isn’t the red-carpet style glamour I’d ever have expected around a superstar like Heath Mason. I used to imagine plenty of red-carpet encounters with him when I was fangirling through Nighttime Whispers over the years, revelling in my imagination and doing Connor’s head in. Yet, when the cab pulls up to the villa, set to take us to our vineyard destination, I find those previous fantasies don’t mean shit, not in the slightest. I don’t need glamour around Heath. The simplicity of him being him in a stupid disguise is way more than enough to have me grinning my head off – over the moon, in fact.
“I’ve chosen somewhere deluxe for us,” he tells me and Josh in the back seat, as though we would be expecting anything less for our reward . “They do gorgeous whites, still and sparkling.”
“That’s for me, isn’t it?” I nudge his elbow. “You know I’m a sucker for sparkling. You prefer red.”
He holds his hands up. “Guilty as charged. But this is your treat, not mine.”
I lower my glasses far enough to shoot him a side eye. “Have you ever had this treat yourself? Have you been on many tours? Luxury red grapes and wine tasting?”
He looks ahead, through the windscreen.
“Once. Ages ago. It was good. Not the kind of thing you have to go on weekly.”
Things have a different feel to them after truth or dare last night. Despite wiping the depths aside with more filth, fun and games, and a load more frolicking, the veil has been ripped away – and it’s irreversible. I’ve seen much further into Heath Mason’s guarded soul.
Lone wolf.
That may be what Heath calls himself, and he’s introverted, yeah definitely, but a loner? I’d say he’s more lonely than he’d care to admit.
I get a lurch at the memory of some of the admissions last night. The way he looked at me as he coughed up some of his true feelings and Josh burst out his in response.
I’d love to ask Heath more questions, about what he wants, what he likes, what he’d really be doing if he didn’t feel so handicapped by the spotlight and paparazzi. Would he be visiting more vineyards and going on more excursions if we were here with him on a more permanent basis? Would he one day feel comfortable ditching the cap and the shades, just a little bit at a time?
It’s only when Josh clears his throat to get my attention that I realise how intently I’m staring at Heath while he stares out at the road ahead.
Awkward.
I give a running commentary on the view outside and how amazing everything is. Fantastic streets and buildings, and views of the beach before we go inland and climb up towards fields of green.
“Here we are,” Heath says when the driver pulls up to the vineyard entrance.
I get out of the car and admire the huge rows of grape vines stretching up onto the hills above us, basking in the beautiful sunlight. There must be millions of juicy wine grapes up there. Absolutely millions.
Josh takes my hand as we head for the reception and Heath steps up to the counter.
“We’re here for the tour,” he tells the receptionist, and his voice has changed. His tone is lower, and it sounds weird for him, but the receptionist doesn’t notice, which figures. He is an actor, after all.
“Mr Christoff, yes?”
Heath nods, giving a half smile, not his regular one.
“That’s right.”
I don’t get it when he hands his credit card over. Mr Christoff, WTF?
“If you could wait out front,” the receptionist says. “The driver will be with you shortly.”
“Mr Christoff?” I ask Heath once we’re outside.
“My PR manager,” he says. “I use his card for public outings.”
The jeep is with us in seconds, and Heath steps up to speak to the driver. I use the opportunity to grab Josh by the hand and pull him close.
“Do you think Heath’s paranoid? A fake ID at a vineyard? Really?” I look around. “There’s nobody here.”
“Heath is just Heath,” Josh replies with a shrug. “I guess it’s been a long time since he’s been allowed to be himself in the great outdoors.”
“Or allowed himself to be himself outside his front door.”
“Savage. Maybe you should offer him some therapy as well as your pussy,” Josh says with a smirk, but I didn’t mean it that way. Not at all. Savage is the last thing I want to be when it comes to Heath.
I wouldn’t recognise the celebrity client who beckons us over to the jeep and opens the back door for me. He sits opposite Josh and I with his back to the driver as we ascend through the stunning rows of grapes, being educated by the tour guide enthusiastically. It’s cool. Kind of. The stuff about types of grapes and how they are grown and harvested, and all of the different grand sounding names for them is interesting, but not nearly so interesting as Heath.
He's not himself here. Not at all.
His shoulders are rigid. His smile is self-conscious. Weird for the Count and the man I’ve come to know behind closed doors.
We’re out of the jeep and tasting our third type of grapes when we first get the chance to be alone. The guide is on his way back to the jeep and out of earshot when Josh leans in close enough to whisper.
“Fucking hell, I’m a shit wine connoisseur,” Josh says. “Honestly, these grapes all taste like grapes to me. Kudos to the people who can sniff wines and tell which of these little bad boys go into making them, because it’s a skill above my level.”
It’s a relief to see the way Heath returns to himself at Josh’s sneaky statement. He laughs Heath’s actual laugh. He smiles his actual smile. And I just know his eyes are sparkling behind his glasses.
“Same,” he says. “I’d like to think of myself as a wine lover, but this really puts things into perspective. I know sweet fuck all. How about you, Ella?”
I have to laugh as I pop a grape into my mouth.
“Umm… it’s a great trip. I love the scenery. And I’m sure I’ll love the wine, too.”
“That’s a no, then,” Heath says. “Ella the non-wine connoisseur, just like us.”
“No!” I say. “I like grapes and stuff as well.”
“We should do a do you remember game,” Josh says. “What was the grape over in that row called, Ells?”
He points to a row three over.
“Something beginning with C…” I reply. “Char… charie?”
“Fuck knows,” Josh says, and there’s something about the conspiracy between us that gives me the giggles. Like naughty kids on a school trip.
The driver is waiting, and we’re laughing, and now we’re fucked, because every time from that point, when he lets us sample the grapes while he gives us the variety history, it’s going to tickle us. I just know it.
And it does.
Slowly but surely, the three of us bloom together in technicolour, despite our boring attire. We laugh, and chat, and Heath drops his fake voice. We enjoy the sun and the greenery, and munch on grape samples with giggles, and it’s great. It’s really fucking great, and it will get even better when it comes to the wine tasting.
I’m gagging for some samples as the next tour guide talks us through the aging and bottling process. I feign interest, and manage it a bit, because some of this stuff is cool and I really didn’t expect I’d be able to answer vineyard related questions in a pub quiz anytime this lifetime, but my primary interest is on two things only. And they definitely aren’t vineyard related.
The men standing at my side are far more beautiful than rows of vines could ever be. I edge closer to Heath, testing the boundaries he has with his disguise. I brush my arm against his as our tour guide is speaking, and dare to tangle my fingers in his.
He could step away from me easily. He could create distance without a word, no problem whatsoever. But he doesn’t.
Heath Mason lets me take his fingers in mine as we listen to the aging process of different types of wine at the vineyard, and then he squeezes back, just a touch.
That touch is enough.
The veil reveals another peek inside.
His walls are coming down – outside as well as in. And just imagine where that could lead…
I shouldn’t imagine. I should avoid any dreams or fantasies or ponderings of any sort, and Josh reminds me of that when the guide ushers us on through to the next room, and engages Mr Christoff with some further information on one of the wine varieties.
“Don’t do it,” my boyfriend whispers. “It’s not fair on any of us.”
“Do what?” I ask, and his eyes fix on mine.
“You know what. It won’t benefit you or me, and it definitely won’t benefit him. Not when we have to fuck off out of here in a few days’ time and go back to normal.”
Normal.
I’ve already lost track of what normal feels like, because this, right here, THIS is what feels normal now.
“Ella,” Josh whispers, knowing my thoughts as well as he knows my words. “Stop it. Seriously.”
I shrug. “Fine. Ok.”
“Good.”
He smiles, but his smile is as fake as Heath’s was when we were first in the jeep earlier. He’s talking sense, but he’s also talking bullshit. He doesn’t want to go back to normal any more than I do.
“Guys!” Mr Christoff calls, and we look over at the client who is driving us crazy. “Come, join me. Time for wine tasting.”
“Can’t wait!” I clap my hands. “I’m dying to see what these grapes taste like!”
I’m not lying, either. A glug of wine is exactly what I’m needing right now.
I bounce on over, with a massive smile on my face – but this time I heed Josh’s words, and I don’t get too close. I don’t take Heath’s hand.
Fair play, the wines do taste a lot different when you try them one after the other. I get the hang of sniffing them, too. I’m still debating my favourites when we arrive at the wine store at the end of the tour, so Heath makes a Heath move and takes a load of all three of them, and a whole batch of Josh’s favourite, too.
We’re not going to be running out of wine anytime soon, that’s for certain. And it hits me in the guts there and then.
We won’t be running out of wine anytime soon regardless of this new massive selection, because in just a few days it’ll be a cab driving us out of Cannes, to the airport – not driving us from a vineyard back to his place.
“Time for home,” Heath says as we wait for the cab back to his villa, and his words give me one of those damn lurches. I shift from foot to foot.
Home.
It’s sure beginning to feel like it.
Cliché and fucked up and forbidden or not – home is where the heart is.
And my heart is here. With Heath and Josh.