Chapter Eighteen Stayin’ Alive
Chapter Eighteen
Stayin’ Alive
Beverly
I look out the windows of the private plane heading from North Carolina to California.
You heard me.
Private. Plane.
I’ve never taken portable stairs up to a plane with one cabin.
I’ve never sat across from someone, either, only shoved shoulder to shoulder like sardines in basic economy.
And I’ve never seen the world through the eyes of Ava, who squirms in her seat, pointing out the roads below disappearing into foggy clouds.
I can’t believe I’m attending the Grammys. I always thought maybe I’d go with Beau, but that plus-one invitation was never extended to me. He said it would make a bigger impact if he went stag. We both knew I wasn’t a partyer anyway.
I look across from me to see Griffin pinching his eyes closed as he takes slow, steady breaths.
“Are you scared of heights, Griffin Harvey?” I tease.
“No,” he snaps. But his eyes do not open.
“Oh my God. You are. Don’t you perform on stages all the time?”
“Yeah, but I don’t go near the ledge.”
“No stage dives?” I joke.
He squints open one eye, giving me a half smile. The one hidden in his beard that feels like a secret just between us.
“Very funny.”
We’re picked up by a darkened SUV and are driven through too much LA traffic until we’re eventually snaking up a hilly neighborhood.
The sidewalks have dog walkers with fistfulls of leashes and marathon-fit runners I vaguely recognize as that one guy in that one movie.
Fancy cars park beyond iron gates, and when we finally pull into Griffin’s driveway—behind his own squeaking automatic iron gate—my jaw drops.
“This is your home,” I say. It’s not a question.
Griffin crawls out of the limo and unbuckles Ava, then places her on his hip. “It’s a place where we live, yes.”
This house is not a normal place to live. It’s a mansion.
We walk past the small fountain in the circular driveway and past the columns on his front porch—notably not adorned with rocking chairs or dust or a reclusive cat. Clean and marble and perfect.
I cross through the front door and peer at every passing room, all baked in white with untouched furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the hilly neighborhood, and I gaze down at the busy streets with cars the size of ants. We’re not in a house—we’re like gods in the clouds.
“Amazing.”
“It’s all right,” he says with a shrug.
“Don’t be modest.”
“It’s big.”
“It’s stunning.”
Griffin sets Ava down near her toys in the living room, then leads me to a guest room nestled at the end of the hallway. The room is nearly empty, save for a bed with pristine black sheets and remote-controlled blinds. A simple side table rests on top of a simple rug. It’s all so minimalist.
“Do you not decorate?” I tease.
“The house is too big, and I’m too busy.”
“Hire someone.”
“Waste of money.”
I snort, thinking of my vintage dress that he threw cash at without even considering an alternative. “And here I thought money wasn’t an object.”
“Not for people I care about.”
I shift my eyes to him. He’s leaning on the doorway, watching me take in the room. I must look like a gawking tourist.
“We’ve got to leave in a bit,” he says. “I think Greta is on her way with her team.”
“Greta?”
“My stylist.”
“Oh. She’s here to make me look pretty?” I ask.
He stares at me long enough that my nervous foot starts to bounce.
“I’m kidding,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says. “You’re already pretty.”
Ava comes barreling down the hall, hands already clutched around a juice box she found who knows where. She holds it out to Griffin, but he turns too late, and they collide. Red juice breaks through the small hole in the top, all over his jeans and white T-shirt.
Her face falls. “Oops…”
“Hey, good thing Daddy’s changing anyway, huh?”
Silently, Ava nods, and Griffin crouches down, takes the straw, and inserts it into the already-popped-open top. “Be more careful, munchkin. And try not to make a mess. We don’t want to make Nancy’s job difficult.”
I wonder who Nancy is. Maybe his cleaner? His nanny? Nancy the nanny sounds like an excellent puppet character for Birds. Do I need a new character?
“Ready, go!” Griffin says, as if announcing the start of a car race.
“Go!” Ava echoes, running into a room across the hall.
He turns around and follows her, grumbling something to himself about the shirt. Before I can respond with a joke, he grabs the bottom edge of the fabric and pulls the shirt across his body and over his head.
I freeze at the sight of shirtless Griffin.
It’s only his back, but I’ve never seen a more erotic back in my life.
Walls of muscle bulge over his shoulders and arms. They curve under smooth skin, moving everything in waves and synchronized shifts like tectonic plates.
His broad ribs taper into a fit waist. The waistband of his tight black underwear peeks out over the leather belt, curving from his lower back to…
I slowly pace backward into my empty room and shut the door.
I’m alone for the first time in hours. I’m alone in Griffin’s mansion. With him shirtless on the other side of this door.
Oh God, I’m about to be prepped for the red carpet.
I’m gonna be in the spotlight again.
I should be at home writing scripts. Planning the pitch. I shouldn’t be here. I certainly shouldn’t be seeing Griffin without a shirt on. I definitely shouldn’t still be thinking about him. I shouldn’t be—
My eyes snag on something in the corner. Hanging over the door to the walk-in closet is the most beautiful emerald dress I’ve ever seen. Holding my breath in case I ruin it, I step closer and roll the fabric through my fingers. It’s a lush, slippery silk. Pristine. Classy.
Minutes later, an older woman with a black bob arrives in my room, shepherding a small team of people carrying bins and toolboxes and laptops.
I quickly learn her name is Greta and that Greta is the type of woman who walks like she’s late for everything and speaks like we’re exchanging nuclear codes—quick but low.
We spend an hour or three with a small gaggle of people pulling and poking and priming me. After a combined struggle between all of us to fit me into my dress and zip it up, I finally look in the full mirror in the corner.
My body ices over. Any unfrozen blood shoots up to my brain. I might be hallucinating. I’m definitely hallucinating. Because the woman looking back at me is a stranger. She’s not awkward or gangly or hauling purple bags under her eyes.
This version of Beverly is stunning.
She has a full set of lashes fanning over smoky eyeshadow and winged liner, accentuating green eyes that can’t possibly be mine.
The matching emerald dress fits me like a glove, hugging what few curves I have and cascading down to my ankles into a pool at my feet.
I take a step forward, and the fabric trails behind me in a beautiful train, sliding like water across the hardwood.
The square neckline is cut lower than I’d normally like, but it’s so classic Hollywood that I don’t care, plus, it cinches my small breasts enough to make them look fuller than they have any right to be.
Greta loops her hands around my neck, fastening a shimmering choker of diamonds. Although it’s thick, it also makes my neck look longer somehow. Elegant. Matching earrings peek through my wispy hair, which is now fanned out and reminiscent of Farrah Fawcett’s iconic look.
“It seemed like it’d fit you,” my hairdresser said earlier in the hour.
She wasn’t wrong.
I don’t look like me at all, yet I still feel like me.
In the mirror’s reflection, the bedroom door opens. My heart stumbles over itself, barrels downstairs, and falls flat when I see Griffin enter the room.
I twist on my bare feet to face him, and he halts, frozen in place when our eyes meet. He slowly scours over every part of me, from my hair to my choker and down to my hips before snapping back up.
It’s then that I finally notice his outfit. I cover my mouth at the sight of his white ankle boots. The baby blue bell-bottom slacks. A matching suit jacket that rests over an open linen shirt, exposing curly brown chest hair. A thin gold chain rests just over his collarbone.
I gasp. “You look like you just stepped out of a Bee Gees music video.”
“Do I?” he asks, pushing back his suit jacket and then tucking his hands into his slacks pockets. He shifts weight onto one foot and grins. My soul absolutely leaves my body.
“I wanted to match you,” he explains. “So you’d be a bit more comfortable tonight.”
A breathless laugh leaves me. “I can’t believe you’d…this is…you look…”
“Silly?”
“No! Just…different. Have you ever worn baby blue a day in your life?”
“Never.” He shrugs, and his gaze levels with mine as he adds, “But who cares what I look like. You are absolutely stunning.”
Stunning.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Greta smacks my hand away.
“Don’t touch it. You’ll mess it up.”
There are a lot of things I’m worried I’ll mess up tonight. There are also a lot of things I shouldn’t touch—Griffin’s gorgeous chest hair, for one.
I’ve made my decision to be here. There’s no turning back now. I need to jump in feet first and have fun.
Fun.
I can have fun without my hand up a puppet, right?
Maybe I’ll do the Bernie Bird voice.
Just once.
People need to know I’m the puppet girl—not the fancy person I’m pretending to be in this dress. But then Griffin smiles, and…suddenly my only job is not to embarrass myself in front of him.
God help me.