Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Alec will probably be at the signing for at least two more hours.
I couldn’t follow all of the specifics—blue, green, and red wristbands, VIP fan packages—but when they took a break while switching wristband groups, he found me, pressed a key into my palm, and told me to head over whenever I wanted and he would meet me here later.
For a handful of seconds, I thought about telling him that Yael wouldn’t be thrilled, that in Yael-speak she’d asked me to chill the fuck out, and that essentially moving in together is the opposite of chill.
But he’s known her for nearly fifteen years.
Without question, he’d already have to know where Yael landed with all of this.
The entire walk through the gleaming hotel lobby to the elevator, I expect to be stopped and asked if I need directions or help.
I grew up in Santa Monica; I went to school with the children of celebrities.
I don’t feel out of place in the fancier LA spaces, but I was also raised by parents who help me when needed but don’t support me anymore.
I carry myself, and that means I support myself in LA each month on what many people in this hotel are paying for a weekend getaway in California.
My suitcase is probably worth less than a box of the straws they use in the bar, and I’m still wearing what I had on for the signing.
After a sweaty, muggy day, the straps of my black tank top are—predictably—much less robust than the straps of my bra and seem to take turns sliding off my shoulders.
But stepping into the air-conditioned calm of Alec’s suite feels like stepping out of the LA I’ve known my whole life.
I mean, at no point in my adult existence would I ever experience a hotel this way unless I was here for an interview.
A villa suite, it said on the gold-plated placard outside the door.
A hallway leads to a wide circular living room with seafoam-green furniture, gold and white accent pillows, and lamps and a coffee table that probably each cost more than my monthly rent.
A dining room is separated from the space by an open bookshelf dotted with tasteful curios: a black-and-white Art Deco vase, a brushed-brass statue of a horse, art books, framed black-and-white prints.
Dragging my hand along the dining table, I take in the Asian-inspired sideboard, the delicate gold prints on the walls, the plush white chairs—six of them, like we might host a dinner party.
The windows span the back wall of the dining room and living room, curving along the path of the building and revealing an unreal view of the enormous terrace and the Hollywood Hills beyond.
This is the view people imagine when they think of Los Angeles.
Not the traffic-clogged, billboard-dense stretches of Sepulveda north of LAX or the wire tangle of freeways smack in the middle of the city but this: wide-open sky, lush green hills, palm trees lining wide streets.
I pull out my phone, texting Eden. Having a Pretty Woman moment.
Be more specific, she answers. Were you shunned from stores or are you in a bubble bath?
Neither. But this suite is unreal.
It had better be.
I grin down at her Alexander Kim adoration and drop my phone in my purse, leaving it slung over a dining room chair as I explore the rest of the suite.
I’ve had this man inside me, have kissed nearly every inch of his body, and yet I still break out into a cold sweat when I see the enormous, neatly made four-poster bed stacked with plush white pillows.
It’s such a picturesque bedroom it’s almost absurd, and all I can think about is how it’s a bed for honeymooners.
For consummating something, and we’re going to sleep here.
Out of four nights, we’ve already spent two together, and now this is our bed.
I think about my bed at home—a comparatively tiny full-size mattress; it wasn’t nearly long enough for him, but it didn’t matter.
I know now that if Alec could have his way, he would curl up, be my big spoon all night.
Better yet, he would sleep on top of me.
Just as I walk into the bathroom and catch sight of the truly mammoth tub overlooking the Hills, my phone starts to explode with texts, with emails. For a few minutes I’d forgotten that this room wasn’t the only way my life was changing today.
The story is live.
I hear the sound of the key, the door unlocking, and then Alec is making his way down the short hallway.
“Gigi?” he calls out.
Relief and excitement hit with laser precision right at the center of my chest. I’ve been reading a book—getting my mind off the comments flowing in online, the reactions from the community and the LA Times staff—but I drop it onto the coffee table just as he emerges into the suite’s living room. His face erupts in a relieved smile.
“You’re here.”
I bite my lips, attempting to tamp down my urge to scream in happiness. He’s wearing what he had on at the signing, but it feels like he’s changed; everything about his posture is somehow more relaxed. Relieved, maybe. “Hey.”
His gaze tracks around the room as he clocks my shoes at the end of the hallway, my suitcase tucked against the wall, my book facedown on the table. “Good,” he murmurs. “You brought things.”
What a weird feeling this is. We’re going to be staying together. Living together, in this suite. Meals and sleep and showers and work. We can’t commit to anything beyond this, but we’ve committed to this much, at least. Temporary cohabitation but indefinite infatuation.
He comes over, bracing his hands on the back of the couch as he bends to kiss me. “I’ll be right back.” Disappearing, he heads into the bathroom and I hear the water running. Alec Kim would never dream of touching me with dirty hands.
But when he returns, we don’t immediately strip down. Instead of being rushed and heated, the vibe in the air is wide-open, full of oxygen and space and time. He crosses the room to the minibar, bending to retrieve two bottles of water. “How was your afternoon?”
“My story went up.”
He turns, eyes wide. “Wait—today?”
I nod, beaming.
Alec pulls his phone from his pocket. “Drop me the link.” When I do, I watch as his eyes scan the story before jumping back to the top to start all over. “This is good.”
Pride is a warm hit of sunshine. “Thank you.”
“I mean,” he says, and comes to stand closer, “this is a really well-written story on the subject. Informative but not rubbernecking.”
I fight the urge to deflect the compliment, saying only, “Good.”
“How’s the response?”
“Great so far. My phone was blowing up, and I started to feel restless in my own skin, so I put it down to read for a while out on the terrace.” But then I came inside, I don’t say, knowing you’d be here soon.
Alec looks up. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“The terrace?” I laugh. “ ‘Nice.’ Yes, it’s nice.”
He collapses beside me on the couch, unscrewing the cap on his water and tossing it onto the table. “On a scale from it-was-perfect to you-almost-never-called-me-again,” he says, “how much did you hate the signing today?”
Reaching over, I pull a tiny piece of paper confetti from his collar. “I didn’t hate it.”
“Liar.”
“I didn’t,” I insist. “I’m used to being around important people, but in a professional capacity. There I felt a little bit…” I try to find the right word. “I felt a little dismissed because I was ‘just’ there as a fan. It was a weird experience.”
Alec takes a long drink and nods as he swallows. “I get that. It’s the thing I probably like least about the culture.”
“Let’s just say your celebrity status is not why I’m with you.”
His dark eyes shine when he looks over at me, smiling. “Why are you with me?”
I poke a finger in his dimple, drag it over his lips and down his throat.
“Of course.” His laugh vibrates against my fingertip, and he sits up, reaching for my book on the table. “What’s this?” I don’t answer because he’s already looking for himself. “Is it good?”
I shrug. “I’m only about fifty pages in, but I like it so far.”
As he reads the cover flap, I reach over, finger-brushing the hair at his temple. “How was the rest of the event?”
“Good. Photo ops.” He sets the book down and reaches up, massaging his cheeks.
“Lots of smiling?”
He laughs, nodding, and shifts so that he’s lying with his head in my lap. Alec stares up at me. “I’m so glad you agreed,” he says finally. I watch as he takes a deep breath and gives it ten beats to fully exit his body.
“Me too.” Seeing my presence as a relief to him is a bit like drinking champagne. I tingle all over.
“I don’t think I realized how badly I wanted you here until I saw you.”
“Well,” I say, bending to kiss his forehead, “I’m glad.”
“Will you be able to work here?”
I nod. “It’ll be quieter here than it would be at my place. This week is going to be nuts, so I can work while you’re out being England’s heartthrob.”
“Oh.” This piques his interest. “What’s going on?”
“Billy is all in,” I say. “He anticipated this blowing up and brought in our London correspondent to do the heavy lifting on the follow-ups, which means a shared byline, but I honestly couldn’t do it from here anyway.
This guy, Ian, usually covers the politics desk, so he’s great.
He went back and looked into guest logs and video footage and discovered what I actually knew already, which is that there is no record of who came into or left the club on the nights we know the chat-room videos were recorded. Or the night you went to get Sunny.”
Alec frowns. “Really?”