All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(20)
She shakes her head sadly and pulls an imaginary rope, hand over hand, then cups her belly.
JOHNNY
No! Not our instructor from that ropes course! You can’t be having his baby!
She stands and bends backward, arms flailing, as if beset by a strong wind.
JOHNNY
Of course you’re off-balance right now! Let me help you, Esmée!
Esmée makes several indistinct movements. Johnny shakes his head in bewilderment. She becomes frustrated by her inability to find gestures to communicate what she wants to say. After a few more waves of her arms, she gives up with a shrug and speaks.
ESMéE
With you, I’m trapped, Johnny. Like I’m in a box. And I could never find a way to tell you.
6
“THE GROUNDS ARE ALL YOURS, AND YOU CAN EXPLORE AT will.” Squinting against the bright morning light, Alex donned his sunglasses and continued speaking, despite Lauren’s complete lack of response. “Other seating areas have spectacular views of downtown L.A., the Hills, and the Reservoir. On a really clear day, you can even see the Pacific.”
After downing his ADHD medication with a gulp of coffee, he set his mug on the teakwood table, poked a finger at his remaining cherry-cheese Danish, and grimaced.
Why did he sound like a real estate agent trying to unload a property on an unwilling buyer? This was way too undignified, dammit, even for a man who’d never considered dignity a particularly valuable commodity.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
He pointed to a tree-studded area of his grounds. “You can pick your own oranges, Meyer lemons, and grapefruits. Avocados too.”
When he glanced at Lauren, her face was pointed in the direction he’d indicated, but her expression was as difficult to read as ever. More so, even, since she wore her own oversized sunglasses.
Before answering, she finished chewing a bite of her apple Danish, because of course she’d chosen the most boring breakfast option Dina had supplied.
“Convenient,” she said in her imperturbable, irritating-as-hell way.
She probably didn’t even like oranges or avocados, because she was the worst.
“After you finish eating your apple-filled disappointment of a pastry, why don’t you say hello to Dina and work out a good schedule with her? Then we’ll head out.”
“First of all …” She shoved the last bite of her Danish in her mouth, chewing thoroughly and swallowing before speaking again, because she was Nanny Clegg, the world’s most rule-bound human. “My pastry was exceptional. Flaky and buttery, and the apples still had a bit of texture. Second of all, where are we going?”
He looked at her with pity. “It didn’t even have icing on it. You’re a barbarian.”
“I repeat.” She finished her fresh-squeezed orange juice and put down her glass. “Where are we going?”
“We’re getting you a dress. Time to Pretty Woman this shit.” He cracked his knuckles with relish. “I can’t wait until someone refuses to wait on you because you’re so obviously an unsophisticated oaf from Kansas or wherever—”
“North Hollywood. Basically just down this hill and over the next one.”
“—and then you can leave, brokenhearted and ashamed, only to return hours later, carrying thousands of dollars of haute couture to rub in how much commission money they lost.”
She was massaging her temples again.
“Petty revenge is the most satisfying, always.” With his forefinger, he pushed her phone closer to her on the table. “You should write that down somewhere. Consider it a free preview of my TED Talk.”
For a long, satisfying moment, she appeared entirely speechless. Then she spoke, each word slow and precise.
“Okay, first thing.” She paused again, and yet more temple-rubbing occurred. “Why do I need to keep making lists with you?”
“That’s your first thing?” He furrowed his brow at her. “It’s a weird first thing.”
“It’s not my first thing. It’s an addendum, jackass.”
He gasped, loudly enough that a nearby bird flapped away in alarm. “Such language! Why, my delicate ears!”
Her breaths seemed to dramatically lengthen at that point, and he figured she was counting to herself.
After several vastly entertaining and very deep inhalations, she got a hold of her temper. “First thing: I am not a sex worker, and you are not my client. Thus, we cannot, as you so eloquently put it, ‘Pretty Woman this shit.’ Second: As you are neither my john nor my sugar daddy of any sort, you will not be paying for these garments, and I can’t afford thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing I’ll never wear again. Third—”
“The production would pay for a red-carpet-appropriate dress,” he interrupted.
“Third,” she repeated with steely determination, “cocktail dresses don’t come in my size, at least not ones you’d find in standard L.A. stores. For something beautiful that truly fit me, you’d need to employ Christian Siriano—”
“I knew you liked reality television! Ha!”
He’d figured her indifference to GBBO was an act. It had to be. Who could resist Nadiya’s sweet, emotional ascent to baking triumph? Also the hilarious duo of Sue and Mel?