Funny You Should Ask(48)

“I was talking about my career,” he says.

My face gets hot, and I turn away. I feel guilty and like a fool. I want to go back to my sad, empty apartment. I want to write the fastest, laziest version of this article and send it off to my editor. I want to completely, permanently sever my connection to Gabe Parker. I want to be over it. Over him.

“But not just my career,” he adds. Quietly.

It doesn’t help.

Then, as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, the radio starts playing the song. The song that Gabe and I danced to that weekend. The one where we’d been smushed together, from our chests to our knees, and Gabe had wrapped his arms around me before dipping me low.

Back then, I’d thought it was the sexiest, most romantic thing that had ever happened to me.

Then Gabe married Jacinda Lockwood almost immediately after the article was released and I had to watch him dip her in the exact same way on the big screen in the opening sequence for his first Bond movie.

The tension in the car has gone wire taut, and I know that Gabe remembers this song. I know he’s thinking about what happened at the club.

“About that night,” he says.

I cross my arms.

“That whole weekend,” he amends. “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized,” I say.

I don’t want him to be sorry. Sorry is confirmation that he’d been faking it the whole time. From getting my phone number to bringing me to the premiere and then inviting me to his party.

“It’s fine,” I say. “We were both young and stupid. I should have known better.”

There’s a long pause.

“What about now?” he asks.

“I should know better now too, but…” I gesture at the car, at him. “I guess I haven’t learned anything.”

I lean my head back against the seat and look out the window. It’s then that I realize we’re not going to LAX.

Since I’m fairly certain Gabe isn’t kidnapping me, I don’t say anything until we arrive at a small private airport in the Valley. When we drive onto the tarmac to where a plane is waiting, that’s when I turn to Gabe, incredulous.

“A private jet?” I ask.

Gabe, at least, has the good sense to look sheepish.

“It’s not my plane,” he says. “And it wasn’t my idea.”

I give him a look, but he raises his hands.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, trying to be as annoyed as possible, but the truth is I’m a little impressed.

And annoyed at myself for being impressed.

I’m supposed to be above all this. Supposed to be immune to his charms. Immune to the siren call of Hollywood stars and all the fancy trappings that come with them.

It’s disappointing to discover I’m just as easily taken as Jeremy always thought I was.

“You love celebrity,” he used to say. “You want to be famous.”

He’d say it as if it was the most disgusting thing a person could want. As if wanting it meant that I deserved what happened. That I deserved people assuming that my success was a direct result of fucking a celebrity.

Not that Jeremy was exempt from wanting that kind of attention. He refused to admit it out loud, but I knew the truth. He wanted people to talk about him. Wanted people to know him.

He’d get down on his knees for a private jet.

I’m pretty sure, at least.

At least I know I’m not willing to do that. Not for a private jet.

I also know that I’m still mad about the whole dance thing, which I know technically isn’t really Gabe’s fault and when it comes down to it, I’m really angrier at myself than anything, but right now it’s easier to be annoyed about a private jet.

“It’s not mine,” Gabe says again as we get out of the car. “And he insisted.”

I’m confused until a familiar face appears at the top of the ramp. He strikes a pose.

“Darling!” Ollie says, arms akimbo. “It’s been ages.”

I can’t help it, I’m thrilled to see him. And grateful that I don’t have to spend an entire private plane ride to Montana with just Gabe. The car ride was tense enough.

Gabe helps the driver unload our bags as Ollie skips down the stairs and pulls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet.

“When I heard that you two crazy kids were re-creating your famous interview, I begged Gabe to let me crash,” Ollie says, once I’m back on the ground.

“I refused,” Gabe says.

“He refused,” Ollie confirms.

His hands are on my arms and he’s leaning back, looking at me like a proud parent whose daughter just returned from her first year at college.

“He wanted you all to himself,” Ollie says sotto voce.

“I did,” Gabe says, walking past us with our bags.

Even though I’m still a little irritated at him, I flush. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed and befuddled by all this attention.

“A private jet, huh?” I ask, looking up at the beautiful, shining plane.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” Ollie says. “Terrible for the environment. Very, very extravagant.” He gives me a wink. “But I told you I’d do it.”

It’s true. He did tell me. I feel a strange rush of pride on his behalf. He really has accomplished exactly what he hoped to accomplish. But with that pride, there’s some jealousy too. I swallow it down.