Funny You Should Ask(59)

When I emerged from the shower—my bathroom completely steamed up—feeling like I’d scrubbed myself into a mild semblance of normality, I found that I had even more texts from Gabe.

Wrapped in my towel, I sat on the side of the bed, reading through messages that were surprisingly devoid of acronyms or texting slang. Apparently, Gabe Parker preferred a full-sentence text.

I’m having a party at my place tonight, he’d messaged. There will be fun and games aplenty.

Aplenty.

Gabe Parker used “aplenty” in his text messages.

I remembered then the moment on the dance floor. How it had felt. How he had felt.

My skin was soft and red from the hot shower, but the warmth I felt was from something else entirely.

Gabe had danced aplenty close to me last night. Gabe was—at the very least—physically attracted to me. Gabe was inviting me to a party at his house.

Suddenly the once-absurd possibility that something could actually happen between us didn’t feel so absurd, after all.

My phone buzzed.

You can bring your tape recorder if you want.

The text was followed by a winky face.

That winky face threw a dash of cold water on my flickering hope.

Because I had completely forgotten about the article. The whole reason Gabe was speaking to me in the first place. Obviously, he wanted me to come over so he could dazzle me with another element of his glamorous life. Which I would then put in the Broad Sheets piece.

They had said I would be getting unprecedented access.

If he had wanted to make a move, he would have made it last night. He wouldn’t have disappeared in a haze of smoke and Jell-O shots just when things were getting good.

Right?

I looked at my phone, weighing my options.

After last night, I had more than enough to use in my article. I couldn’t talk about Ollie—about how homophobia had blocked him from getting Bond—but I could talk about his friendship with Gabe. About how there were no hard feelings. I could make it believable, and that would help Gabe. Would help his image.

It probably would be unprofessional to go to the party tonight.

But it had definitely been unprofessional to invite myself to a premiere and then go to a gay club where I ended up a hairsbreadth away from being blackout drunk.

What time? I asked Gabe.

Instead of working on my article—which was due that week—I spent the next several hours trying to get over my hangover while preparing for Gabe’s party.

I didn’t ask Jo for help.

I didn’t know what to wear to a gathering at a Hollywood star’s house. I didn’t know what the vibe would be. I was pretty sure it was going to be intense—plenty of beautiful people, a bunch of famous actors, and, probably, lots of drugs.

Eventually, I settled on a pair of jeans that Jeremy had once said made my ass look incredible and a top that was maybe a touch tighter than I usually would have worn. I checked myself out in the mirror, while also practicing how to graciously turn down the cocaine I assumed I’d be offered.

“No thanks,” I said to my reflection with a toss of my hair. “I’m already totally high.”

Was that even the correct terminology?

“I’m good,” I tried again. “I’m high on life.”

I shook my head.

“You’re ridiculous,” I told myself. “No one is going to waste cocaine on you.”

I hoped that was true.

When I arrived at Gabe’s house, I expected to see people passed out on the front lawn or doing obscene things to his gate, but no one was outside. The house was brightly lit and I could see people inside, but so far it looked like every other party I’d ever been to.

My heart was thumping against my ribs as I walked toward the house. I could hear laughter and chatter as I approached. I felt so unbelievably awkward—not knowing if I should knock or just open the door. Was this something other people worried about or was I just extremely high-strung? In the end, I did a combination of both, I rapped my knuckles on the door as I pushed it open.

I expected no one to notice my arrival, or if they did, it would be nothing more than confused looks from beautiful people wondering why this normal person had been allowed to be in their presence. I expected to mostly be ignored.

Instead, a dozen heads swiveled in my direction and to my great surprise—and relief—I recognized one of them.

“You’re here!” Ollie approached me with open arms, sweeping me into a hug.

“Hi,” I said.

“Gabe said he invited you,” he said, looping his arm through mine. “I’m glad you came.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Let’s get you a drink.” He steered me into the kitchen, introducing me to people as we went. “Chani, this is Margot. She’s a fabulous clothing designer, based in New York. And Jessica writes for one of my favorite fashion blogs. Chani is a writer too. She’s doing a profile on our dear host.”

He said it like I was someone important. People looked at me with new interest.

I was overwhelmed with all the faces—some of which were very beautiful, but also many who were beautiful in a normal kind of way. It made me feel a little less out of place.

“What would you like?” Ollie asked, gesturing toward the bar. “Gabe is well-stocked on beer, but the cocktail selection is pretty minimal. Davis here could probably make you a martini if you’d like.” He indicated a tall, skinny guy leaning against the fridge.