“You gonna tell him?”
“About?”
He waits a beat, eyes flickering down to my stomach and back.
I feel my heart lurch. “You know.”
He nods.
“Howdo you know?”
I don’t know why I bother asking — Masters is the most observant person I’ve ever met. He knowseverything. Still, he humors me.
“No alcohol in weeks. Running to the bathroom at the sushi place. Keeping saltine crackers in your purse everywhere you go to stave off nausea — figured you’re either seasick or pregnant, and you don’t strike me as the nautical type.”
“Shit. Apparently, I’ll have to be more careful. Still… No one else has figured it out. Even Harper…” I blanch. “Wait… you didn’t tell her, did you?”
“Not my place to tell her, Miss Firestone.” His eyes are steady on mine. “But, for the record, I thinkyoushould.”
“I can’t. Not yet. She’ll freak.”
He nods. “Yeah. She does that. But, when she’s done freaking, she’ll help. And, right now, I’m thinking you could use some help.”
“You aren’t wrong,” I admit softly.
“Plus,” he says quietly. “Secret like this… there’s only so long you can keep it.”
His eyes drop to my stomach again. I haven’t started showing — it’s still too early for that. But it’s only a matter of time.
“Wait too long, you won’t have to tell,” he murmurs. “It’ll be plain for everyone to see. Even someone as self-absorbed as Grayson Dunn.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
…And especially someone as observant as Wyatt Hastings.
Six
“Ineed you right now.”
- A girl waiting at the window for the pizza delivery guy.
After the waywe left things, I wasn’t sure Grayson would actually show up to drive me to the radio interview the following day, but at noon on the dot there’s a short beep at the gates outside my house. I push a button to open them and watch as his Bugatti glides to a soundless stop by my walkway.
He doesn’t get out to greet me as I lock my front door and approach.
I don’t say anything as I climb inside and strap on my seatbelt, replaying the last words I spoke to him over and over in my head.
As far as I’m concerned, when the cameras are off, we have nothing more to say to each other.
A frozen silence descends over us and doesn’t thaw for the entirety of our trip from the Palisades to the LA-FM building downtown, a sleek glass tower home to five of the biggest West Coast radio stations, where we’re scheduled to record multiple interviews with different entertainment news shows.
There’s a mob scene of paparazzi waiting for us when we pull up to the valet. They go wild when they recognize the car. Grayson’s security team, following at a discreet distance in their dark SUV, climb out and do their best to keep the crowd under control. Even with their solemn expressions and steel-forged shoulders clearing a path for us to the doors, I’d feel safer with Masters by my side.
“Showtime,” Grayson mutters.
They’re eager for photographs of Hollywood’s newest couple; we do our damnedest not to disappoint them.
Grayson holds my door open like a gentleman, making a show for the camera-wielding men lining the curb. I lean into his chest and let him kiss my forehead like a smitten idiot, all for the sake of his fans, who live-stream our images to various social media platforms with cutesy hashtags that make me die a little inside.