Marcus: I HATE YOU SO MUCH
Alex: Off to take a nap now, byeeeeeeeee
Alex:
Marcus:
Alex:
5
ALEX WAS LOOKING AT HER WITH THE ODDEST EXPRESSION on his fatigue-creased face.
After one last snort, Lauren managed to contain her punch-drunk hilarity. Using the neckline of her tee, she wiped away the wetness under her eyes.
“What?” He braced himself against the door of the sedan, seemingly unaware that their driver had efficiently hoisted all their luggage from the car’s trunk and was awaiting his attention. “What’s so funny?”
The unaccustomed laughter had hurt her throat a little, and she reached inside the back seat for her forgotten bottle of water. After a swig, she shut the door and flicked a dismissive hand.
“You’ll find out soon enough.” She tilted her head toward their patient driver. “Let’s allow this poor woman to get on with her evening.”
“Oh.” In a startled rush of movement, he turned toward the uniformed driver, pressed what appeared to be a substantial tip in her hand, and waved her off.
The sedan completed the driveway’s circle and disappeared down the narrow, twisty Beachwood Canyon road as Lauren took stock of her surroundings.
If she had a dog named Toto, she’d inform him they weren’t in NoHo anymore. They were, in fact, right below the Hollywood sign, perched high on a mountainside, in a neighborhood where wealthy and famous people lived, rather than middle-class non-entities like her.
On the way to his house, driving up and up again on those tiny roads, they’d passed countless enormous, impeccably maintained houses. No, estates. Ones with an eye-popping array of architectural styles ranging from Spanish Colonial to—well, Turreted German Mini-Castle.
A mini-castle with a narrow, shallow moat filled with succulents, which visitors crossed via a tiny drawbridge, because of course. Of course Alex had a castle and a moat and a drawbridge. And what appeared to be stables off to one side. Did he have freaking horses?
What was the name of that magazine feature? Oh, right: Stars—they’re just like us!
Nooooope.
If she turned one way, the lights of downtown L.A. glittered below. A half-turn, and the mountain stretched still higher, those iconic letters startlingly close.
Suddenly, he was startlingly close too. Not touching her, but near enough to exude noticeable heat.
“I could give you a tour of the main house and grounds tonight, if you want.” His hands shoved in his jeans pockets, he looked down at her. “Or I can just find us food, show you the guesthouse, and save everything else for tomorrow.”
Since she was starving, sticky with travel, and nearly listing in exhaustion, the answer was clear. “The second option, please.”
Before she could stop him, he somehow managed to wrangle all their luggage and drag it with him across the drawbridge and up to the huge, dark-wood front door with a lion’s head knocker. All along the way, discreetly positioned outside lights blinked to life and illuminated their path.
At the entrance, he set down the bags while he fumbled for his keys. “Dammit, they’re somewhere … around … here …”
A quick glance at the property didn’t reveal any other outbuildings. She had to assume she was sleeping in the stables. Which seemed appropriate, as she was most definitely a peasant compared to his handsome prince.
“Aha!” He brandished the keys in triumph. “I win again!”
She kept her voice dry as those beds of succulents. “You had a wily opponent.”
With a quick beep of a small remote on his key chain, he deactivated his house alarm.
“You have no idea, Nanny Clegg.” Waving her ahead, he stood in front of their bags. “After you.”
The air within his home was cool and not as stale as she’d have expected after his lengthy absence. Inside, the castle theme was pronounced but not tacky. Someone—maybe Alex, maybe the owners before him—had left enough touches for character, but nothing more.
The tiled foyer led into a large open area with a soaring, dark-beamed ceiling, the white walls illuminated by warm lamplight. A huge slab of yet more dark wood crowned an enormous stone fireplace, its interior filled with yet more succulents. The furniture—a couple of long, low couches facing a huge television; a marble-topped coffee table; several smaller seating arrangements punctuated by cleverly designed open shelving—looked stylish but comfortable, substantial enough to fill but not crowd the space.
“There’s a guest bathroom down that hall”—he pointed toward a shadowy corridor—“if you want to freshen up before eating. I’ll see what Dina left in the fridge for dinner.”