Maybe his mom lived somewhere along their route?
He shook his head, his mouth tight. “Florida. Near where I grew up.”
What kind of woman had raised the man beside her? And why hadn’t Alex—who chatted at frankly ludicrous length about everyone else in his life—discussed her more?
Lauren twisted to face him more directly, readjusting her seat belt so it didn’t bite into her neck. “Are you two—”
“I have a favor to ask,” he interrupted, the words abrupt. “How do you feel about filming me?”
The images that appeared in her febrile brain should have embarrassed her. But she was too busy wondering why he’d cut off that line of conversation so decisively, and also too busy melting into a puddle of lust all over his lovely leather seats, to feel the appropriate level of shame.
“What, uh …” Another long, not-cold-enough sip of water. “What exactly do you want me to film?”
Probably not what she’d just imagined, sadly.
“You’re not online much, right?” When she shook her head, he steered them down the California Incline, and then they were on the PCH at last. “Carah—do you remember her? From the charity event?”
Here, next to the Pacific, the temperature wasn’t scorching, but pleasantly warm. The blue, blue water stretching into infinity loosened something long-knotted inside her, and the ocean breezes beckoned. Without even bothering to ask first, she turned off the AC and rolled down her window. He shot her a pleased grin, then lowered his too.
The whipping wind roared in her ears, and she raised her voice to be heard. “Carah Brown. Very kind, very funny, uses the word fuck more than any other human alive?”
He snorted. “You remember Carah. Anyway, she films herself eating weird foods suggested by viewers and posts the clips all over the internet. When we were texting yesterday, she suggested making my own videos on the trip as a way to connect with my fans outside of Gates, and I thought it was a decent idea. But I need a camerawoman.”
“Me,” she said.
“You,” he confirmed. “Assuming you’re willing.”
In theory, she was, but … “I know nothing about filming people.”
“Luckily, I know a lot about being filmed.” He set his left elbow on the windowsill, and the arm of his T-shirt rippled in the rush of air. “It’ll be fine, Wren. It’s just an experiment. If it doesn’t turn out well, I don’t post anything. No problem.”
Well, she’d warned him. “Okay. I’ll do it. You want me to use your phone?”
“Yup.” Leaning back in his seat, he dug out his cell from his jeans pocket and handed it to her. “Why don’t we do a test run in Malibu?”
His phone had more features than hers, and she took a few minutes to learn the various options as they passed Pacific Palisades. By the time they neared Malibu and veered inland, she thought she could at least shoot a basic video. Probably.
She turned toward him as far as she could and propped her elbow on the dashboard to steady her camera hand. “Ready for your test run?”
The traffic had turned heavy, and he took advantage of a temporary stop to check himself out in the rearview mirror. As she could have told him, he didn’t need any adjustment. He was already the epitome of casual, sun-kissed stardom, his dishevelment only adding to his appeal.
“All right.” He let off the brake for a few feet, then had to stop again. “Let’s do this, Wren. Three, two, one, and … action.”
She tapped the red circle on the screen and kept the camera focused on his profile in the driver’s seat.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Alex Woodroe”—he shot a brief grin in her direction and winked at his audience—“the beloved and exceedingly attractive star of Gods of the Gates and various films, some more low-budget than others. I’m driving up the Pacific Coast Highway on a multiday road trip, and I thought you might like to hear about where I am and where I’m going.”
Doing her best to keep the phone still, she nodded encouragingly.
He waved a hand, indicating their surroundings. “Right now, we’re in Malibu, where L.A.’s rich and famous come to hunt the Sasquatch of Youth.”
At that, she choked on thin air, and tried to cough-laugh as silently as possible.
He frowned. “You okay?”
When she waved him on, he added confidingly, “As everyone in Hollywood knows, if you catch the Sasquatch of Youth, it’ll grant you an extra decade of casting viability in exchange for its freedom. For that reason, sasquatch-hunting is the main local industry in Malibu. The city should really advertise it more.”