When I turn back to Brooke, she’s staring at Graham as he listens to Quinton relate some amusing story in his usual animated manner. Graham laughs, arms crossed loosely over his chest, and Brooke’s eyes roam over him in a way that makes me want to stomp on her foot. She and Graham have been close for years. He says she’s never been more than a friend, and there’s no reason for me to distrust that. I can’t tell Graham who to keep as friends; I wouldn’t accept any guy doing that to me. Despite all of these reasons, I don’t think I’ll ever be relaxed around her. Not when she’s looking at him like he’s a steak and she’s starving.
I clear my throat and her ice blue eyes snap to me. There’s no guilt in them, but maybe she’s just incapable of feeling any. I remind myself that she was sympathetic, even supportive, when everything blew up in my face with Reid. “How’ve you been, Brooke?” She’s a couple of inches taller than me, plus she’s wearing spiked heels—a true LA girl. Not for the first time, she reminds me of my stepmother.
Her smile is pretty and calculated, like a magazine cover. “Very well, actually. I’ve got a little rom-com thing lined up for the end of the summer, and my agent’s gathered new scripts for me to look at after that’s done. How about you?”
I’m sure she and I discussed the fact that I’m going to college in the fall, but people seldom remember personally unimportant things. Although, Reid remembered. “I decided on going to college. I’m starting this fall.”
She laughs in that throaty way some girls do that attracts all male attention within hearing distance. “Oh that’s right. Personally, I wouldn’t want to back up and do college now... but I forget how young you are.”
Graham hears this last bit, and his lips flatten just barely. What the hell does she mean by how young you are? She seems to be ridiculing my age in relation to her own—or Graham's, but I don’t know if he’s even told her anything about us. As new as this all is, we haven’t discussed who to tell or when. Emily and Dad know, of course—and Chloe by association. Graham’s sister knows, and possibly the rest of his family…
They’re both staring at me and I realize I zoned out. “Oh. I’m sorry—what?”
“Hmm, looks like someone didn’t get much sleep last night…” Brooke’s grin is full of comprehension, and my eyes flick to Graham, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Whatever he’s told her didn’t include where he spent the night. What exactly is she assuming I was doing? And with who? My face burns as I scramble for something to say.
“Hey, baby,” MiShaun says, touching my arm. I smile and turn to hug her, grateful for the interruption. “I hear you’re going off to college in the fall?”
“Yes, I am. In New York.”
“That’s awesome! I expect to see you on Broadway in no time, headlining, dating some hot leading man, or maybe some sugar daddy Wall Street type.” My glance bounces off of Graham’s. Judging by the semi-smirk of his lips, he’s amused. When he catches me staring at his mouth, his eyes heat and I have to look away.
“So, MiShaun… are you still visiting Austin occasionally?” I ask with a conspiratorial smile, and she waggles her brows.
“I’m actually considering a permanent relocation there,” she says, tapping her chin with the index finger of her left hand.
“Ohmigod, MiShaun! Is that an engagement ring?” Brooke grabs her hand and squeals as though she’s just won a beauty pageant and the rhinestone-studded crown to go with it.
MiShaun’s ring finger sports a near-flawless marquise-cut solitaire.
I know this because Chloe dragged me along to shop for a tenth anniversary gift Dad didn’t know he was giving. After hours of babbling cut-color-clarity basics, she found the perfect diamond, and then pouted until he bought it. I borrowed Blood Diamond from Emily that weekend, but Chloe totally missed the insult. What a depressing movie, she commented, yawning as she left in the middle of it to take a bubble bath. Nice try, Dad smirked at me.
“This settles it—we’re all going out after the shoot is over tomorrow night—we have to celebrate!” Brooke beams at her.
Graham and I glance at each other. Tomorrow night is our last night together until the premiere, and it appears we’ll be spending the evening in a group, out in public. Crap.
Chapter 11
GRAHAM
The first shoot is in the studio—the layout: a stylized schoolroom. Everyone is made up, hair is runway-model-styled, and the clothes are exclusive labels—fitted to us with pins and clips. If people got a 360-view of us, we’d all look a hell of a lot sillier.
Like the shoot in Austin, the majority of pics are Reid and Emma, separate or together. Emma’s hair is teased and coiffed and I can tell by the set of her mouth and the way she holds her head that she hates it. Her eyes are darkly lined and shadowed, her lips filled in, and she looks closer to twenty-eight than eighteen. I know she hates this, too, though she looks beautiful. Not as beautiful as she did this morning when I woke up to her face snuggling against my chest, but beautiful in a different way—aggressively sexy. The photographer has her biting on the string of pearls around her neck, invoking the memory of her nipping my earlobe last night.
I’ve never in my life gone over so many sports statistics in my head so frequently. I didn’t know I knew so many sports statistics.
Batting averages for Jose Reyes become unnecessary mental fodder a few minutes later, when Reid joins Emma and I’m trying to psyche myself for the positions in which they’re about to be placed. They’ve put him in a navy pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt and loose red tie. Next to him, Emma’s outfit is an elegant compliment—a very short, very tight, strapless red dress, which she hitches up at the bodice between shots until the photographer’s assistant pins it tighter down her back.