She was just about to tell him as much, when the GPS spoke, instructing him to make a right at the end of the street.
Aster fumbled for the door handle, ready to bail the second he slowed. “What the hell is going on here—where are we going?” she yelled.
Ryan looked at her, eyes wide, voice filled with disbelief when he said, “Wherever she takes us.” He nodded at the screen. “This is Madison’s car.”
TWENTY-SIX
DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND
Rather than ending the party, the blackout only served to kick it up to a whole other level as the juiced-up, uninhibited revelers found themselves in a well-stocked, paparazzi-free paradise where anything went.
Candles and lanterns were swiftly procured, and the generator, once discovered, was promptly put to work. While everyone around them seemed to be coupling up and drifting off to the manse’s numerous bedrooms, Tommy and Layla used the blackout as an excuse to slip out unnoticed.
Just outside the gates, a swarm of paparazzi had gathered, and unfortunately, Layla and Tommy were instantly recognized. Layla shielded her face with her hands and rushed past them. “Vultures,” she mumbled under her breath, realizing just after she’d said it that the same could be said of her.
As a chronicler of the very culture she loathed, she resented finding herself at its center. She had never been in it for the fame. Or, maybe she had, but not the sort of fame that she’d found. She longed to be known for her work, not her dubious connection to a star’s disappearance. And though she wasn’t entirely sure she was in line with the idea of karma, even she had to admit her recent turn as tabloid prey built a pretty solid case for its existence.
Tommy slid a protective arm around her and told the photogs in no uncertain terms to back the hell off. For a moment, Layla allowed herself to relax
into Tommy’s embrace, enjoying the brush of his skin—the way his body felt so solid and sure pressed tightly to hers. But just as quickly she reminded herself how the sight of Mateo and Heather together had left her feeling lonely and sad, and she ducked out of his reach.
Loneliness—that was all it was.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Tommy’s tousled brown hair fell across his forehead in a way that perfectly framed his intense navy-blue eyes.
And it certainly had nothing to do with the way his dark denim jeans dipped enticingly low on his hips.
Or how his soft gray tee stretched taut across his shoulders and chest before perfectly skimming his abs.
“C’mon.” Tommy ushered her toward a limo waiting just outside the gate.
“This is yours?” Layla wasn’t sure what to think. After just a single performance, Tommy was already living like a rock star.
“For tonight anyway.”
She slid across the long bench seat and started to direct the driver to her car until Tommy stopped her.
“Not happening,” he said. “I’m not letting you drive after four shots of tequila. You can come back and claim it tomorrow.”
“Three—only three shots,” she corrected, watching as Tommy unearthed a bottle from the limo’s well-stocked bar.
“So why stop there?” He uncapped the bottle and offered her the first sip.
Layla sighed. She knew from experience that Tommy and tequila were a dangerous mix, but maybe that was her problem. Maybe she’d been living too cautiously. Maybe she should just turn off that annoying, insistent, fun-hating voice of her conscience and see where things led.
She closed her eyes and tipped the bottle to her lips. The memory of their kiss bloomed large in her head . . . the feel of Tommy’s hands at her waist . . . his lips meeting hers . . . She’d been trying to forget the kiss since the moment it’d happened. And though she’d briefly convinced herself that she had, there was no denying she’d give just about anything to kiss him again.
“You know what would be perfect right now?”
Layla blinked at Tommy, his face looming close, those navy-blue eyes flashing on hers as his lips broke into a mischievous grin.
“In-N-Out.” He swiped the bottle from her grasp and took a swig, as Layla sprawled across the black leather seat and laughed.
“It’s official,” she said, taking the bottle from him. “You may never qualify as a native, but you’ve earned yourself some serious California foodie cred.”
At Tommy’s orders, the driver swung by the drive-through, where Layla and Tommy ordered enough food to host their own party. Before they’d even merged back onto the street, Layla was already digging into her burger and fries.
“You know what I like about you?” Tommy sank low on his seat and regarded her with a hooded gaze.