Absolutely Famous(84)

Exhausted, I curl up into a ball and snuggle into Drew’s side, not really caring who sees me at this point. I’m not doing anything wrong and New Sydney doesn’t give a shit if someone feels that taking a picture of us is a good use of their time.

Drew has his earphones on and is watching an early cut of Mind of the Enemy, the movie he filmed in California after we got back from St. Bart’s.

Drew makes it hard for me to get comfortable, since he cringes every time he sees himself on the screen. I have no idea why he doesn’t like watching his films, he’s one of the best actors I’ve ever seen, and I was raised by two of the best. My mom is a lot like Drew. She refuses to watch any of her own films, sneaking out of every single premiere she’s ever gone to before the opening credits even finish.

He turns off his iPad and takes the headphones off, placing everything in his carryon bag.

“Tired?” I ask, yawning as I say it.

“Nah, it’s only seven, Syd. I’m just sick of watching my ugly mug.”

“You really hate watching yourself, don’t you?”

“Can’t stand it. It’s like watching the biggest phony I’ve ever known.”

“Anyone who knows you, and I mean really knows you Drew Forrester, not Andrew Forrester, knows that you are far from a phony. Personally, I think you’re the most real and honest person I’ve ever known. That’s one of the things I love the most about you.”

He smiles and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “My honesty? That’s what you love the most?” His suggestively brushes the knuckles on my hand across the front of his jeans.

I pull my hand back and roll my eyes at him. “You’re terrible!” I laugh.

“I know,” he says grinning.





Chapter 28



“Syd, we’re here,” Drew whispers in my ear. “You have to sit up to land.”

I open my eyes and jerk awake, clutching my ribs where the new scar cuts across my side. “Shit,” I murmur under my breath.

“Are you okay?” He wipes my forehead. “You’re sweating. What’s going on babe?”

I move the bed back into the chair position and run my fingers over the scar again. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

Drew mashes his lips together at my dismissal and sees my hand on my side. “You were dreaming of, you know …”

He always knows what I’m thinking. It’s infuriating yet awe-inspiring at the same time. “The bed,” I whisper. “It’s the shape of this bed. When I woke up I thought I was back in that awful hospital bed.” I buckle my seatbelt around my waist.

A dark look crosses Drew’s face. “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again Sydney. Not as long as I live.”

I glance around the cabin and see our constant companions in three of the other first class seats. “I know you won’t.”

Still reeling from the unpleasant memories of the most recent attack I involuntarily rub my hand up and down the long pink scar on my right arm where it was broken by a car crash with a paparazzo a dozen years ago. The permanent marks on my body from run-ins with being famous are starting to add up and I don’t want any more if I can help it.

The plane lands at Logan Airport and we pull into our gate. Drew yanks his nasty old hat from his bag and fits it down low over his brow.

“Nice,” I say under my breath. I see his shoulders shake in front of me as he laughs.

He grabs my hand as we leave the gate and ducks his head low. There are so many Red Sox hats around here that I’d be surprised if anyone even notices him. Of course, neither of us stopped to consider that people would notice me, but they most certainly do. I hear our names being murmured over and over as we hustle through the terminal toward customs.

Crap, I didn’t bring a hat.

Steve called ahead and asked the stewardess to have an airport agent meet us at customs and take us through a private line. Even with our Navy SEALS, there’s no way we could have fended off hundreds of fans and amateur photographers armed with camera phones while waiting in line for an hour.

We make it through customs in record time and exit into baggage claim. Unfortunately, paparazzi are allowed in this section of the airport and somehow they knew we were coming. We step into the baggage area and are assaulted by their questions which continue non-stop as we try to cross the huge room.

“Are you suing Kiera Radcliff?”

“Why are you in Boston?”

“Andrew, did you dump Kiera when you found out what she did?”

“Sydney, is it true you’re expecting?”

I blanch at the last question, thinking about the miscarriage I suffered just a few short months ago. Pissed off by their rude questions, Drew scowls and looks back to see if I’m okay. One of the paparazzi takes advantage of Drew’s turned head and jumps in front of him to get a better shot of both of us. Unfortunately, Drew keeps walking forward even when he’s looking back at me and he crashes into the guy’s massive camera which swings to the side and misses smacking me in the face by a fraction of an inch.