His eyes cut to mine, his eyebrows suspended in question. I mouthed, Just a minute.
Again, silence followed by a chair squeak. I made a mental note to order her some WD-40 for that chair.
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Yes.”
She huffed. “Okay, forget our conversation when you were in L.A., forget that I think you’re making a terrible mistake hooking up with this guy. Forget all of that for a minute and just think about this. I can’t believe I have to spell this out, but consider this: if you take the park ranger to this event—”
“Jethro. His name is Jethro.”
She ignored me. “Then everyone will know about the two of you. His life will never be the same. People will dig into his past. Celebrity bloggers and websites will pick him apart. He’ll find himself on the cover of magazines, newspapers, photographed at work, wherever he goes. He’ll be the object of much fascination. Is that what you want? Is that what he wants?”
I held my breath.
. . . crap.
She had me there.
Biting my lip, I attempted to think of a rejoinder. I came up blank.
“I don’t know,” I finally admitted, my heart sinking. I’d been so busy being with Jethro, living in this perfect bubble we’d created, I hadn’t thought about the ramifications of what being with me publicly would mean for him.
“The event is in one week.”
“Okay.” Crap. My pulse doubled.
“I’m chartering a plane.”
“Fine. Okay. Fine.”
“Do you want me to reach out to Tom’s people? He could fly over with you. You could both say you’re going as friends. It would delay having to make a decision about . . . about Jethro, give you some time.”
“No.” My response was immediate. I’d rather go alone than with Tom. “Let me talk to Jethro.”
“I need an answer by tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“Good night, Sienna.” Her voice held hesitation, as though she wanted to say more, then with a surprisingly soft and affectionate tone, she said, “Sweet dreams.”
I smiled at her tone, some of the anger I’d been carrying around since our argument dissipated. Unfortunately, it was quickly being replaced with panic.
“Good night, Marta.”
Ending the call, I continued to stare at the screen, unable to meet Jethro’s gaze.
The heaviness of what I’d been stubbornly ignoring for the last months saddled itself on my shoulders. I felt foolish. I felt idiotic, stranded by my own willful blindness. Marta had just pointed out major, serious issues that should have been obvious to me. Issues Jethro and I should have discussed prior to now.
Prior to our first date.
Prior to agreeing to more than temporary.
And prior to my falling in love with him.
Now I felt the weight of it, like a slap in the face or a punch in the stomach.
I felt it all.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, placing his hand on my legs and squeezing. “More bad news? Do we need to go dancing?”
I managed to crack a smile at that but couldn’t sustain it. My thoughts were turning pragmatic. And with pragmatism came some depressing truths.
I’d been selfish because I liked him so much. He wanted more than temporary with me, but he couldn’t possibly know what that meant in real-world terms. He may have had an inkling based on our first date and from the looks we’d been getting around the set, but he really had no idea.
By his own admission during dinner, he hadn’t looked me up yet.
Resting my elbow on the window sill, I placed my forehead in my hand and closed my eyes, exhaling in an effort to diffuse the foreboding swelling in my chest.
“So, when I was in L.A., Marta and I had a disagreement. She saw the picture of us on my phone and . . .” I sighed, all my words were irritating, so I rushed to finish. “She didn’t like it. She’s worried about the photo getting out.”
“I’m not sharing it, if that’s what she’s worried about.”
I sighed again, trying to ease the tightness in my chest. “It’s not just that. I have to go to a film premiere next week in London.” My voice was strained.
“Okay. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
I swallowed, finding my mouth dry and my tongue coated with dread. “It’s complicated. I need to go with someone.”
“A date.”
“Yes. I need to go with a date. Someone who will help my image and create the right kind of buzz,” I said flatly, echoing Marta’s words from so many meetings and phone calls and lectures about the capricious nature of success, how it could vanish in the blink of an eye.
“I’m going to be real honest, Sienna. I’m not going to be happy if you go with someone other than me on a date.” His tone was firm, like he meant business, but also measured and coaxing, like he was trying his hardest not to turn the statement into a mandate.