“Over here!”
“You go, girl!”
“Five questions! We have just five questions!”
“Where’s Tom?”
“Have you lost weight?”
“We love your dress!”
“You look hot! Can I be your date?” one photographer hollered, trying to turn my head toward his camera.
Another pap called back, “She’s Sienna Diaz, she doesn’t need a date. And your ugly arse isn’t good enough.”
This exchange made me laugh and the resultant flashes were blinding.
The hours were blurring together. We’d arrived in London just ten hours ago. Since that time, I’d met with the producers for my next film, given seven magazine interviews, was fitted for the dress I was currently wearing, had my makeup and hair done twice—once for a photo shoot and then again for this evening—and still managed to trade several texts with Jethro.
But I’d missed the call from my parents. I would call them back from the bathroom inside the theater, if I ever made it inside.
Stepping away from the cameras, I walked to the media section and to more calls for my attention. I recognized a reporter acquaintance who I actually really liked and respected. He stood to one side among the throng, against the barricade, and wasn’t yelling at me. A small smile quirked his lips and when our eyes connected his eyebrows raised in question, Do you have a minute?
I gave him a warm smile as I walked to him, cameras following me, the crowd growing quieter so we could speak. I liked Arval because he never asked me about my diet. He never asked about my beauty regimen or my workout routine or questions about whether Latinas make good lovers—yes, I was actually asked that question during an interview earlier in the day.
I’d responded, “I think the real question is, when did they start allowing perverts into press junkets?”
“Sienna.” Arval gave me a nod. “You look lovely.”
I glanced down at myself. “Oh, this old thing? I made it.”
He chuckled; like everyone else, he knew the dress was some ridiculous designer concoction.
“Shall we get down to business?”
“Please do.” I motioned to his microphone.
“What are you working on right now?”
“Too many things.” I laughed, turning on the charm for the camera. “We’re just wrapping up filming for The Cultavist in Tennessee, and I start filming Strange Birdfellows in September.”
“Are you writing anything now?”
“Uh . . .” I hesitated, not sure how to respond. “Yes. I’m working on a script for a superhero project.”
“There were rumors you were supposed to star in that, is that true?”
“We were discussing the possibility, yes. But I can’t speak of the outcome, as nothing is set in stone. I’m really trying to focus on the script first and foremost, so I’ve been embracing anger and calling it research.”
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Tom had arrived. He was currently smoldering at the cameras. He was also alone, his date nowhere in sight.
“Embracing anger?”
“Yes. Someone cut me off in traffic, so I applied a red face mask, chased the person down, and threatened to smash their Prius. Unfortunately, the police were not amused.”
“That didn’t really happen, did it?”
“No. It didn’t. But it might. So here’s a message to all your viewers at home.” I faced the camera and spoke earnestly, “Don’t cut me off in traffic.”
Arval grinned, nodded, writing himself a note on a small notepad, then asked, “And what do you think about filming in Tennessee? Are the locals friendly?”
His question gave me pause and I did a double take, studying him. But his expression was innocent, so I decided the question must be as well.
“Tennessee is gorgeous, but it’s one of those treasures you don’t want other people to find out about. It’s perfection just how it is, and the locals are among my favorite people in the universe.”
“I heard gorgeous, you must be talking about me.” Tom slid next to me, slipping his arm around my waist and placing a kiss on my cheek. I tensed and, by some miracle, kept the grimace from my face.
“Of course we were,” I quipped. “We were just talking about you and your gorgeous Pomeranians. You know, the dogs you just adopted from that animal shelter?”
Tom’s lids lowered, giving me a vitriolic stare, but his smile didn’t waver. Tom hated dogs.
“You adopted a Pomeranian?” Arval asked, clearly disbelieving.
Before Tom could speak, I cut in, “Oh yes. And not just one. A whole litter.”
Arval glanced between us, an eyebrow lifted. Everyone knew Tom hated dogs; he’d famously refused to work with a German Shepherd some years ago on a police movie, insisting his body double be used for all scenes involving the K9.