“I shouldn’t,” Grace said, even as she reached for it.
Chuckling, Lauren heaped relish on her own hot dog.
After polishing off the last crumb of her second hot dog, Grace insisted on doing the dishes.
“That’s not necessary,” Lauren said. “I have a dishwasher.”
“Does it rinse the plates and put the food back into the fridge too?”
“Uh, no.”
Grace sent her a telling gaze. “Well, then I guess one of us needs to do that. And since you cooked…”
Lauren gave up and followed her to the kitchen with a clipboard. She leaned against the breakfast bar and watched Grace put the mustard and ketchup back into the refrigerator and rinse the plates and bowls. How surreal this was. Grace Durand, three-time Golden Globe winner, was in her kitchen, doing the dishes. Lauren shook herself out of her haze and lifted the clipboard. “Let’s talk about what to tell Stan tomorrow morning.”
“Not much we can tell him,” Grace said. “Not as long as Jill isn’t ready to tell the public that she has MS.” When she bent to put the plates into the dishwasher, her dress slid up a little, revealing a smooth expanse of thigh.
With some effort, Lauren forced her gaze back onto the blank page. “She should really think about doing it soon.”
“I understand why she’s hesitating. She mostly plays spunky sidekicks, characters that are upbeat and full of life. What if casting directors think someone with MS can’t convincingly portray those characters once the public finds out?”
Lauren didn’t have a good answer for that. Life as an actress sometimes simply wasn’t fair. “Okay. Then what do you want to tell Stan?”
Grace closed the dishwasher, turned, and leaned against it. “Can’t we simply tell him that Jill and I are just two friends who wanted to spend a quiet night away from the set?”
“That sounds too much like a romantic getaway,” Lauren said. “But I like the premise. How about we rephrase it a little?” She scribbled something down, describing the stressful life on set—five o’clock call times, fourteen-hour days, endless repetitions because the director wanted one more take—and then stating that the two actresses had retreated to the hotel for its whirlpool and room service. That was how most people viewed actresses anyway. She held out the clipboard so Grace could read it.
When Grace finished reading and looked up, admiration sparked in her eyes. “Brilliant. You really have a way with words.”
“The inn did have a whirlpool, didn’t it?” Lauren asked. Stan was an old-school journalist. He’d check out each and every little detail of their story.
A tiny wrinkle formed on Grace’s forehead. “I have no idea. Once I finally had Jill in bed, I didn’t leave the room.”
Lauren pointed at her with the pen. “Don’t say that to the press.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’ve got a dirty mind.”
Chuckling, Lauren led her back to the living room.
Grace sat in Lauren’s recliner, both feet up, Lauren’s MacBook on her lap while Lauren rummaged around in the next room.
“Did you find anything?” Lauren asked when she returned with a first-aid kit.
Grace nodded and pointed at the website on the laptop’s screen. “They do have an outdoor whirlpool.”
“Great. I’ll send Stan the statement tomorrow morning, then.” Lauren put the first-aid kit on the coffee table and opened it. “Now let me see your knees.”
“They’re just a few scrapes, nothing serious.”
“Even scrapes can get infected,” Lauren said. “It’s better not to take any risks. I don’t want to have to handle headlines like ‘Grace Durand hospitalized with an infection she contracted when she climbed the wall surrounding Jill Corrigan’s property in a sapphic midnight remake of Romeo and Juliet.’”
Grace had to laugh at the headlines that Lauren kept making up. “You’re right. We can’t risk that. I prefer movies with happy endings.”
Lauren soaked a cotton ball with antiseptic and knelt next to the recliner.
They both looked down at Grace’s legs. Several scratches covered her knees, a few trailing down to her shins. Most of them hadn’t broken the skin, but some had been bleeding. Half-dried blood and bits of dirt now clung to her legs.
“This might sting a bit.” Lauren lowered the cotton ball, hovering just an inch from Grace’s skin. “Ready?”
Grace nodded and braced herself. A burning pain flared through her when the antiseptic touched her skin. She clamped her hands around the armrests of the recliner and looked at Lauren, the dark head bent as she worked on getting the dirt out of the wounds.
Lauren’s hands, broad, with long fingers, moved gently over her skin.
Grace couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken such tender care of her.
When Lauren was done with the antiseptic, she squeezed out a bit of antibiotic ointment and used cotton swabs to dab it onto the scrapes without touching them directly.
Grace thought it was overkill for a couple of harmless scrapes, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her.
Finally, Lauren placed Band-Aids over the deepest cuts, re-capped the tube of ointment, and clicked the first-aid kit shut. “There.” She smiled up at her. “All better now.”
Grace cleared her throat. “Thank you, Dr. Pearce.” She put Lauren’s laptop on the coffee table and stood.
“Do you want me to drive you home now?” Lauren asked.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll call a service that I sometimes use to drive me to the airport. They’re very discreet.”
Lauren frowned. “I can drive you.”
“Thanks for the offer, but remember the headline you quoted earlier? How would you like to handle a headline about Grace Durand getting out of the car of a known lesbian in the middle of the night, wearing said lesbian’s clothes?” Grace tugged on the sweatshirt she was still wearing.
“Hmm. You might have a point there.”
Grace called the service. By the time the driver arrived, it was nearly two in the morning. Yawning, Grace walked to the door and turned back to Lauren.
They smiled at each other.
“Thanks again for everything,” Grace said, meaning it.
“You’re welcome. Good night.”
“Good night.” One foot already outside the apartment, Grace remembered something and turned back around. “Your sweatshirt.” She moved to take it off, but Lauren shook her head.
“Keep it. Remember—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You don’t want to handle headlines about Grace Durand catching pneumonia.”
“Exactly.”
They shared another grin, and then Grace left.
What a crazy day, Grace thought as the door closed behind her. Somehow, though, Lauren’s presence had made it all okay. She hoped tomorrow would go just as well.
CHAPTER 8
Lauren jerked awake. After untangling herself from the sheets, she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Remnants of a dream still clung to her hazy mind like cobwebs, images of running across a lawn with Grace, scrambling up a wall, and then patching up Grace’s knees. Pretty much a realistic repeat of last night—only that when Lauren had glanced up with the cotton ball in hand, Grace had lowered her head and kissed her.
She pressed her hand to her tingling lips and tried to tell herself that it was perfectly harmless. Millions of people worldwide had dreams like that about Grace Durand, right?
Yeah, but those people don’t have to work with her. Maybe she should put some professional distance between them and cut out the friendly banter that had somehow made it into their interactions.
Finally more awake, she realized that bright sunlight was filtering in through the shades. Her head swiveled around.
The glowing numbers on her alarm clock told her that it was already after eight. Why hadn’t the damn thing gone off? Had she forgotten to set the alarm before finally drifting off to sleep around three?
No time to figure it out now.
She jumped out of bed without checking her e-mail, as she usually did right after waking up. She was showered, dressed, and on the way to the office in record time. When she walked into the lobby of CTP, there was only one thing on her mind: coffee.
“Lauren!” Tina’s urgent voice reached her before she could start her search for a cup of the coveted beverage. “Thank God you’re here. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. The press has been calling all morning for a comment from you or Ms. Durand.”
Frowning, Lauren reached into her pocket and pulled out the phone she’d grabbed on her way out. She’d turned it off before the handprint ceremony yesterday and had then uncharacteristically forgotten to turn it back on.
Now, as she powered it back on, it chimed frantically. She had eleven missed calls, three of them from Stan Zaleski, three from the office, and five from various reporters.
Oh shit. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. “What happened?”
“Uh, maybe you should just listen to your messages or read your e-mail,” Tina said, clearly not wanting to be the one who gave Lauren the bad news.
Nearly plowing down an intern, Lauren rushed to her office and powered up the computer while she listened to her messages.