He rolled his eyes. "Very funny.”
"No, really. She's seeing Michael, and I'm seeing you, and we just happen to look identical. Well, it's not completely coincidence—she had a nose job to look more like me.”
"Okay, okay. You made your point. I’ll believe you the first time.” He leaned in and kissed me, and I considered what to do next. Telling him the truth had not gone how I expected. Although standing in his arms and kissing him was much better than the reaction I had anticipated.
Finally he stepped away from me, but he kept hold of my hand while we walked into his living room. His house wasn't nearly as big or as ostentatious as Kari’s, and he'd barely decorated it. The living room mostly consisted of a couch, big-screen TV, and a black baby grand piano.
We sat down on his couch, still holding hands. I hoped the subject had passed. I just needed to ride it out for another two weeks until my father's concert, then I’d tell Grant everything.
Grant put his arm around my shoulder and lazily ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. “We should think about going public with our relationship."
“Why?"
"Because then my band won't think I’m making up stuff about dating you, and I won’t have family members dropping by and giving me magazines to keep me updated on my girlfriend's love life."
The sound of the word girlfriend on his lips stunned me for several seconds, and I just gazed at him.
“I know we won't have a minute of peace when the paparazzi find out we’re a couple,” he said, "but they’re going to know about it sooner or later."
"Let's have it be later.”
He kept running his fingers through my hair. "It would be good publicity for your next album. You and I splashed on magazine covers in every grocery store and newsstand in America.”
My breath caught in my throat. If the paparazzi found out that I—that Kari—was seeing Grant when she was supposed to be dating Michael, my face really could be plastered on magazine covers around the country. And if that happened, would people who knew Kari be able to tell I was an imposter? Would people in my hometown recognize me?
Grant leaned away from me, a sudden smile on his lips. "I hadn’t planned on giving this to you now, but I think I will.” He stood up, walked over to the piano, and came back with a few sheets of music paper. "I was going to wait until I had it finished. I still need to work on a few rough spots, but you'll get the main idea."
He handed me the sheets. It was a song he’d composed entitled "Give First Impressions a Second Chance."
The notes he’d penciled onto the paper meant nothing to me—I couldn’t sight-read—but I could tell the lyrics were divided into parts. He'd written a duet for us to sing. The complete panic I felt was counterbalanced by the nice things he said. The refrain repeated in the chorus said: If I'd believed that stuff was true, I would have missed out on loving you.
He loved me? Was that just catchy lyrics, or did he mean it?
"Do you like it?” he asked.
"I love it."
A smile broke across his face, lighting up his features. "I was hoping you'd say that. Let's practice it right now.”
He took my hand, trying to pull me toward the piano, but I stayed firmly seated on the couch. "Not right now.” The second I sang anything to him, he'd realize I didn’t have Kari's voice. I racked my brain to come up with a good excuse to turn him down. "I never mix business with pleasure, or work with dating, or singing with sitting with my boyfriend on the couch."
Boyfriend. I liked how that felt to say, and he didn’t flinch when I said it. Boyfriend. Grant Delray was my boyfriend. I wanted to say it twelve more times just to taste the words in my mouth.
"I don’t have the same policy," he said, and without taking his gaze off my eyes, he sang the first verse of our song. If there were any rough spots, like he’d claimed, I couldn’t tell. I only heard his hypnotically beautiful voice surrounding me. At that moment I wanted nothing more in the world than to sing with him.
I would find a way to make our duet work somehow— some excuse, some explanation for the change in my voice. He leaned over and his lips found mine, and neither of us said anything for several minutes.
* * *
While he drove me back to Rodeo Drive, Grant told me he would e-mail me a version of our song so I could practice it. I didn't say anything. My wishful thinking had begun to break apart. No matter how much I wanted it, I wouldn't be able to sing that song with him. But how long could I put him off about it?
"I guess I should warn you that my mom wants to invite you to dinner," he said. "She’s been cooking vegetarian recipes to come up with something you’ll like."
"Really?" I asked. I didn't want to meet his family. It was bad enough lying to Grant about my identity, I didn't want to spread the lie around to the rest of his family. "Don't you think it’s a little early for that?”
He shrugged. "You've already met my dad, and I’ve met yours."
"What?” I asked. "When did you meet my father?"
Grant sent me a glance like he thought I should know. "I belonged to that group he put together to visit the troops last year."
"Oh, right,” I said. The words sounded harshly hollow, even to me. I didn’t know why they'd come out that way.
"He’s a nice guy,” Grant said. "You remind me of him sometimes—your sense of humor and your mannerisms.”
There is obviously something wrong with me. A normal person would not cry after hearing that. And I’m not even sure why I started crying—whether it was the unfairness that Grant knew my father better than I did or because it was the first time anyone had ever said I reminded him of my father. Could I really have his sense of humor? Was that inherited?
I couldn't help thinking, with more desperation than I wanted to admit, that if I was like him, if my father could see himself in me, maybe he'd love me.
Grant looked over and then did a double take. "What?" he asked in alarm. "What’s wrong?"
I shook my head. "Nothing.” But I knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that answer, so I added, "It's just things with my father aren't the way I want them to be right now."
Grant's voice went soft. "You can change that if you want.”
"It's not that simple."
"Why don't you pick up the phone and call him?"
I didn’t have his phone number, for one thing.
I wondered—just to inflict pain on myself—if Grant had his phone number. How many friends, acquaintances, and near strangers talked to him every day? But even if Grant had Alex Kingsley's number, I couldn’t ask him for it. How do you explain to a guy that you don't know your own father's phone number without raising major red flags?
I wiped the tears off of my cheeks, angry with myself for having these emotional reactions every time I learned something about my father. He hadn't spent one ounce of emotion thinking about me.
"I know you two don’t get along anymore,” Grant said. "That’s in chapter nine of Lorna's book, but I'm sure he wants to talk to you as badly as you want to talk to him.”
Probably not.
I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and grabbed my hat from off of the seat. We’d arrived at Rodeo Drive, and he was about to let me off. As Grant put the car in park, I reached over and squeezed his hand. "Thanks for trying to help. And the song is beautiful. It means a lot to me.”
He leaned over and kissed me. It was stupid to let him do it in public, but I didn't turn away. Being within six inches of him apparently disarmed my rational thought. Besides, it only lasted three seconds. What were the chances that anyone would have a camera pointed at us during those three seconds?