The door slammed, and late-flying bras from the slow throwers plopped against the glass before falling to the LA street.
The guy pulled his sunglasses off and dropped his head against the leather seatback. His chin-length, streaked blond hair and deep blue-green eyes were instantly recognizable.
Movie star Caspian Thaymore had just gotten into her car.
***
It looked like she was sharing her ride.
At the sight of Ashley, a female teenager, Caspian sighed and pasted on a practiced smile that didn’t show in his eyes. Leaning toward her, he said in his rich British accent, “Here you go.” He snagged a marker from his pocket, opened it with his teeth, and scribbled across her arm. The smell of the marker pierced the new limo smell, but beneath both of those she could smell his cologne: foreign, male, unique.
After a second of the soft tip gliding over her skin, Ashley slapped the marker away. “What are you doing?”
Caspian flipped on the intercom. “We have a passenger,” he said to the driver.
The car moved away from the curb and the driver said, “She’s on the list.” His voice came through the speaker until Caspian released the switch.
The smeared black ink read Caspian Thaymore. A hooked curve straggled underneath his signature, as if he’d been drawing a heart below his name before she knocked the marker away. Wow, that would probably set the tweens to screaming, parents too. After licking her thumb, she rubbed at the autograph. The ink smeared around, but stayed on her skin, his name and half a heart.
Dad worked at a major motion picture studio, so after age twelve, autographs had stopped being exciting, as had movie stars. Their heroic on-screen personas never matched the reality, so meeting them killed the illusion. Today her tolerance for spoiled men was about gone. Dad had used up the last of it, and before him, there’d been a three-hour flight in a middle seat. The men on each side of her had hogged the armrests and flapped their elbows out, not caring that they dug into her sides. Now this guy thought he needed a ten-seater limousine all to himself. “I think you’re the passenger in my car.” Ashley jerked a thumb toward the back window. “I bet that’s your ride.”
A few yards behind them, a white Hummer limousine rested against the curb, a spike-heeled brunette posed alongside it. Photographers, carrying enormous cameras, focused on her. The brunette feigned shock with a hand to her mouth, then hooked her hips out for a few shots before stepping into the vehicle with an unnecessarily high lift of her skirt. The lift revealed a sapphire-laden garter that matched her sapphire anklet, bracelet, necklace, and earrings.
Ashley recognized her too. The actress was named Petra something. Pelinski. Petra Pelinski. Ashley witnessed the whole scene because the limo had barely moved from the curb due to the traffic and the crowds. “I guess you can share with me,” Ashley offered with a tone of gracious generosity in her voice.
“Thanks,” Caspian said, somewhat drily, in his clipped British accent. He threw a quick glance at the monstrosity that dwarfed their sleek limo. “This car’s a Jaguar.”
“What?”
“A Jaguar.”
Ashley raised her eyebrows. Huh?
“Jaguars have British backgrounds. So I bet it’s my car.”
“Oh.” Ashley swiveled around, facing forward. They probably had sent the limo for him, and Dad threw her along for the ride. The car crawled forward, and Ashley slouched in her seat, deciding she may as well get comfortable because their car couldn’t have been going more than two miles an hour. “I’m Ashley.”
“Hi.”
“I’m interning at the studio for the summer.”
Caspian looked bored. “I’m Caspian Thaymore.”
“I guessed as much from the screams.”
“Call me Caz.”
Ashley scooted down the bench seat and looked into the minibar. “Want something?”
Caz leaned forward, elbows on the knees of his dark trousers. “Yes, please. A beer.”
Ashley tossed him a cold bottle of orange juice. California had the best OJ in the world, after all. He should be thankful. “Nice try. You’re not twenty-one. The drinking age is twenty-one in the US.” She didn’t care if he drank a beer, but gave him the OJ for payback over the autograph. She took a beer to annoy him, and used the edge of her T-shirt to twist off the silver cap.
“You’re not twenty-one either.” Caz read aloud the logo painted across her Texas high school T-shirt: “Trallwyn High Seniors Rule.” The words sounded funny in his accent.
Ashley straightened the hem of her favorite shirt, the one her best friends Marissa, Michelle, and Steve had signed, and she took a drink from the brown bottle. It tasted bitter and sour, and smelled worse. Poor choice. “Yuck.”
Removing the bottle from her hand, Caz took a swig and pressed the clear bottle of OJ into her palm. Chuckling, she took it. She preferred juice anyway. The car picked up speed. Looking at the passing palm trees and rock-laden landscapes, she guessed that they were going at least thirty miles per hour. In LA, that was practically a high-speed chase.
Goodbye, LAX. See you in three months.Ashley
Caz repeated the toast automatically. “Cheers.” It was an ingrained reflex for the British.
The limo jerked to the right and the force of the motion propelled her across his lap and him against the wall. She dropped the bottle of orange juice and clutched his arm, trying to stay upright. The bottle rolled across the floorboard, emptying its pulpy orange contents into the plush weave of the carpet.
“Sorry.” Ashley tried to grab the back of the seat, but the car swerved again and her fingers slid across the leather without success. She gave in and grabbed Caz’s shoulder so she could pull herself upright. He helped with one arm, while retaining a grip on his beer bottle with the other. Another jerk of the car sloshed the beer on them.
With a sudden burst of speed, the Jaguar slid sideways, flinging them from side to side like a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Tires squealed as the Jaguar jolted to a stop, and they tumbled to the floor. Ashley found herself sprawled across Caz, face-to-face with him.
Chapter 2
Raising her head from his chest, through pale strands of her disheveled hair, she saw the empty beer bottle rolling on the floor above his head. The bottle didn’t stop until the base butted up against the hot-pink bra.
The limo door opened and a bright flash illuminated the car. Automatically, Ashley turned away. Another flash went off. Crawling backwards, she eased off Caz. He cursed as he sat up, and his hair flopped into his eyes. He looked like a bad-tempered fallen angel, impossibly beautiful even when angry. If the photographer got that shot, he’d make a mint.
From outside the car, the driver yelled, “Hey, you,” and shut the door on the photographer.
“You okay?” Caz’s voice sounded more clipped than before.
“Yeah.” Ashley got to her knees. “You?”
“Yeah.”
Ashley examined her beer-spattered T-shirt and jeans with regret. She couldn’t see the back of her shirt, but the stickiness of the drying orange juice assured her it was a mess. When the limo shifted forward, she grabbed the side of the seat and pulled back into it. She patted the wall until she found the seatbelt and secured it low and tight across her lap, like the airlines recommended. Click.Caz put his on too.
The intercom came on and the driver said, “The press is getting out of hand, I had to swerve to avoid them. You two okay back there?”
Caz didn’t look ruffled, and his clothes weren’t as wet as hers. Ashley watched his reaction with caution, bracing for the tears, the rage, the threat of lawsuits, and the list of personal injuries he’d endured.