After waiting for almost an hour and having a tiny fangirl moment when I saw Jim Carrey getting a dog, I took our treats (Mulholland Drive Dog for him and Martha Stewart dog for me) back to the car and we devoured them—top up, as we didn’t want to risk pictures. Paparazzi tended to circle Pink’s at night. You never knew who was going to show up. In between bites of the best hot dogs ever (they snap when you bite them), we laughed and joked and talked. He told me about the day’s photo shoot, and then about the fans at his apartment when he’d gone by that afternoon.
“I realized that even though that’s been my place in L.A. for over a year now, I’m ready to let it go,” he said. “Enough with the constant fangirls.”
I swallowed hard, thinking of what I’d been wanting to ask him.
“I mean, I’m headed back to London, and who knows where I’m going to be in January. Then I’m on location for the next film. I’ll never be here,” he continued, his voice trailing off.
I wiped the pickle juice off my fingers and turned to face him in the car. He sipped his soda, then his eyes found mine. They were serious. We each took a breath, then spoke at the same time.
“So, I was thinking—,” we both said, then laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“No, you go.”
“Huh-uh, you.”
“Ladies first.”
“There ain’t no ladies in this car,” I said, accenting my statement with a loud burp.
He wrinkled his nose and shook his head in mock disgust. “Age before beauty, Grace,” he chided.
“Did you just call yourself beautiful and me old?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Well, hell, I really can’t argue with that logic. Okay, I’ll have the balls to say it first. Why don’t you just move in with me?” I said quickly, not giving myself a chance to puss out.
He stared at me, then started to speak.
I shook a finger at him and pressed on, “Wait, let me say this. You travel so much, and who the hell knows what I’m going to be doing. When we’re in the same town, when’s the last time we spent a night apart?”
He thought for a second. “I can’t remember. Not since we started…well…”
“Fucking?” I asked, laughing out loud.
“Yes, exactly. Fucking. You’re so crude, love,” he said, smiling.
I knew how much he loved me when I was crude.
“So, it just makes sense, yes? Do you even like your place?” I asked.
“No, not anymore. I mean, it was only ever just a place to sleep, never a home. And now with the paparazzi knowing where I live and all the fans surrounding the place, I suppose it does make sense…You sure about this, Crazy?” he asked, brushing my hair back with his fingertips.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I answered, kissing his fingers as they got closer to my lips.
“I can’t guarantee the press won’t figure this out. You ready for them to be camped outside your house?”
“What’s the difference? You’re there anyway. Who cares if you bring your shit over?” I smiled.
He sat back in his seat and ran his hands through his hair. He stared out the window, then looked back at me. His gaze was piercing.
“What are you thinking, George?”
“I’m thinking I was going to ask you the same thing, if I could move in with you,” he said.
“Are we insane?” I asked him.
“Totally and completely,” he answered, leaning in to capture my lips with his own. His mouth was warm and sweet, tasting of relish and mustard, and I couldn’t get enough. We kissed slowly and romantically, the glow of the Pink’s Hot Dogs neon sign in the distance.
And when we went home and walked inside, it felt good. We slept wrapped around each other in our bed.
Chapter 21
The day of our Christmas dinner party was warm and sunny, but with enough of a nip in the air to remind you it was the holidays. And if you still weren’t sure what time of year it was, there were always the reindeer strung across Rodeo to remind you.
Jack slept in while I busied myself around the house. When he finally got up, he helped me as best he could. I assigned him to help me trim the Brussels sprouts, but instead he kept trying to throw them away when he thought I wasn’t looking. “Brussels sprouts, Grace, really? These are our friends. Why are you doing this to them?”
But I made Brussels sprouts so well that even people who never liked them asked me how I made them taste so good. I had mad Brussels skills. The Brit was not convinced. Finally, I sat him at the counter and put him in charge of dicing celery for the stuffing. He paid great attention to detail, making sure each dice was the same size as the sample I sliced for him. With him doing busywork, I had time to finish everything else.
Once I got enough stuff done that I felt like we could relax a little, we snuggled into the couch and watched retro specials, starting with Charlie Brown and ending with Rudolph. I pressed back against him on the couch, and we burritoed ourselves in a blanket. The rich scent of turkey wafted through the air, and it was incredibly cozy.
When it was T-minus two hours, I finally got up to take my shower. I repeatedly refused his attempts to get into the shower with me, as I knew we’d never make it out in time. I needed a utility shower today. Showers with Jack always turned recreational.
Ninety minutes later I was in the kitchen, beginning the gravy and letting the turkey rest. Veggies and stuffing were in, whipped cream was made, and we were in good shape. I bent over to grab the turkey platter and heard a low whistle behind me. I straightened up and turned. Jack leaned on the counter, taking in my dress. It was a deep green with a full skirt. I’d paired it with little gold heels and a string of pearls. Over the dress? A retro-style apron.
It was going to drive him mad all evening.
“Fucking hell, Grace. What are you wearing?” he asked, as his eyes took in everything.
“I wanted to get dressed up a little, that’s all,” I answered primly, twirling so my dress flared out.
He clenched his fists and bit down on his lower lip as he watched me. He came closer, and I pointed my hot pad at him.
“No, no, Sweet Nuts, after dinner. I still have too much to do. Self control, please,” I instructed, as he finally backed away. As I futzed with a few last-minute things, he set the iPod on shuffle and got us some drinks. Heineken for him, dirty martini for me. He’d been practicing the last few months, and he could now mix me one mean cocktail. I sang a little as I finished up, and soon the doorbell rang. Jack went to get it, and I could hear Holly and Nick’s voices from the entryway.
“Get in here, dillweed. I need help!” I yelled.
“What the fuck do you think I can do?” she asked as she entered. “I’m kitchen disabled,” she said, making her way to the martini shaker.
“Yes, I know this. But you can open cans. I’ve seen you do it. There are olives over there, and cranberry sauce, and they need to be on the table. Hop to it, missy. Jack will make you a drink,” I instructed.
She rolled her eyes, but she went for the cans. Jack walked back into the kitchen with Nick stuck next to him. His arms were looped through Jack’s, and he gazed at him adoringly. I laughed when I saw them, and Jack smiled down at Nick.
“Would you quit molesting my boyfriend and get your ass over here so I can hug you properly!” I squealed. He reluctantly let go of the Brit, then launched himself at me.
“Girl, I’ve missed you so much!” he said, and he picked me up, twirling me around the kitchen. Then he stepped back to admire my dress as I giggled. “This is nice. Very fifties-housewife-meets-porn-star. It works for you,” he said, sneaking an olive from the dish Holly wrestled with.
“Yes, it does,” Jack whispered in my ear as he snuck up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I sighed as he kissed the back of my neck and released me with a squeeze, off to make drinks for our guests.
I heard my phone ring, and as I was up to my elbows in gravy, I asked Holly to answer it. I heard her voice rise in excitement, and I looked curiously at her. She gave my address, and Jack and I shared a glance over Nick’s shoulder. Nick was now eating olives with no regard for whether anyone else wanted any. Jack finally took them away from him like you’d take something from a child.