Come A Little Bit Closer
Page 22
Valentina nodded and carefully said, “He’s certainly setting the bar high for your next co-star.”
Tatiana stared at the photo for another few seconds before putting it down. “I was thinking about ordering pizza and chasing it with some ice cream to help put myself in a pregnant-craving mindset. Any interest in joining me?”
“Are you kidding?” Work could wait. A night with her sister was precious. She grabbed her bag and her phone, but purposefully left her laptop on her desk for once. “Pizza and ice cream sounds almost as good as a spa day. In fact, if we pair it with Pretty Woman I may not need the spa at all to put a spring back in my step.”
“What is it,” her sister asked as they headed for the parking lot, “about a prostitute and a billionaire falling in love that’s so darn perfect?”
Valentina shrugged. “Who knows?” After all, the last thing she had a clue about was love, fictional...or otherwise. “Some things are just perfect,” she said as she found herself thinking about Smith again, “even when they don’t make any sense.”
And some things, like her relationship with her mother, would never be perfect no matter how badly she wanted them to be.
* * *
The next day, feeling much more relaxed after a night of gorging on junk food while reciting all the lines in Pretty Woman to each other, Valentina sat back with the rest of the crew and watched Smith and Tatiana as they stood with their heads bent over the script, talking through the nuances of the scene one last time before they started shooting.
Most of the movie had been filmed in order so far. It wasn’t always like that, but Valentina liked it when the story arc made sense. Heck, she liked it when things made sense, period.
Yesterday they’d filmed a handful of montage scenes of Smith’s character, Graham, slowly wooing Tatiana’s character, Jo.
First, he gave her baby booties, soft and pink and so pretty that she hadn’t been able to refuse them. When Jo had said, “I haven’t asked to know the sex. It might be a boy,” Graham’s eyes had clouded over. “It’s a girl.” And then he’d walked out, leaving Jo frowning, still holding the booties.
The next time he came to the coffee shop he was carrying a small silver bag with more pink inside. Only this time he didn’t stay to watch her pull out the tiny baby clothes, pretty little dresses that everyone exclaimed over. She ran from the coffee shop and caught him halfway down the sidewalk. Her thank you came first, her admonishment not to keep bringing her gifts came second. But all he said in response was that she needed to be more careful about running down a crowded sidewalk in her condition.
Jo found the brand-new stroller and newborn-baby seat inside her apartment the next afternoon when she’d had an early-morning shift. She ran her hand over it admiringly even as she decided that Graham had gone too far. Not just because the gift was way too expensive and it would take her forever pay him back, or because she was touched despite herself at the fact that he’d clearly done his research about the safest baby gear, but because he’d not only figured out where she lived, he’d also figured out a way to get the stroller inside without asking her permission.
It was easy to look up Graham on the Internet and find out where he worked. Or, rather, the name of the building he owned in the financial district.
Jo knew she looked horribly out of place with her big belly and bright maternity clothes and pink-streaked hair on the busy street full of tense people in dark suits all rushing as they spoke into earpieces. Five months ago it might have bothered her the way people stopped and stared at her, wondering what the heck she was doing so far out of her environment, but with her entire focus on giving the businessman—or as she’d just learned, billionaire—a piece of her mind, she simply didn’t care.
The glass in the front of the building was so clean and clear she imagined people walked nose-first into it every day. Pushing the heavy front door open, she had to stop to take in the high ceiling, the polished granite floors, the almost quiet reverence to money that the building, and every occupant she could see in the large entry, gave off.
Irritated with herself for being impressed, she marched up to the security desk. “I need to see Graham.”
To his credit, the man didn’t blink an eye. Not at her youth. Her clothes. Or her belly. “Name, please.”
“Jo. I don’t have an appointment.” She lifted her chin. “But he’ll see me.”
The guard studied her for a long moment and she stared back as calmly as she could. Finally, he picked up the phone. “Angie, I have Jo here to see Mr. Hughes.” Whatever the receptionist said had a flicker of surprise finally crossing the man’s face.
He put the phone down and stood. “I’ll escort you up personally, Jo.”
She worked to keep her cool as they rode up, then higher still, in the elevator. And when he said, “Congratulations,” she was the one lifting her head in surprise this time.
Her hands automatically went to her stomach. She was so upset with Graham over the stroller—and the fact that he’d gotten into her apartment—that she’d started to feel a little sick. Well, not sick exactly, but the twinges she’d been having in her back had definitely gotten worse.
It was yet another reason she needed to make him back off. She didn’t want anything to distract her from the baby.
And Graham was definitely a distraction.
“Thank you,” she said, and then it was time to step off the elevator and onto the plushest, cleanest carpet she’d ever seen. Even in a showroom, she mused, it couldn’t look so brand new.
Struck with the irrepressible urge to kick off her shoes and bury her toes in the soft fibers, she was stunned to see shiny black shoes come to stand right in front of her scuffed silver ballet flats.
“Jo.”
Every time he said her name, it sent a shiver through her. Today, the lie she told herself was that it was fury that caused the trembling.
She didn’t care who heard her say, “I asked you to stop giving me things.”
She expected him to herd her into his office, to close the door and make sure what was said between them stayed private.
He didn’t move an inch. “You need them.”
She wanted to yell at him. But she found herself lowering her voice as she hissed, “You broke into my apartment.”
“The stroller and seat would have been stolen if they’d been left outside. And I didn’t want you pushing them all the way home from work.”
Tatiana stared at the photo for another few seconds before putting it down. “I was thinking about ordering pizza and chasing it with some ice cream to help put myself in a pregnant-craving mindset. Any interest in joining me?”
“Are you kidding?” Work could wait. A night with her sister was precious. She grabbed her bag and her phone, but purposefully left her laptop on her desk for once. “Pizza and ice cream sounds almost as good as a spa day. In fact, if we pair it with Pretty Woman I may not need the spa at all to put a spring back in my step.”
“What is it,” her sister asked as they headed for the parking lot, “about a prostitute and a billionaire falling in love that’s so darn perfect?”
Valentina shrugged. “Who knows?” After all, the last thing she had a clue about was love, fictional...or otherwise. “Some things are just perfect,” she said as she found herself thinking about Smith again, “even when they don’t make any sense.”
And some things, like her relationship with her mother, would never be perfect no matter how badly she wanted them to be.
* * *
The next day, feeling much more relaxed after a night of gorging on junk food while reciting all the lines in Pretty Woman to each other, Valentina sat back with the rest of the crew and watched Smith and Tatiana as they stood with their heads bent over the script, talking through the nuances of the scene one last time before they started shooting.
Most of the movie had been filmed in order so far. It wasn’t always like that, but Valentina liked it when the story arc made sense. Heck, she liked it when things made sense, period.
Yesterday they’d filmed a handful of montage scenes of Smith’s character, Graham, slowly wooing Tatiana’s character, Jo.
First, he gave her baby booties, soft and pink and so pretty that she hadn’t been able to refuse them. When Jo had said, “I haven’t asked to know the sex. It might be a boy,” Graham’s eyes had clouded over. “It’s a girl.” And then he’d walked out, leaving Jo frowning, still holding the booties.
The next time he came to the coffee shop he was carrying a small silver bag with more pink inside. Only this time he didn’t stay to watch her pull out the tiny baby clothes, pretty little dresses that everyone exclaimed over. She ran from the coffee shop and caught him halfway down the sidewalk. Her thank you came first, her admonishment not to keep bringing her gifts came second. But all he said in response was that she needed to be more careful about running down a crowded sidewalk in her condition.
Jo found the brand-new stroller and newborn-baby seat inside her apartment the next afternoon when she’d had an early-morning shift. She ran her hand over it admiringly even as she decided that Graham had gone too far. Not just because the gift was way too expensive and it would take her forever pay him back, or because she was touched despite herself at the fact that he’d clearly done his research about the safest baby gear, but because he’d not only figured out where she lived, he’d also figured out a way to get the stroller inside without asking her permission.
It was easy to look up Graham on the Internet and find out where he worked. Or, rather, the name of the building he owned in the financial district.
Jo knew she looked horribly out of place with her big belly and bright maternity clothes and pink-streaked hair on the busy street full of tense people in dark suits all rushing as they spoke into earpieces. Five months ago it might have bothered her the way people stopped and stared at her, wondering what the heck she was doing so far out of her environment, but with her entire focus on giving the businessman—or as she’d just learned, billionaire—a piece of her mind, she simply didn’t care.
The glass in the front of the building was so clean and clear she imagined people walked nose-first into it every day. Pushing the heavy front door open, she had to stop to take in the high ceiling, the polished granite floors, the almost quiet reverence to money that the building, and every occupant she could see in the large entry, gave off.
Irritated with herself for being impressed, she marched up to the security desk. “I need to see Graham.”
To his credit, the man didn’t blink an eye. Not at her youth. Her clothes. Or her belly. “Name, please.”
“Jo. I don’t have an appointment.” She lifted her chin. “But he’ll see me.”
The guard studied her for a long moment and she stared back as calmly as she could. Finally, he picked up the phone. “Angie, I have Jo here to see Mr. Hughes.” Whatever the receptionist said had a flicker of surprise finally crossing the man’s face.
He put the phone down and stood. “I’ll escort you up personally, Jo.”
She worked to keep her cool as they rode up, then higher still, in the elevator. And when he said, “Congratulations,” she was the one lifting her head in surprise this time.
Her hands automatically went to her stomach. She was so upset with Graham over the stroller—and the fact that he’d gotten into her apartment—that she’d started to feel a little sick. Well, not sick exactly, but the twinges she’d been having in her back had definitely gotten worse.
It was yet another reason she needed to make him back off. She didn’t want anything to distract her from the baby.
And Graham was definitely a distraction.
“Thank you,” she said, and then it was time to step off the elevator and onto the plushest, cleanest carpet she’d ever seen. Even in a showroom, she mused, it couldn’t look so brand new.
Struck with the irrepressible urge to kick off her shoes and bury her toes in the soft fibers, she was stunned to see shiny black shoes come to stand right in front of her scuffed silver ballet flats.
“Jo.”
Every time he said her name, it sent a shiver through her. Today, the lie she told herself was that it was fury that caused the trembling.
She didn’t care who heard her say, “I asked you to stop giving me things.”
She expected him to herd her into his office, to close the door and make sure what was said between them stayed private.
He didn’t move an inch. “You need them.”
She wanted to yell at him. But she found herself lowering her voice as she hissed, “You broke into my apartment.”
“The stroller and seat would have been stolen if they’d been left outside. And I didn’t want you pushing them all the way home from work.”
