someone at least understands how the business works.”
“Speaking of . . . I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Dad picks up the salt and pepper, and looks at me expectantly.
“I’m seeing someone.”
“Really? Do I know him?”
My palms grow sweaty, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Is he being coy? “It’s Sam, Dad.”
Despite his flawlessly administered Botox, his brows disappear into his hair. “The screenwriter?”
Maybe he didn’t hear us last night after all. Maybe it didn’t strike him as odd that we came out of the greenhouse together. Maybe I’ve just confided in Dad unnecessarily.
I nod, bending to take a bite of my salad to avoid his eyes. The more I chew it, the more the crouton in my mouth feels like sand. When I swallow, it turns to glue.
Dad sits back in his seat and stretches an arm over the seat beside him. He really does look surprised. And if I’m not mistaken, completely tickled. “So I did walk in on something last night,” he says with a grin. “Very interesting.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “You’ve never talked to me about boys before.”
This makes me laugh. “I’m thirty-two. He’s thirty-five. He’s hardly a boy.”
He grins, eyes crinkling warmly. “You’re my kid. It’ll always be a boy.”
“And I guess . . . I mean, we’ve never really talked about this kind of stuff before. Like, life stuff.”
He hums quietly. “Life stuff.” He leans forward, forearms propped on the table, the weight of his attention solely on me. “So tell me, to use your words, is it serious?”
“It might be, yeah. He’s really . . .” I feel my cheeks warm and bite back a smile. “He’s amazing, and smart, and I think I fell in love with him the moment I read Milkweed.”
In a hot flush, I think I want to tell him everything—but I don’t. Maybe one day, when things are really solid between us.
It’s crazy, but for the first time I have hope.
When the waitress stops by to check on us, Dad reaches for the bill before she’s even placed it on the table. He holds up a hand when I protest. “You are not paying for your old man’s lunch.”
He tosses down his card, and I catch Althea’s name on it. Smart, I think. People would be stupid enough to take a picture of Ian Butler’s credit card and post it online.
We’re stopped three times on our way to the door, by people who’ve clearly been patiently waiting for us to pass back through the room.
I knew you were filming something, but I had no idea you were so close!
I have loved you since Cowboy Rising.
How are you even better looking in person?
Dad is eating it up.
I take one last look at the menu, wondering if I should pick up something for my picnic with Sam tonight. I imagine the two of us stretched out on a blanket, looking up at the stars, curled into each other’s arms to stay warm.
A flash of movement catches my eye and I lean to the side to see out the window, immediately wary. A photographer. Not unexpected, since we aren’t exactly trying to stay hidden. I’m sure Dad will be annoyed that I talked him into letting me drive instead of taking a car and driver, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.
He finishes signing an autograph, and I place a hand on his arm. “Just a heads-up that there’s a photographer outside.”
“Not a problem,” he says. “Was bound to happen sooner or later, right?”
“Guess that’s what I get for traveling with Ian Butler. It’s like you’re even better looking in person,” I tease.
With my head down, I take Dad’s offered arm and step outside. Voices call out to us, and it’s not just one photographer, it’s two now, calling for us to look up, to give a couple words, a smile. I can feel Dad beside me, standing straight, and a quick glance at him tells me he’s grinning happily.
But the glance at him also shows a group of photographers jogging around the side of the building.
There’s no longer just two of them; there are at least twenty.
Time shifts. I’m eighteen again instead of thirty-two, and we aren’t in front of the quaint farm-to-table restaurant, we’re in the circular courtyard of the London Marriott County Hall. Faces are hidden behind giant cameras and zoom lenses; microphones are hoisted up and shoved toward me. The questions seem to come from everywhere.