Outside, people were milling around, smoking dubes and looking for stars—the real ones in the sky. The ground seemed to move. Suddenly, my elbow brushed against a wall, and I thought someone had pushed me. As I staggered between strides, I realized I was on my own. Holy crap! I’m drunk! I stopped for a minute to collect myself and to stare up at the black sky, thinking: Got to get back to my place. This is stupid! Hardly know Surfer Boy. Must stick with Alex. . .
As I plodded my way back to my chalet, I opted for a shortcut. It was late, but there were lights and mini-parties going on everywhere. I tripped over tree roots and rocks and wended my way through a short and nippy vineyard trail. It spit me out near a group of chalets that were hardly familiar. I suddenly felt lost and silly and wished I’d taken my normal route.
Then, as if the alcohol had finally tainted every last one of my brain cells, I felt an inexplicable urge to find Surfer Boy. I had to see if he was with that woman. I had to know.
One chalet after another, I peered inside the windows, squinting to catch a glimpse. If I find his chalet—and she’s not there—that means we’re meant to be together. Any sense of professionalism, or the fact I was being paid good money to be in France, didn’t enter into my “thinking.”
On the final set of rooms, a beam of light flickered through a half-shut curtain. I slid up the window frame and poked my head around for a closer look.
“Voila!” I mumbled.
There he was, alone, an electric toothbrush vibrating between his chops.
“I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.” I watched my hand reach toward the door.
Knock knock.
The door creaked open. He stood shirtless in front of me. No words, just a consenting smile.
“Grant?” That’s his name, isn’t it?
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe I came over.”
“I can.”
“I think I’m drunk.” I self-consciously swept my hair over my shoulders. “And what do you mean ‘I can’?”
“I thought you might.”
“You thought I might? But, I didn’t even know your chalet number.”
“It just seemed like you might.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “Am I that predictable?”
“No, you’re not.” He swept his hand across my chin. “And I’m glad you’re not.”
We began to kiss. All I could think about was how this had to be a dream. I was probably—actually—passed out in a bush somewhere, imagining the whole situation: two hunky men, both wanting me, one an earthy surfer dude with a brain and a conscience, the other, a successful model and TV host so brazen and self-assured he was planning to take over the world. How was it possible that pre-LA, I had gone three long years with barely a date, then, suddenly, I had relationships with three hotties in less than a year?
“It’s not like me to do this. You know?” I whispered.
“Mm, hmm.”
More kissing. Thirty minutes later, a big heavy sigh.
“Okay. I’ve got to go. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s late. I can’t stay.”
“I’m glad you came by.”
“Me too.”
More kissing, then kissing on the bed, then rolling and kissing, then silence.
I saw the first morning sun ray creep through the window.
“No!” I shrieked, scrambling around the pillows. “It’s morning! Piss! Damn! Hell! I’ve got to go. What time is it? What time is it?” I was in full panic mode.
“It’s 6:10,” Grant said sleepily. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve got to get back to my chalet. It’s morning! Someone’s going to see me. I’ll never make it back!”
“It’s okay. No one’s up yet. Don’t worry about it.”
“No. I can’t believe I fell asleep! If someone sees me, I’ll die. I’ve got to go!”
All I could think about was Alex’s early morning call. Right now—and probably this very second—he was traipsing around the vineyard grounds, shooting his host wraps for the show. Shit! Shit-crap-shit!
“Let me help you.” He reached for my clothes.
I had my socks on and nothing else. Had we? Did we? No time for questions, much less answers. I threw on my jeans, my shoes, and my jacket, then pulled my underwear and blouse into a ball. I grabbed the door and barely kissed him back as he reached for me.
“I’ve got to go. Sorry. Bye. Shh. Bye.”
As I slipped out the door, my heart was pounding. I felt dizzy from the alcohol and a meager three-hour nap. I was furious that I’d let myself crash, and maybe have sex. I’m GTH, GTH, GTH (a high