a van about an hour later and driven back to base camp, where an emergency meeting was called. Grant and I were at the center of it, explaining in detail our ridiculous day. The after-party, which at this point was all I really cared about, was about to become an after-thought, when Naomi decided to end the show on a high note and broke the bank with an elaborate bash featuring endless amounts of booze. This is where I discovered Alex’s duplicity. Mid-shot, the sleazy French maid, who had had her eye on Grant, revealed that Alex and she were “amis,” and that he had told her all about his 18-year-old Slovakian model-girlfriend who lived in Milan hauling in $3,000 a day, and that they were still together. I wanted to slap him, but I couldn’t—he’d already caught a plane back to LA for a gig starting the next day.
This was not altogether horrible. I still had Grant, and Grant was certainly no consolation prize. Before hearing any of the Alex-related rumors, I had been leaning toward Grant as the man to choose. Our van ride back from Paris put me over the top. He was scrumptious, and very much a gentleman. Plus, he was the commitment type. I could just tell. He and I sat alone in the backseats while the other two crew members, up front, played video games, the heirs’ pooches Tofu and Steak nestled blissfully on their laps. It was probably the happiest those dogs had ever been—they weren’t stuffed into a purse or choking on dried sea-kelp doggy bones.
Finally, with some alone time, Grant and I got to know each other. He told me about his surf trips, his three years in Chile on an oregano farm, his family, his start in the biz, working his way up the ranks as a camera tech, and now owning and running a small company with a full set of camera gear and lighting equipment. There was nothing about him I didn’t like. Not one single red flag appeared.
At one point during the drive, he stopped to let one hand drift across my chin, while the other pulled my body tight against his. I’d forgotten whether or not he was a good kisser—I couldn’t remember from our drunken night together. But in this pristine moment, in the back of a white crew van, it was all coming back to me: his gentle touch, his meandering kiss. It was sexy and intimidating, and probably wrong to let it happen here in the van, with people and dogs only inches away. But I acquiesced, hoping the rattle of a van, bouncing on its hinges, would drown out the sound of our kisses.
“More,” I whispered, unveiling my sultriest tone.
Grant pressed his lips against my ear and communicated to me in an exquisite fusion of kissing, breath, and whispers. I soaked it all in. After much smacking and twisting, we finally pulled away and stared at each other, cheeks touching, my legs resting on his. Content.
After the show ended, Grant and I spent two extra weeks touring France. With Craig, for the most part, replaced, and Alex mostly forgotten, I had in Grant a man who was better than any before him. Now, my only issue was that itty-bitty thing called a career.
As far as I could tell, I was unemployed. Karl had already lined up his producers for the edit suite, and I hadn’t talked to Naomi in ages. She had been too busy.
The honeysuckle glistened as Toni pulled her car into the driveway of my sunny one-bedroom. For the first time ever, Los Angeles felt like home and not some temporary stopover. I couldn’t wait to settle in and have a little girl-talk with Toni while sipping wine on the porch.
As I dragged my bags up the front walk, the phone rang. I stopped to suck in the moist salt air—we were a mere seven blocks from the beach.
Never one to miss a call, Toni fumbled to get the key in the door as quickly as she could, and ran to grab my phone. “Jane, it’s for you,” she said, disappointed.
“Who else would it be for?” I laughed.
I gently placed the phone on my ear and gave a soft “hello,” assuming it was Grant calling to say that he missed me already.
“J. . . a. . . n. . . e?” the caller said in a high-pitched drawl, the grating hum of an eleven-year-old boy entering puberty. “How are you,