“Have a great day!” she says. “We love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say, hanging up.
I go over to Rainer and loop one of the bags onto my shoulder. “Show-off,” I say to him.
“Anything to impress you.” He kisses me once on the lips, and I plod down the hallway to the master bedroom feeling happy.
Before the premiere it was total chaos, but tour was different. Despite the crazy call times and barely there sleep schedule, we had all of this time to just be together. For real, with no secrets. When I chose Rainer at the premiere, with all those journalists there, I solidified our fate together. And we’ve just been getting closer every day since. My face gets hot when I think about our recent hotel-room stints.
I close the door and peel my clothes off as I make my way into the bathroom. It’s giant, bigger than my entire kitchen back home. It has two showerheads and lots of marble. You could spend a half an hour in here and never fog up the sink mirrors—they’re that far away.
I step in, letting the water pour down over my head, and wash away the flight, the airport, the last month. It feels so good. I exhale everything I’ve been holding in.
As I start lathering up my hair I think about today. No schedules, no interviews. Free zone to do whatever I want. We can order pizza. I can let my hair air-dry! That one thought alone makes me giggle in the shower.
I finish, dry off, twist my hair up in a towel, and slip on a fluffy white bathrobe—a gift from Rainer. It’s even monogrammed with his nickname for me:PG. Every fan wants to know what he’s like as a boyfriend, and here’s the truth: He’s just as great as you think he is. There are plenty of things I have to lie about. My sleep schedule (I like to get eight hours!), my beauty regimen (masks and moisturizer!), my diet (no cheeseburgers!), but I’ve never had to lie about how wonderful Rainer is. The world is right—when I’m in a blender, he’s the off button. I’m crazy lucky.
“Rainer?”
My wet feet make smacking sounds on the wood floor. The house is strangely quiet. “Rainer?”
I see him sitting on the couch in the middle of the giant living room. There isn’t much furniture in this house, just the basics. I love that about it here. There is so much excess everywhere else in our lives right now, it’s nice to come home to somewhere that is just essentials, just what we need.
I see him hunched over the coffee table. I start walking to him, but before I can ask what’s going on I see the stack of mail in front of him—everything we’ve missed while we were gone. Newspapers, magazines. I let my palms move over them, spreading them slightly. They’ve all splashed versions of the same headline across the cover page:Greg Devon, studio executive, dethroned.
GREGDEVONDENIESSEXUALHARASSMENTALLEGATIONS
DEVON—HOLLYWOOD’SDEVIL
On and on and on.
I sink down onto the couch next to Rainer. I put my arms around him. The towel falls, and my wet hair tumbles down onto his face. I push it back. I pick his face up to look into mine. “I’m here,” I tell him softly. “We’re in this together.” I can’t imagine what it must be like for him—to have his family shamed so publicly. I know he hates his father, as he should, but I also know it’s not easy to see a man he loved, and respected, be ground to a pulp—even if he deserves it.
Rainer slips his hand into mine. He squeezes. “I know,” he says. “And thank you. But I don’t want to get into this now.” He pushes the papers away. “I’m not ruining today.” He cups my chin in his hand, and then he’s kissing me, gently at first, and then stronger.
“You want coffee?” he asks me, a little bit breathless.
“Definitely.”
He gets up from the couch. He’s wearing a T-shirt and gray sweats. His hair is still rumpled from the plane. God, he’s cute.
“Stop staring,” he says, smiling. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I don’t want todoanything today,” I say. “I just want to hang out here with you.”
He raises an eyebrow before he disappears into the kitchen. “Listen, if what you really want for your birthday is to take advantage of me, I’m not going to argue with you.”
“What?”
He pokes his head out from behind the wall. His dimples are dancing. “Yourbirthday, PG. Otherwise known as the day I get to stop feeling like such a cradle-robbing old man. You better get on U.S. time quick.”
April 5. Eighteen.
“I totally forgot.”
“Well, lucky for you, your boyfriend didn’t.” Rainer comes back and sets a steaming mug down on the coffee table. Before I can form another thought, his lips brush mine. With his free hand, he traces his fingers down my shoulders, wraps them around my back, and pulls me closer. My hands flutter to his shoulders.
“You know, if I took a picture right now I could sell it and retire.” I break away from Rainer and see Sandy standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, a horizontal smirk on her face. “Welcome back, guys,” she says. “We need to talk.”
