Page 12 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Just pop by after you eat lunch, and we’ll scout out some locations for those pictures.”
“Awesome!” Kenna grins.
“Perfect,” I say, before tossing my water bottle and take-out order into my tote bag. “Dean can give you the address and my phone number. See you tomorrow!” I can’t get out of here fast enough and get to googling everything about Kenna Papadopoulos.
kenna
I haveto use an aux cord to connect my phone to my car’s sound system so I can listen to the new episode of theLit Lovers’podcast. I’m on my way over to the compound where Lorelei Dupont is staying.
“Sometimes,” Chelsea says, “people get a little too caught up in ‘grass is greener’ type thinking.”
I laugh ruefully to myself. The hosts are discussing rom-coms with “across the tracks” themes. And, rather fittingly, the grass really is greener in the neighborhood I’m driving through. This enclave of homes actuallyison the other side of the tracks from where I, and the majority of Ephron residents, live.
Judging by the acres and acres of perfectly manicured lawns here, the homeowners must all own tractors. Or herds of purebred goats. There’s no way anyone is using a push mower on lawns this large.
The homes are spread out over miles, separated by small forests, affording each resident plenty of privacy. Many of these houses aren’t even visible from the street. They are set back on private, gated roads off the main drag. I know the area pretty well. Back in high school, this was where the best parties always happened when someone’s family was out of town. The Holm family, Ephron’s founders, have an estate here.
It must be nice.
Of course, Lorelei Dupont and Rafe Barzilay are staying up here. A high-security haven with gardens and grounds and its own system of paths and trails. According to my research, the house had been used in at least two films and several weddings. It can be rented with or without staff, which includes a butler, a chef, a gardener, two full-time housekeepers, a groundskeeper, a pool boy, and three maids.
Like freakingDownton Abbey.
I try to imagine what it’s like to live on the other side of the gate, with pool boys to clean your pool, housekeepers to load the dishwasher, and a personal chef to make your truffle toast. Of course, living with my uncles, I’ve got nothing to complain about on the toast front, other than the shocking lack of truffles. Then again, Uncle Stavros is weirdly obsessed with cheese. All I’d have to do is say the word, and he would find me an imported cheese—with truffles.
The home where Lorelei and Rafe are staying is newer construction, built to resemble a Spanish Mission, more like what you’d find in Napa or Sonoma than the Pacific Northwest. The website showed drone video of sprawling, covered patios and wisteria-covered arbors. Apart from the main house, there is a one-bedroom guesthouse and a poolside cabana with its own outdoor kitchen. Everything on the property boasts high-tech security and perimeter surveillance, making it “the perfect rental for high-profile individuals looking for a safe, private retreat.”
“Maybe the grass is greener when you can afford staff,” Jackson says, “but wealth is not a good indicator of happiness. Study after study shows—”
“Shut up,” Alexis interrupts him. “Just shut up.”
“Honestly! It’s a fact!” Jackson argues.
“You’re telling me you’re not happier now that you’re a tech mogul than when you were struggling?” Alexis sounds annoyed.
“I’m not happier. I mean, I’m less worried about my mom, and it’s nice to be able to order whatever I want off the menu for dinner, but trust me, it’s not everything. The everyday issues are still there,” Jackson says.
“I think what my brother means to say is that he still spends his Saturday nights alone,” Chelsea teases.
“By choice!” Jackson defends himself. “I’m not interested in being anyone’s sugar daddy, and frankly, I’m not really even sure that monogamy is for me.”
“Forgive me if I don’t fetch my violin and play a solo for you and your ‘everyday issues,’”
Alexis replies in a voice dripping with sarcasm. I can practically hear the air quotes. “Why are rich dudes like you always so unhappy? Go hot air ballooning with Richard Branson or something. Maybe you’ll meet someone, or find the meaning of life. I can house-sit if you need someone.”
“No can do!” Jackson laughs. “But there is a bit of travel news in my future. I’ll be sharing that in the next episode of Lit Lovers. But for now, I just want to remind everyone that every Wednesday Night is Happy Hour at—”
I turn off the podcast as I pull up by the kiosk outside the elaborately scrolled and detailed wrought iron gate.
A security system prompts me to type out my name on a flatscreen console prior to entering the code that Lorelei texted to me earlier. All sevens. Lucky number. I also have to pose for a photo, presumably so they’ll know if someone else tries to use my code. Finally, almost anticlimactically, I am granted access. The gate slides open, slowly and silently.
A part of me is vaguely disappointed the system did not ask to scan my eyeball.
The private street leading up to the house is flanked by cypress trees. It almost looks like Tuscany. I can see why people want to get married here.
As I turn into the circular driveway in front of the house, I notice a flash of motion through the trees. Bouncing, jumping, flesh-toned motion. Then I realize what that motion is. Or rather who.
The movement belongs to a shirtless, nearly naked Rafe Barzilay in a pair of running shorts. He is doing stretches on the side of the house. His long, lean, bronzed body is shimmering in the sunlight, like some sort of sparkly vampire, but with an enviable tan. His lean muscles ripple as he lunges and then stands, bouncing off his heels and rolling his neck. He’s like a piece of art, come to life.
