Page 42 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“I’m trying something new,” I say, patting it and smiling.
And then I notice Rafe is staring at me. But something is different. All the warmth is gone from his gaze. Did I say something wrong? Was I not supposed to mention the hair? What? I thought we had a moment in the hot tub. I thought …
Stupid, stupid Kenna. You actually thought a celebrity like Rafe Barzilay would be into a Plain Jane like you?The voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s Cody’s. But it makes perfect sense.
“Let’s get going?” Rafe takes my bag and heads out the door, walking briskly toward the lot.
Neither of us speak till we’re both in the car.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask.
“No.” He starts the car and backs out.
“Then what’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Is it how I look? Because I mentioned the hair?” I ask, racking my brain for a reason why he’s suddenly giving me the cold shoulder.
“No, your hair looks great”—he reaches out and touches it—“and it feels great, too,” Rafe smiles wryly and indicates before exiting the lot. He waits to let several cars pass before turning onto the road. “You also smell great,” he says.
Then what the fuck?
“Thanks for telling me about Orly earlier,” I say.
“About that …” Rafe tenses up again. I can see it in the way he’s gripping the steering wheel and the set of his jaw. He keeps his eyes on the road as he speaks.
“I’m really protective of my daughter, as you’ve probably already noticed. There was this incident last fall. A bunch of us were in Cabo, including a woman I’d just started dating.”
He glances sideways at me for a second, and I nod for him to go on. The sun is setting, and it’s nearing the twilight hour where everything goes from orange to purple in an instant. Hot to cold. Rafe checks to be double sure the headlights are on before continuing.
“The woman, my date, was practically treating Orly like an accessory. Picking her up when the paparazzi were around and then dumping her when they weren’t. It was really hard on Orly. She was confused. She started pulling her hair out …” Rafe looks upset as he stares at the oncoming road.
“Who knows if it was related, but ever since then, I’ve had a strict policy about introducing new people to Orly. I really try to limit her interactions to close friends and family. She’s had enough loss in her life.”
“I get it,” I say.
Rafe shifts gears. “Anyway, you’ll meet Orly when we go back to the house. My mom insisted on making us all dinner. But it’s probably best if you say you have a headache or something and beg out. Obviously, Orly knows Lorelei, but you’re not really her. I’m honoring my promise to Lorelei to help you out with your scheme, but I really don’t want things to get messy.”
“Of course,” I say, hearing all the echoes of self-doubt and voices of reason at once.Real people don’t trade places with celebrities, Kenna … Poxy Moxie Wannabe … You wouldn’t have to be out till September.
What am I doing here? I should be job hunting and looking for a new place to live. This has been fun, a dream, but Rafe is right. I should probably switch back with Lorelei sooner than we said. There’s no way I can keep this up for a whole week. Things might get messy.
“Thanks for understanding,” Rafe nods.
And then we drive the rest of the way home in silence. Slowly.
lorelei
On my secondday in the diner, everything is so much easier. Word has gotten out about the half-price mocha macchiatos, and people are into it. It’s such a great deal that everyone and their sister starts ordering them.
Noah Greenberg comes in again at about 8:30, with his laptop. I find myself admiring his dimples and the endearing way he wedges the walking stick in the door before shimmying in sideways. He has nice, thick hair and such an adorable ass. It’s too bad he’s just getting over an injury. Two weeks of booty camp, and that cute, little butt of his would be next-level delicious. Like the gorgeous, round buns I put in the front part of the bakery case this morning.
Noah collapses his trekking pole and hangs it from a hook under the counter that presumably was put there for purses, but whatever … it works. He opens the laptop and cleans the screen, then twists side to side on the stool, stretching and flexing. Then he interlaces his fingers and cracks his knuckles. Finally, he dives into his work. It’s the same as yesterday.
His little morning ritual is captivating. I wait till the line dies down to approach him.
“What are you working on?” I ask him, topping off his coffee. The cup is still full, but I’m curious.
