“Don’t worry, if any of them get over that blockade, they’ll make a beeline straight for Reid,” Jenna tells Meredith and me. “Maybe Quinton, but he shouldn’t hold his breath.”

“He’d want that?” Meredith points at the screaming crowd.

“Guys always want it.” Brooke answers. “They assume every girl on the planet thinks they’re hot as hell and they’ll get laid any time they want. Which is, for the most part, true.”

A piercing scream for Reid rings across the lot. “God, how will we get any filming done?” Meredith mumbles.

“Depends what Richter does about it.” Jenna shrugs. “Fans aren’t inherently evil, and they don’t want to ruin the film. They’re just a little irrational.”

Jenna’s Oscar-nominated film starred a couple of red-hot thirty-somethings, and the experience left her with an undaunted perception of celebrity groupies. I suspect she’ll need that aloofness. Her dark hair, huge gray eyes and full lips inspired a Vogue photographer to dub her face a work of art last spring, and the cover featuring her not-quite-grown version of Brooke’s build kicked off a few countdown-to-18 calculations (yet another reason I’m satisfied with my non-bombshell body).

Reid’s exit from the building causes pandemonium like nothing I’ve ever witnessed, with the possible exception of a bad call during a game my father and I attended at Yankee Stadium years ago. He ducks his head shyly before raising one hand in the direction of the uproar, which only increases the clamor.

The fans are eventually persuaded to settle down with the promise of an up-close visit from Reid for photos and autographs when we’re done. He’s either exceptionally dedicated or just reckless; nothing will entice me to venture near that insanity. The crowd remains hushed every time Richter turns towards them and holds his hands up, right up until he yells, “Cut!” at which point they lose it again.

By the time the light is too muted to film outside, the fans have been waiting for hours. “Come with me,” Reid says, smiling and holding his hand out for mine.

“Er…” I eye the crowd, remembering my earlier intention to never get anywhere near that.

“Come on, they’ll want to meet Lizbeth Bennet.” His voice is warm, coaxing. I take a deep breath and reach for his hand against all of my natural inclination.

Well. Maybe not all of my natural inclination.

Me: Reid dragged me over to meet his rabid fans when we were done.

Em: OMG! Will there be pictures on the internet??

Me: Ha, i’m sure. Going out with everyone tonight. A club i think. Not sure i can get in?

Em: You’re a celebrity now, they’ll let you in everywhere!

Me: Idk

Em: If you make out with reid take pictures on your phone and SEND THEM TO ME

Me: EMILY you know i don’t kiss and sext

Em: Oh fine just forget the little people now that you’re a big star

Me: Em. You know you’ll never be little people to me

Em: Miss you toooo

Chapter 9

REID

“Look at this suite—holy shit, do girls even get all the way into the room before their panties hit the floor?” Tadd’s come up to my room with me to borrow my laptop.

“Jealous?”

“Of the girls? I think not. Of your room? Hell, yeah.” He plops onto the king-sized bed, hands behind his head. “Corner balcony. Elevated bed. Fresh flowers. Dude. Sweet.” I hand him the laptop and he brings up his email. “Hey man, is Quinton a go for tonight?”

I pull out my phone and tap a text. Quinton texts back a yes a minute later. “Of course he is—Quinton’s always a go. Who else? MiShaun and Emma said yes earlier.”

“I talked to some of the extras about where the best spots are, so a bunch of them might show. And I told Meredith, Jenna and Brooke… and Graham, who, by the way, is hot and I was hoping also gay, because he appears to be close friends with Brooke, but no such luck.”

I process this for a moment. “Graham and Brooke are close—and he’s straight? How do you know they aren’t screwing each other? Maybe they’re a thing. Or a friends-with-benefits thing.”

Tadd shrugs. “Maybe. I didn’t get that vibe, but hey, you people make everything more complicated.”

“What’s complicated about friends-with-benefits?”

He shakes his head, his eyes still on the screen. “Dude, that’s something my people perfected long ago. You guys can’t get away with it because girls are more likely to want emotion, attachment, love.” The latter is punctuated with an exaggerated shudder.

“You obviously don’t know Brooke very well. She’s like a guy with boobs.”

He laughs. “Sorry, Reid, but in my world, the primary aspect being a guy is not the having or not having of boobs. I’ve seen Brooke’s Life’s a Beach promos—her swimsuits are a couple of ribbons tied together. If she has underlying physical features of which I’m unaware, I’d like to know where she’s hiding them.”

“Aaaand thanks for that mental picture,” I say. “What I mean is, she thinks like a guy. She’s detached. Calculating.”

He closes the laptop and puts it aside. “So you screwed her and she didn’t love you back? Aww, that’s so sad.”

“Fuck off, man.” Laughing, I shove him and he rolls off the bed.

“What I mean is, she sounds perfect! You can screw each other’s brains out and just walk away.” He sits back down on the bed, his eyes on mine. “Or is that pretty much what already happened…”

I forgot how good Tadd is at digging deep fast. “Something like that. I really don’t care.” And I don’t.

“Then who cares what she and Graham are doing?” he says, making all sorts of sense.

I think about Emma. “You’re right. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”

*** *** ***

Emma

I raise my voice above the music so MiShaun can hear me. “I can’t believe we all got in.”

“Get used to celebrity, baby!” She clinks her glass to mine. Once the guy at the door got a look at Reid, we were all escorted inside without an eye-bat at anyone’s ID.

Our group takes up a corner near the bar plus half of the tiny dance floor, and our brawny bodyguards look like they’re standing inside a child’s playhouse. While I sip my drink, we examine the rest of the cast. Jenna, Meredith, Tadd and Reid are dancing. Brooke is seated on a velvet sofa with the guy I’d seen leaving his hotel room in his pajamas two nights ago.

I lean to MiShaun. “Who’s the guy sitting next to Brooke?”

“That’s Graham Douglas.” Though he’s twenty feet from us and can’t possibly hear, his eyes snap up. He smiles and tips his chin back like guys do to indicate a sort of non-verbal hey, and MiShaun raises her drink in his direction. When Brooke turns to see who’s taken Graham’s attention from her, I develop a sudden and intense interest in the dance floor.

Running through the cast names in my head, I realize Graham is playing the part of Bill Collins, one of the nerdiest guys in literature. I slide my eyes back to him. In close conversation with Brooke, he leans in as she speaks, one arm draped across the back of the low sofa. “Do you know him?” His dark hair is on the longish side, swept back except for errant sections that fall forward. Unlike the other guys in our group, who are fashionably disheveled in t-shirts and jeans, Graham wears black slacks and a blue button-down, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up.

“I’ve never worked with him. He’s done mostly indie stuff. He was in something that did well in Sundance this year…”

Graham Douglas is nothing like I would picture Elizabeth Bennet’s ridiculous cousin. “He’s sort of, I don’t know—too good-looking to play Collins?”

“A fellow Jane Austen fan!” MiShaun puts a hand up for a high-five. “Don’t worry, once he gets into makeup, they’ll do ghastly things to that handsome mug.”

I can’t help thinking that will be a shame.

Dragging my gaze from Graham, I notice that Reid has gathered a small harem of locals on the dance floor. The bodyguards hover, not interfering, but ready to at a second’s notice. MiShaun follows the direction of my gaze and shakes her head. “That boy is such a player.”

In everything I’ve ever heard about Reid Alexander, one thing he hasn’t done is sustained a relationship past a matter of weeks. Player is right, and I shouldn’t expect anything more from him, chemistry or no chemistry. Even still, I don’t think he’s looked at me once since we arrived.

Quinton Beauvier, whose role is the notoriously charming George Wickham, steps up behind us then, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “Ladies,” he says. Tall and dark-skinned, hair cropped short, he’s boyishly handsome and easily the most muscled guy in the cast. An article in Emily’s favorite gossip magazine claimed he was as the hottest young actor to watch, and included a pull-out poster—now prominently taped on her closet door—in which he leans against a rickety rail fence wearing an introspective look, hands hooked in the front pockets of his low-slung jeans, biceps bulging out of a skin-tight white t-shirt.

“Mr. Beauvier,” MiShaun says, smiling.

“Would either of you like to dance? Reid and his cult followers are monopolizing the floor, and that boy can’t even dance. Look at him, just swaying around. Pitiful.”

“In his defense, he doesn’t have room to do much else,” I say, and Quinton laughs.

“Yeah, yeah. So it’s the principle of the thing.”

“Go dance, Emma. I’m gonna head back to the bar for another one of these,” MiShaun holds up her disappearing cosmopolitan, “and then I’m going to go ask that blond guy who’s been staring at me for the last fifteen minutes to dance. Or something…” She gestures over her shoulder, where a guy in a white starched shirt and loose tie leans against the bar within a group of friends. Any time he looks away from MiShaun, his eyes wander back to her within seconds.

Quinton takes my hand and flashes a brilliant smile. “Let’s show that boy how it’s done.” I don’t know if Reid’s watching or not, but for a few minutes, I forget about him.

Ten minutes later, I tell Quinton, “You’re an awesome dancer.”

He smiles, revealing small dimples and utterly perfect teeth. Emily will die when I tell her. “I love to dance. It was my backup plan, in case the acting thing didn’t work out.” I look out over the crowd, most of whom are watching our group. Reid sips a beer near the bar, girls surrounding him. He glances up then and smiles at me, but doesn’t make any move to break from his groupies.

I turn away, ask Quinton if he’s seen MiShaun.

“She’s still talking to that scruffy white guy.” He gestures towards a dark corner, where the two are seated at a tiny table in close proximity, talking animatedly. Quinton shrugs and we both smile.

After a couple of hours, another drink, and several dances with numerous cast members (none of whom are Reid, dammit), the physical exertion reminds me how much I need to get back into my daily running routine. There’s no way I can stay out later and get up at the crack of dawn to run. I tell Quinton and Meredith I’m going back to the hotel.