The Prada Paradox (10 page)

“They didn’t cancel it,” he says. He’s right behind me. For that matter, he passes me as we reach the kitchen and heads straight for my refrigerator. He opens it, and his hand automatically goes for the cooler drawer on the bottom where I keep the beer. Since I don’t drink anymore, it’s for company only. He pulls one out, twists the cap off, then tosses it into the trashcan I have tucked in next to the cabinetry.

I watch in a kind of awed silence. His movements are so familiar it makes my chest hurt, and I have to shove my hands into the pockets of my robe to stifle the urge to reach out and touch him. This man hurt me. And no matter what Lindy says, it’s going to take a lot before I trust him again.

I tell myself I’m not going to ask, but of course I do. “If it wasn’t canceled, what happened?” I shoot for casual, but when the words come out, I have to wonder why I call myself an actress. I mean, talk about a crappy delivery.

He takes a long swig of beer. He’s wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt. Probably Hanes, knowing Blake and his totally unpretentious manner. Whatever the brand, I can’t help but think that he ought to be plastered above Times Square as an advertisement for all things male. Honestly, the way his biceps bulge against the thin cotton of that shirt is driving me to distraction. Which, naturally, pisses me off even more. I’m supposed to hate this man. For that matter, Ido hate him.

I just happen to be in love with him, too.

“I canceled the interview,” he says after swallowing. The words come out casually, as if we’re discussing the weather or traffic. Just another mundane life fact.

To me, though, it’s not mundane at all.

“What do you mean,you canceled it? I thought you set it up.”

“That would be Elliot,” he says, then turns to scour my kitchen with his eyes. “Do you have anything to eat?”

I toss my hands up, not sure if I should be amused or exasperated. From his expression, I can tell he’s unimpressed with my histrionics. So I give in and point to the refrigerator.

He opens the fridge and starts to rummage about. After a second, I can’t stand it any longer.

“Come on, Blake. Tell me. Why did you cancel it?”

He emerges from the fridge, the little box from Tobias open in one hand. “Who gave you chocolate?”

“A crazed fan,” I say, dryly. “Now,tell me. ”

He takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, which leaves my rear pressed against the kitchen island. He’s right in front of me, and there’s nowhere for me to go. I’m trapped.

He leans in even closer, and I hold my breath. I don’t know what I expect, but I admit that my mind’s in a muddle. My head is angry with this man, but my traitorous body is tingly, and I’m painfully aware that I’m wearing not a stitch of clothing under my fluffy bathrobe.

His shoulder brushes mine, and I stifle a gasp. He shifts, comes closer…and then pulls back enough that my personal space is restored. “It’ll taste better at room temperature.”

I blink in confusion and wonder what he’s talking about. But a quick glance over my shoulder reveals the strawberry box sitting front and center on the kitchen island. He wasn’t trying to get close; he was just vying for perfect food placement.

Isn’t that just like a guy?

My reaction to his proximity flusters me, and I edge sideways, then scoot around the island until it’s safely between us. I try to do this all casual-like, but I have the sinking feeling that I’m being incredibly obvious. Damn.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” I say, since my brain isn’t capable of more than stating the obvious at the moment.

“I wanted you to do the interview with me. When it looked like that wouldn’t work out…”

He trails of with a shrug, and I’m left trying to process this new information that doesn’t quite fit inside my current view of reality.

“You wanted me on the interview with you? That’s why you came by my trailer?” Even as I say the words, I can feel the ice around my heart melting a little.

“Yup,” he says, and his face is perfectly serious, perfectly clear. His eyes never leave mine, and I know that he’s not lying. He’s a good actor, don’t get me wrong. But he’s notthat good.

“Oh,” I say. And then, because there’s just a little too much hope sneaking in around the edges of my heart, I ask, “Why?”

He shifts a bit, as if he’s not comfortable in his skin. Or, more likely, in my kitchen. “I thought I owed you.”

The tiny ember of hope dissolves into a pile of ash. “Don’t do me any favors, Blake,” I whisper, not able to look at him.

“Devi, it wasn’t like that. If you’d just—”

I turn away, not wanting him to see the tears pooling in my eyes. “Does Elliot know you’re here? Does he know why you canceled the show?” Suddenly Elliot’s earlier rage makes a lot more sense to me. At the same time, I’m not really fighting fair. Blake’s relationship with his manager was a point of contention throughout our entire relationship. Now that we have no relationship, I hardly have a right to bring it up.

Then again, he hardly has a right to come to my house. So I figure we’re even.

Blake tilts his head back, as if he’s fascinated by the antique tin tiles that cover my ceiling. When he straightens up to face me, I see resignation in his eyes. And maybe something else, too. Disappointment? I don’t know. And now isn’t the time to ask. I’m too on edge. And I’m honestly not sure what I want. He hurt me—he really did. But at the same time, I keep hearing Lindy’s voice in my head telling me to give him another chance.

It’s times like these when I remember why I love my job so much: real life is a hell of a lot more difficult than play-acting.

“We’re actors, right?” he says, doing that mind-reading thing again.

“Yeah.” But there’s a question in my voice. I mean, where could he possibly be going with this?

“Then let’s act. Let’s forget our fight and focus on the movie. Let’s shed our real selves and be pretend-Blake and pretend-Devi.”

“Uh-huh. And what exactly are pretend-Blake and pretend-Devi supposed to do?”

“Get along,” he says simply. “Work together. Go out in public without the threat of bloodshed.”

“Sounds tricky,” I say, but with a tiny smile.

“Devi…”

“I’m teasing. And obviously I get the work-together part. But the going out in public? That one intrigues me.”

“It shouldn’t,” he says. “Press junkets. Promo opps. You know the game better than I do.”

I also know the way his manager thinks. “This isn’t coming from Elliot,” I say. Could it be that Blake himself is tugging at this proximity string? Manufacturing an excuse to get close to me again?

Just the possibility makes my heart beat a little faster, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to answer.

“Tobias is concerned about fallout,” he says, and I concentrate on breathing normally. Damn me. I fell too hard for this man. Even after breaking up with him, I’m still getting hurt.

“Fallout,” I repeat, my voice as sharp as the knife in my heart. “Maybe we should just elope. That would be good for the box office.” I pause, purely for dramatic effect. “Oh, wait. Marriage isn’t even on your radar at the moment. Isn’t that how you put it?”

“We had this argument weeks ago,” he says, perfectly reasonably. And you know what? He’s right.

Immediately, I deflate.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m not going to go overboard pretending we’re as chummy as we ever were, but I’ll make an effort to be seen in public with you without the voodoo doll or the evil eye.”

“You have a voodoo doll of me?”

“Of course,” I say. “Internet shopping is a wonderful thing. I had it within hours of breaking up.” I aim my glance toward his crotch and try out a tiny smile. “Any trouble in that department lately?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, the word rolling off his tongue. “You were trouble enough.”

Oh my.

I turn away, suddenly discomfited, and head to the fridge. I know I shouldn’t drink yet another Diet Coke, but this seems like a day for breaking rules, so I pop the top on one I find hiding in the back behind a bottle of Evian.

When I turn back around, Blake has moved closer to the island and is plucking the strawberry out of the tiny box. “Are you saving this for someone?”

“Apparently, I’m saving it for you,” I say. Blake loves chocolate as much as I loathe it. “You’ll probably get one of your own tomorrow, anyway.”

His brows lift in a question as he bites off a corner of the treat.

“Tobias,” I explain. “A ‘good job’ treat.”

“Really?” he asks, holding the strawberry (less one mouthful) in front of him. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“Just that I thought Tobias would know you better.” He pops the rest into his mouth, then chews and swallows. “Not bad, but not nearly worthy of your performance. The chocolate’s a little too bitter.”

I laugh. “Isn’t there an old saying about gift horses and mouths and such?”

“What can I say? I’m a chocolate connoisseur.”

“You’re a perfectionist,” I shoot back. Which is true. It’s also one of the things that both attracted me to him…and drove me absolutely nuts.

“Probably true. Right now, all I’m concerned about is the movie.”

“The buzz,” I say. “I never expected you to be a promo whore.” He’d always told me he didn’t like the limelight, but I suspect his attitude is changing.

The expression on his face shifts from bland to guarded. “Screw the buzz. I’m not interested in being a star because of who I’m dating.” He pauses, then looks me straight in the eye. “Or not dating.”

I look away, not sure what to say. Because even though he caused our breakup (and nothing’s going to convince me otherwise), I can’t argue with the fact that I was the one who said the actual words. And to now hear the regret in his voice…

Honestly, it’s all a bit too much too fast. And having him standing so close to me is making thinking difficult.

I take another swig of my Diet Coke and try to act casual. “So if you aren’t here about Tobias’s PR mandate, then why did you come?”

“We’ve got a scene tomorrow,” he says. “I thought maybe we could run lines.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” Considering how much Ididn’t want to discuss characters and scenes with him earlier today, the anticipation I’m now feeling is a little disconcerting. I need to get my emotions back on track. Hell, I need to take control of the whole conversation.

“The whole scene?” I ask with a smile. “Or just the part where I hit and kick you?”

“Looking for a little catharsis?”

He says it with such an easy confidence, that I can’t help but grin. “Maybe I am.”

“Well, all right then,” he says, then spreads his arms wide, scrunches up his face, and closes his eyes. “Have at me.”

I am not going to laugh. He’s my ex. He broke my heart. And I am so not laughing.

He opens one eye. “Come on, already. Don’t be a girlie-girl.”

Damn it. I start laughing.

“See?” Blake says. “I’m not the spawn of Satan.”

“Don’t be too sure,” I counter. “I have a feeling Satan has a very wry sense of humor.”

“You wound me.”

“Not as much as you wounded me.”

The pain cuts across his face with as much intensity as if I’d slashed him with a Ginsu, and I feel myself crumple inside.

“Devi,” he says, his voice as raw as my heart. “I am truly sorry.” He reaches out and strokes my cheek, and I want to melt under his touch. I want to press my body up against him and put my arms around him. I want to pull him close and ask him if it can still work between us.

And even while all those thoughts swirl through my head, I want to kick myself for being so insecure and vulnerable that I fall back into the arms of the man who wounded me mere minutes after he walk back through my door.

It’s one of those awkward moments. The touch between us, so sweet and gentle. And me chastising myself and dredging up harsh reality. I don’t know if I should kiss him or run from him, but the question is thankfully brushed off the table by the buzz of the intercom. “Ms. Taylor?”

This time, I know it’s Andy.

“Andrew Garrison, right?” I say, having leaped toward the intercom and away from Blake at the first possible moment. “You can send him on in.”

“Federal Express, actually. I signed for it. Shall I bring it up to the house?”

“Yes, please.”

Saved by the courier.

I turn back to Blake and shrug. “Probably something from the studio,” I say. “We can get down to the script as soon as Lucas drops it off.”

What I don’t say is how grateful I am to the anonymous sender for timing the package so well. Another minute or two, and I might have actually forgotten that I hate this man. And how awkward would that be?

Two minutes later, though, I’m not grateful at all. I’m confused.

Because the envelope that Lucas just gave me hasmy address as the return. But it doesn’t have my name.

Instead, it lists the sender as Play.Survive.Win.

Chapter13

“Is this some kind of joke?” I demand, but I can see right away that it’s not. Blake’s face is too pale, and he’s eyeing the envelope with just a bit too much trepidation. “You didn’t send this,” I say, and it’s a statement, not a question.