Chapter 31

31

Sarah

Once in a blue moon, Mackenzie and I do paint night at a cute little art shop a few blocks from my house. When they announced one of their new painting options is a night scene of Duggan Field, she signed us up.

Pre-Beck, of course. Because we had to sync a paint night with a day game, because it wouldn't do to be painting Duggan Field while missing a game.

But now it's the two of us, plus my mom, Ellie, and Mrs. Ryder.

When the staff realized it was me coming, they asked Mackenzie if she'd rather reschedule or bring enough people to fill the shop ourselves, since they didn't want me to be uncomfortable with being fawned over.

"I'm not a freaking celebrity," I mutter to her while we start on our wine. I have two glasses—one red, one white—and a newly cleaned seat and brand-new brushes because apparently I'm still going to be the person of the hour tonight, which is ridiculous.

I'm just me .

"Yes, you are," she mutters back. "And one day, when you take Beck up on his offer to let his video team help you set up a few vlogs about your favorite subjects, you'll realize there are all kinds of stars, and you're the kind you're supposed to be."

Ellie takes the seat on my other side with her wine and her paint tray. "If my mom asks how many babies you want, just tell her three, and she'll be so overjoyed that she won't ask you anything else the rest of the night," she whispers.

"I heard that," Mrs. Ryder says. "And I'd rather talk about your wedding, sweetheart."

"I adore weddings," Mom announces. "I've had seventeen of them."

" Seventeen ?" Mackenzie gasps.

"Sixteen were for roles," I tell her.

"Oh. Right. Yeah. That makes sense."

While Mackenzie asks Mom which was her favorite, I sneak a peek at my phone.

Beck texted, which gives me more of a thrill than I'm willing to admit out loud. Because I know what his unread text messages look like.

I just spun James so fast that he puked macaroni and cheese, and now Tripp says I've lost my babysitting privileges. This sucks. Flash me a picture of a cheeseburger to make me feel better? No, wait. Send me a picture of you EATING a cheeseburger to make me feel better.

I cast a quick glance around to make sure nobody's paying attention, then snap a selfie of me lifting the glass of red wine to my lips.

Because my mother attacked me with eyeliner and that perfect shade of lipstick , I look a little like a surprised raccoon with purple lips, but if he's still honestly attracted to me after this picture, then I'm definitely posting that blog I drafted this morning.

And I'm getting back on social media and diving in head first.

Once I send the text, his reply is almost instantaneous.

That's not a burger, but I do love seeing those pretty eyes. Where are you? Do you need me to order fried cheese sticks for delivery? Or I could send naan. I sucked up bigtime at that place down the street between meetings this afternoon.

Alicia, the lady leading paint night, taps a brush on her easel to call us all to attention. "Good evening, ladies. We're so thrilled to have you here. Who's ready to get started?"

"Are you texting with him?" Mackenzie hisses. "Should've been doing that when the Fireballs were playing this afternoon."

"I was at work this afternoon," I hiss back.

She grins. "Okay, yeah, I wouldn't have wanted you to get fired for being indecent."

"Ew," Ellie whispers on my other side.

"So, ladies, let's begin with your big brush. This one here." Alicia holds up a brush with thick bristles. "And dip it in your blue paint to get started on the background."

We dutifully begin painting the deep purple-blue background above the penciled-out shape of the ballpark on our canvases.

I squint at my canvas.

Mackenzie sighs. "Just once, Sarah?"

"But it's a Pikachu when you squint and look at it sideways." I gesture to the rounded edges of the bleachers. "Or maybe a Pac-Man ghost, if you add some more legs. Or whatever those swishy things are that count as their legs."

Ellie looks at me.

Mrs. Ryder looks at me.

Mackenzie sighs deeply again as she goes back to painting her background, and my mom raises her hand. "What if I want to paint this as Dodger Stadium?"

"Oh, of course, Ms. Darling," Alicia gushes. "We encourage freedom of expression here."

"See?" I murmur to Mackenzie. "Freedom of expression."

I grab a pencil and modify the shape on my canvas.

Ellie and Mrs. Ryder share a look.

Mackenzie reaches for her wine.

And when they're all distracted, I pull my phone out, because it's buzzed with at least three more messages from Beck.

I miss those pretty eyes.

How much longer are you going to be? Do you like pool? Or air hockey? I can whip up a trophy sundae and we can play for rights to lick it off each other's bodies.

Sarah? Shit. We don't have to lick anything if you don't want to. And your dad is giving me a death glare again like he knows I'm trying to sext you, so if you could just ignore that last text until you can get here and save me from him and his rabid pig, that would be awesome. And then we can…you know. In person. If you're free after you're busy. I'll be here all night.

"That's a massive text," Mackenzie says, and I jump and drop my phone, then spill my rinse water when I dive for it before Ellie can see what all her brother's text says.

Everyone leaps up to help me, but they're all grinning.

Even my mom, who prefers to smile benevolently and graciously rather than grin , which isn't at all what Hollywood producers are looking for in matronly roles these days.

"If you can handle how much Beck talks, then we're never letting you go," Ellie says.

"He is rather verbose for a male of the species, but charmingly so," his mom concedes, as if I haven't already decided I love her. "He just loves people."

"Was that all a set-up?" Alicia asks. "That tweet to you? I mean, that apology video was utterly adorable. You had to have been planning it for weeks, right? This is just a Hollywood play because he's about to announce a new fashion line or something, right?"

"Alicia," Mrs. Ryder says, very calmly and with a smile that rivals some that my mom's used while eviscerating a reporter or two over the years, "are you going to teach us to paint Duggan Field, or do we need to find another instructor?"

"Oh. Yes, ma'am. Although I'm still a proud card-carrying member of the Bro Code Sweethearts, and I was really glad when he apologized because I didn't want to have to hate him. Let's continue painting the background on our baseball park…"

"I haven't been to a Fireballs game in ages," Ellie says as I finish mopping up my mess with another of the staff's help and everyone else gets back to the painting.

"We should go!" Mackenzie's bouncing and in danger of spilling her rinse water and her wine now. "I have two season tickets," she adds in a loud whisper, like if she doesn't intentionally contain herself, the people four blocks over will hear too, because I know she's been waiting for the right moment to shout it from the rooftops. "I mean, Sarah, you're okay with me taking other people on occasion, right? Even if the Fireballs win while I'm taking someone else, that won't mean you're not good luck."

I wave my brush. "By all means, spread the love."

"You knew he was going to do that, didn't you?" she whispers.

"He may have mentioned it."

"That's bribery. And it's working."

Ellie snicker-snorts into her wine glass, and Mrs. Ryder looks back at us with an indulgent smile.

"I love this shade of midnight," my mom announces. "It reminds me of a few producers' black hearts. Alicia, what is that painting? I can't decide if it's a duck or a Ferris wheel."

"This one?" Alicia points to one of the samples high on the wall that Mom's gesturing to with her paintbrush. "It's the fountain in Reynolds Park, Ms. Darling."

"Mom, where are your reading glasses?" I ask.

"They're for reading, dear, not painting."

They're not actually reading glasses, but we call them that because she refuses to acknowledge that she's been blind as a bat for years. She also refuses laser eye surgery and must've forgotten her contacts tonight. Probably thought a few extra beta carotene supplements would cover it.

No wonder I like Beck so much.

I actually come from a family of goofballs.

Huh.

While everyone stares at the fountain and probably also silently contemplates if my mother's on drugs, I sneak another glance at my phone.

Did you know your dad loves Scooby Doo? For the record, I don't have any desire to try a Scooby Snack. A guy's gotta have some boundaries. But I did eat fufu in West Africa. Pretty decent.

Mom's waving her Perrier bottle and telling a story about the time she had an argument over artistic vision with a director who refused to see the symbolism in the shade of curtains in a certain scene, so I text Beck back.

Dad loves Road Runner even more. And if you scratch Cupcake behind the ears, she'll be your best friend for life .

"I see you," Mackenzie whispers, so I tuck my phone away.

But I keep finding opportunities to slip it back out and check the running commentary of Beck's guys night at his place.

And the invitations to come over and join him for anything from weeding the potted plants on his patio to helping scrub behind his ears after an apparently well-aimed cupcake bomb thrown by James.

And by the time paint night is over, there's nowhere I'd rather go than back to Beck's place.

Which might be a sign that I have a serious problem.

I don't think he's just acting the part. But I also know there's been at least one photographer lounging at the outdoor café seating across the street all night, and the longer we're together, either because of a contract—or more, if all of this is real —the more I'll be back in the public spotlight.

Mom links her hand in mine and tugs me toward the back door, since we have a driver waiting for us out of sight of the street. "Come come," she says brightly. "Tomorrow's the big night. And someone needs her beauty rest."

The mention of the big night sends a chill down my back, because formal events and I don't get along well when cameras are involved. Beauty rest won't solve my paranoia or my legitimate fears.

But I still want to see Beck.

The very reason that I'm in the spotlight and have to get dressed up fancy and make a grand entrance and pretend to be someone I'm not.

Out in the alley behind the building, Ellie and Mrs. Ryder slip into one waiting car and Mackenzie hugs me before getting into a second. We're being chauffeured around like celebrities, with bodyguards in each car.

It's making me itchy, which I'm actively ignoring, because I can do this .

I can do this for Beck.

Mom shuffles me into the last car. "Anticipation makes the heart grow fonder, sweetheart," she whispers. "If he's honestly interested, let him stew for a while."

I don't want to let him stew.

I want to go see him. Despite all of the complications with photographers and gossip rags and having to have freaking bodyguards to go about my business in the city, I want to see him.

"Plenty of time after your contract is over," she adds, and a momentary chill washes over me.

She's right, of course.

When it comes to fame and tabloids, she usually is.

"Dad likes him," I say slowly while our car pulls out of the alley.

"Your father's a pushover, and we both know it," she replies.

And she's not wrong about that either.

"I like him too, Serendipity. But take your time. And make sure he's worth it. He has to earn your affections for his career right now. Let's see if he tries so hard when you're the only thing at stake."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Don't use that tone with me, young lady. You know full well you're a gem worth seventeen of his careers. But I want to know that he knows it."

I sigh and drop my head onto her shoulder, and then I feel like a total heel because it's been years since I've leaned on my mom, and she's leaving town sometime next week, while Beck will be here long after.

"Thank you for being here," I whisper.

She squeezes my knee and presses a kiss to my forehead. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."