A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (10 page)

“Absolutely not. I’ll see if I can switch a couple of things around, too. Do you want to come in on the nineteenth, then?”

“Um,” I say, shaking my head to clear my scrambled head. “Actually, I have this fundraiser thing for work I have to do on Tuesday, so I won’t be able to come out ‘til Wednesday. Is that a problem?”

“Not a problem at all. So you can come out Wednesday and stay till Sunday?”

“Would that be too much for you?”

“Not at all, but there’s no pressure. You can stay for as little or as long as you’d like—you can even bunk off work the following week.” He snickers.

I chuckle, too. “I can’t do that, but Wednesday to Sunday sounds great. I’ll need to check on my roommates though.”

“Of course. I’m marking my calendar now. That’s in sixteen days,” he murmurs.

Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap.

“I’m sure it’s late there, so I’ll let you get some rest. I’ll be thinking of you in that bed of yours.” His voice dips low and quiet.

My heart lurches, and I’m tingly all over. “Yeah, well, you aren’t alone in those thoughts.”

“Good night, Claire.” I can almost hear him smiling.

“Good night, Dan.”

No sooner do I hit END then a hand taps on my door. Amused by the predictability of it, I open the door. “You’re funny, Bridget,” I say, returning to the living room with her trailing on my heels.

“Well, come on! Don’t leave me hanging. What’d he say?” she asks. I sit next to Camille on the sofa as Bridget sits on my other side.

“I’m going out there on the twenty-second and . . . he wants you guys to come with me,” I say quickly and clasp my hands over my ears, ready for what’s coming.

“AHH!” Bridget screams. “Really?” She bounces up and down.

Camille and I laugh. How can we not? She’s adorable shrieking like that.

“Yes, he said he still has to work, but if you guys come, we can go out while he’s working.”

“Oh my God! This is fantastic!” Bridget shakes me.

“I’ll check my calendar tomorrow at work. I’ve always wanted to go to L.A.,” Camille says, her smile just as wide as Bridget’s.

“I hope it doesn’t cost that much,” I say, feeling the realities of being a teacher.

“I’ll check around online tomorrow and see what I come up with, okay?” Camille offers.

“Thanks. I love you guys,” I say, hugging them.

“We love you, too,” Camille says.

“I can’t wait to go shopping!” Bridget says. “It’ll be fantastic.”

Chapter Eleven

I arrive home from work the next day with an armload of fixings for a special dinner I have planned for Camille and Bridget. They’ve always been there for me—through thick and thin, through the wedding dress and the sweatpants. And after keeping Dan a secret, I want them to know just how much I appreciate them.

As I chop the veggies for the salad, there’s a knock at the door. I dry my hands on a dishtowel and open the door to a deliveryman holding a long, white, rectangular box tied with a light pink satin ribbon.

“Delivery for Claire Parelli?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Please sign here.”

I sign the clipboard and manage to take the large box from the man without dropping it.

“This is for you, too,” he says, placing a manila envelope on top of the awkward box.

“Thank you,” I mutter, angling myself through the doorway and kicking the door shut with my foot.

I hurry over to the dining table in the corner of our living room and set the box down. Quickly untying the ribbon and lifting the box top, I gasp as the pinks, purples, oranges, deep reds, and yellows flood my eyes. It’s by far the most breathtaking wildflower assortment I’ve ever seen—and a hell of a lot bigger than the last bouquet. A card placed perfectly on top reads:

Fifteen days.

Oh. My. God!
I’m speechless once again, and my heart twirls and dances in my chest.

I grab the envelope and rip it open. From the inside, I pull out three first-class plane tickets. I stand staring from the flowers to the tickets, the tickets to the flowers.
This is insane!

Camille comes in the door during my catatonic moment.

“Whoa. Those are some major flowers. What’d you do to the guy?” She laughs, nudging me.

My wide eyes slide over to her face. I shake my head.

“What’s wrong?

I hold up the plane tickets.

“Oh my God! He sent you a plane ticket?” Camille shouts in disbelief. “So what’s the matter? You look like you just witnessed a murder.”

“No, Camille, he sent
us
plane tickets. First class,” I correct her, fanning them out. “And I don’t know what’s wrong. I mean, I should be thrilled here, no? But I’m just . . . scared out of my mind.”

“It’s going to be all right,” Camille assures me, gently rubbing my arm. “He obviously likes you.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

“That is not a problem, Claire.” Camille smiles reassuringly. “This—all of this—is a good thing, and it’s supposed to be fun. Don’t ruin this for yourself.”

“What do you mean? I don’t want to ruin any of it—that’s what I’m afraid of,” I spit out in one fast breath.

“I know you don’t, so try to relax and enjoy the moment instead of thinking of every bad thing that could possibly go wrong. This is a good thing. No, I take that back—this is a great thing! You’re finally living a little and you’re young . . . well, sort of,” she teases. “And you have the hottest man on the planet pining for you! Just enjoy it, would you? Plus, I’ll be there with you. Take a deep breath now.”

In . . .

Out . . .

“Better?” Camille asks.

“I think so. You’ll be able to come, too?”

“Yeah, I checked at work today. It’s going to be a great time, trust me.”

I hug her hard. “I still can’t believe he sent us plane tickets,” I say, feeling a little bit steadier.

“Oh good, the color is coming back,” she jokes. “Clearly, the man is smitten here. What did he say when you called to thank him?”

“Call him? Yes—call him. I haven’t yet. I need to.”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Camille says, giving me a shove toward my room.

“Right. I’ll be right back.” I scurry into my room, close the door, and sit on my bed. I take a deep breath before my trembling fingers dial.
Why am I so nervous?

“Hello?” says the silky English voice.

“Hi, Dan.” My heart thumps in my throat. “It’s Claire.”

“Who? I only know one Claire, and she never phones me.”

I giggle. “Well, she’s phoning you now,” I joke back, immediately at ease. “I’m calling to thank you for the flowers—they’re beautiful—and for the plane tickets, too. You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, with what little educators earn these days,” he jokes.

“Yes, well, thank you, it more than made my day.”

“Good, I’m glad. So what are you doing now?” he asks.

“I’m just getting home from work and was about to make dinner. What are you doing?”

“I’m waiting to be called for the next scene, so I was just listening to this new tape I got.”

“Tape? What is this, 1985?”

“I know. Some old-fashioned composer only tapes her music. It’s archaic.”

I laugh. “Well, how is it?”

“Eh, it’s all right, I suppose.” He snickers. I hear muffled voices in the background. “Claire, I’m really sorry, but I have to go. They’re calling me on set. I’ll ring you tomorrow, or you can even ring me again. It was a very nice surprise.”

“Maybe I will.”

He laughs. “I doubt it, but that’s all right. I’ll phone you tomorrow.”

“Okay, and thanks again, Dan. It was so sweet and generous of you . . . I’m excited to see you again.”

“I can’t wait to see you, too.”

After we hang up, I lie on my bed a moment, trying to let it all sink in—flowers, plane tickets, visiting Dan in L.A. It’s so wonderful. Too wonderful, and I’m sure the moment I let my guard down, ominous dark clouds will roll in. It’s inviting disaster to feel this happy.

I head out into the living room; Bridget has arrived home and has her nose buried in the flowers.

Bridget straightens up. “Freakin’ Daniel Chase just sent you amazing flowers and plane tickets so you can visit him! What the hell kind of Karma lottery did you win?” She hip-checks me and giggles.

I laugh, shaking my head. “He sent
us
plane tickets, and I have no idea.”

She squeals.

* * *

Over the weekend, the girls and I hit the stores. Admittedly, my wardrobe is lacking “fun” clothes. There hasn’t been a need before, but now? There is most definitely a need, and the Fairy Slutmothers have me in their evil clutches, intent on adding a little ho-ho-ho to my life. Bustiers, short dresses, low cut tops and tight pants—anything that looks painted on or leaves me half-naked seems to be their goal.

“God knows you have enough jeans, T-shirts, and sweatpants,” Bridget says, probably rolling her eyes outside the dressing room door. “You need some clubbing clothes.”

“What the hell are ‘clubbing clothes’?” I ask as I’m trying to figure out where my head and arms belong in this scrap of material.

“You know—clothes you wear when you venture outside of the house to a public place at night. Clothes you wear when you visit your hot movie star boyfriend,” Bridget explains.

“He is not my boyfriend.”

The two of them snicker. “Bridget,” Camille says loudly on purpose, “has she been drinking again?”

“Yes, I believe so. In fact, she might be drunk on loooove.”

They cackle like the evil women they are.

After hitting more stores than I knew existed in the city, we make our way home. Flopping down on the couch, bags still in hand, I say, “Who cares if I have to sell my organs to pay off my credit card, right? As long as I look good.”

“Atta girl,” Bridget says before yawning and stretching.

* * *

With each day that passes, I grow more anxious. I jump at quiet noises, I startle when someone talks to me, and I clean and clean some more.

Finally, with only two days left before we leave, I can’t sit still while Camille and I watch a movie in the living room. I get up, get water, and sit. I get up again to use the bathroom and then sit back down. After getting up the fourth or fifth time, I finally settle myself on the edge of the sofa with my knee bouncing. I can’t help it.

Camille turns to me. “It’s going to be fine.”

“What are you talking about?”
Oh my God. I sound like Minnie Mouse
.

Camille smiles gently. “Claire, what are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried,” I say, not believing myself for a second.

“Um, clearly you are. You’re like a bunny on speed over there. Just calm down and remember what a fantastic time you had together when he was here.”

“But what happens if he changes his mind when he sees me? Maybe he’ll have remembered me differently or something?”

Camille frowns. “Claire, he knew what you looked like when he asked you to visit him. He’s sent you flowers and plane tickets, and you’ve talked on the phone several times just in the last few days. He’s obviously looking forward to seeing you.” Camille leans in. “He’s not going to change his mind.”

I know she’s right, but it’s hard not to worry. What began as a few fun and casual dates is now a sleepover vacation on his turf. I desperately want to trust in this, to let myself go and enjoy the ride, but—
gah!
Something inside gnaws at me to hold back.

Finally, Wednesday arrives, and I’m sitting on the plane, tapping my fingers and feet.

“You’re like a one-man band over there, Claire,” Bridget whispers to me. “Relax.”

I try, but it’s pointless. I’m officially a nervous wreck. Logically, I know he likes me. No guy goes through all this trouble if he isn’t really interested, but I just don’t get it. Why me? Plus, I like him way more than I should, and I know I’ll only be left heartbroken in the end. That’s just how things go for me.

On the plane, my saving grace comes in the form of tiny bottles. I down two? Three? Four? Whatever the number, I’m giggly, and Bridget and Camille laugh at me. I’d be laughing, too, if the high-heeled shoe were on the other foot.

Between the drinks and the fresh air once we’re off the plane, I’m calmer.

“He has to work, so he’s sending his friend Colin to pick us up,” I say, still tipsy, after we collect our bags and begin to search for the guy sent to collect us.

Camille spots a small sign that reads “Claire Parelli” being held by a tall, lanky guy with dark, wavy hair and a sweet smile.

“Claire?” he asks, looking at each of us as we approach him. He’s British, too.

“Colin?” I answer.

“Yeah, hi . . . nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” We shake hands as he gives me the once-over. “These are my friends, Bridget and Camille.”

“Nice to meet you, Colin,” Bridget says, smiling and nearly bubbling over from excitement. She shakes his hand vigorously.

“Good to meet you,” Camille says calmly and coolly like only Camille can. The girl is unflappable. They shake hands, and I notice a sparkle in Camille’s eyes that only her type of man can bring out.

“Pleasure to meet you two as well.” Colin flashes a mischievous smile. “This way,” he says, leading us outside to a black BMW parked at the curb.

“Nice car,” Bridget comments.

“Thanks. It’s Dan’s.” Colin stuffs most of our luggage into the trunk as we get in. Camille manages to find her way into the front seat, so I sit behind Colin in the back with Bridget and the rest of our bags.

“How was your flight?” Colin asks as we pull out.

“It was good,” Bridget says. “Claire really loved the free drinks.” She cracks up.

I see Colin glance at me in the rearview mirror. I smack her arm.

“Ow,” she mumbles at me. “So anyway, Colin, have you and Dan been friends for a long time?”

“Yeah, we go way back. We met at primary school back home in London.”

“I hear you’re a musician,” Camille says clinically, astutely. I want to laugh since I know full well she’s drooling on the inside.

Colin grins and peeks over at her. “Yeah, I am. Dan pays me to run around for him during the day while I pursue my music career at night.”

“Have we heard any of your music before?” Camille asks, finally cracking a small smile.

“Probably not. We do gigs at pubs here and there, but hopefully one day you’ll hear us on the radio.”

“Claire plays music, too,” Bridget says.

I shoot Bridget a look.
What is with Loose Lips today? Sheesh.

“I know. Dan played some if it for me,” Colin says. He glances at me again through the mirror, and he’s smiling wide.

Oh God.
“He did?” I ask.

“It sounded really good, Claire.”

“Thank you,” I mutter, embarrassed.

Camille turns in her seat to face me. “You played your music for Dan? What did you play?”

“Just an old cassette from that spring concert in college.” I shrug, trying to brush it off.

“
The
concert? Huh. You never let
anyone
hear that,” Camille says.

I give her the stink eye. “When does Dan think he’ll finish for the day?” I ask, switching topics.

“It’s two o’clock now, and Dan hopes to be done by about five. I’m going to take you over to his house, and he’ll meet you there when he’s done.”

“Okay,” I say with a gulp.
Oh God.
I’m going to see him soon.

“How’s it living in New York?” Colin asks.

“It’s great. It doesn’t look like here, though,” Bridget says, looking out the window at the difference in the foliage. “The palm trees here are gorgeous.”

“Have you been to New York before?” Camille asks with a tilt of her head, letting a glimpse of her inner flirty girl out to play.

“Only when I’ve been changing planes. I’d like to properly visit sometime.” He smiles at her.

A while later we pull through a gated entrance and up a winding road to a small house nestled in the side of an incline. Colin parks in the driveway. We unload the car and follow Colin up the long staircase to the front door.

The single story home isn’t overly large and has an open feel. We walk into the dining area from the front door; a rectangular wooden table sits to the right with several books stacked on top, and a jacket hangs on the back of one chair. The galley kitchen on the left opens to a breakfast bar. The living room sits in front of the dining area.

The surroundings are undeniably male, the decorations are sparse and basic, but everything seems organized and the furniture is nice. There’s little indication that the white-hot actor who lives here earns quite a good living—except for the huge flat-screen TV that is the focal point in the living room.

Colin shows us the bedrooms, which are behind the kitchen, only a short hallway from the living room.

“Here are the two spare bedrooms. You can pick whichever to set up in,” he says to Camille and Bridget. Then he turns to me with a devilish grin. “And you can put your things in here,” he says with a quick tap on the half-closed door. I peek inside—Dan’s room.

“Okay,” I say with that lump still in the center of my throat. I don’t know why, but my traditional, old-fashioned side suddenly makes me contemplate all it might mean that Dan wants me to stay in his bedroom. It’s completely irrational! We slept together three times in the twentysomething hours he was over my place and here I am worried about what this means.

“Dan made me go food shopping, so there’s actually something to eat around here if you’re hungry,” Colin says, laughing.

“There’s not usually food here?” Camille asks, confused.

“Dan doesn’t cook much.” Colin snickers, checking his phone. “I’m sorry to leave you so quickly, but I have rehearsal. If you need anything, here’s my number.” He points to a paper on the breakfast bar. “And here’s Dan’s mobile—oh, but you probably already have that. All right, then. It was nice meeting you, and I’ll see you later for dinner.” He grins in Camille’s direction.

“Okay,” Camille answers, blushing. Blushing!

Colin leaves, and the three of us stand silent for a moment, waiting for him to be out of earshot.

“AHHH!” Bridget shrieks at the top of her lungs, jumping up and down. “I can’t believe we’re in Daniel Chase’s house!” She twirls.

We all laugh.

The three of us wander around, examining everything. There are only a few pictures on the walls—mostly artsy stuff—and some
Life in Eden
merchandise sits in a corner on the floor along with a few bits of merchandise from other films Dan has appeared in. An acoustic guitar case leans in the corner next to stacks of books while more books and DVDs line the built-in bookcases. There are a few photos without frames scattered about, but we don’t recognize anyone in them.

“Well, I’m going to get settled,” Bridget says eagerly, heading to the bedroom she’s chosen. Camille and I follow suit, going into our respective rooms. I’m grateful I have some time alone in Dan’s room. I need to get reacquainted . . . or to at least take a deep breath.

His bedroom is nice—not nearly as tiny as my bedroom. His queen-size bed fits comfortably in the space to the immediate right of the door and sunlight filters through the honey colored wooden shades on the opposite wall. Below that sits a chair and a desk that holds a small shaded lamp, an iPod, some random papers, pens, a calculator, several CDs, and stray pieces of gum. My eyes widen when I notice a small calendar lying there with red Xs crossing out the days. He really was counting them. I breathe deep and keep moving.

I carefully open the closet door on the left wall, catching a trace of his soap and shaving cream scent. My heart skips a beat or two or three.

There hang Dan’s shirts and pants. His shoes line the floor. It isn’t an impressive wardrobe—not one you’d expect to see from one of the hottest actors in Hollywood. It’s basic just like everything else in his house so far—T-shirts, jeans, a few dressy pants—but mostly all variations of the same.

I make my way over to a dresser with a mirror that sits next to the closet. I notice some photos stuck in the mirror’s frame: a dog in one, a group shot of some people in another. Then I spot a small, folded piece of paper on the dresser addressed to
‘Claire.’
I flip it open and read:

Feel free to put your things wherever—just shove my stuff out of the way.

Make yourself at home.

The nerves are back with a vengeance.
This is real.
My hands begin to sweat and my breathing quickens. I’m here, and he’ll be here very soon. My too-practical side panics.
Leave! You’ll get hurt if you stay!

But then the optimistic, romantic side of me, the one that’s been sidelined for so long, yells back.
Don’t listen to that nonsense! He’s been kind and generous. He’s been so sweet. Look at all the trouble he’s gone to for you! He’s even stocked the kitchen with food!

The moment I think this, Bridget yells from the kitchen, “Hey! He’s got Lucky Charms!” I smile wide and breathe again.