Not in the Script (10 page)

She nods. “I marched with my original class in May, but I actually finished about a year and a half ago. My last on-set tutor put me on an acceleration plan, so yeah, I'm almost a junior.”

“But how do you go to school with such a busy schedule?”

“My classes are all taught online. You'll see me studying at work. Tons.”

I graduated from high school early too, and have considered online courses, but it doesn't seem like they'd be the same. “Will you eventually have to take campus classes?” I ask.

“I need to choose a major before I'll know. It's taking me forever to decide because I want to learn about
everything
.”

Emma motions to the entrance of
Paraiso del Rio
, just ahead.

I pull up to the front gates, and a security guard peers through my open window. “Good evening, Miss Taylor,” he says. “Is this a guest we should expect on a regular basis?”

Emma gives me a scrutinizing look, but she doesn't get the opportunity to make a wisecrack. “Hi, I'm Jake Elliott, her best friend with benefits,” I tell the guard. “So, yeah, I'll be here
a lot
.”

He laughs and waves us on.

I punch the gas pedal, and Emma smacks my arm. “Now I'll definitely tell them to watch out for you. There's a reason I moved here; it's like Fort Knox.”

She's right. Even after we make it past the guard, we're met by an additional gate leading into the next section of the community. I stop at the keypad and turn to her for instructions. Emma hesitates, then says, “Excuse me for a moment, but I'm gonna have to get a little up close and personal.”

She releases her seat belt, plants one of her knees on my armrest, and leans all the way across me so she can enter the code. She isn't exactly indecent, but I can't help but notice the obvious. “Versace, huh?”

It takes Emma a few tries to get the code right. When the gate finally opens, she comes back through the window and pauses when our faces are even. “I don't recall giving you permission to look at my butt.”

“Uh … sorry?” I reply. “I'll get my people to call your people the next time your butt is the only view I have.” She sits back down, and I drive forward. “And I only noticed the label because I did some work for them a while back.”

Why do I feel like I have to
try
to impress her?

“Cool,” she says. “Did they give you freebies?”

“Of course—I always work free clothes into a deal. And I really like their ties.”

She seems intrigued. “How often do you wear a tie?”

I shrug. “If I'm home on the weekends, I go to church with my mom.”

Emma smiles. “My parents would freak if I wore Versace to
church. We go to this tiny country chapel outside of Fayetteville. The fanciest thing I'm allowed to wear is a feathered hat.”

I picture her as a true Southern belle, not in a movie but in her actual life, and I have to resist an impulse to touch her. I try to keep a straight face when I say, “Only my ties are Versace. My suits are by Armani.”

“Gosh!” Emma says, but it comes out like
gawsh
. Talking about her home has brought out a hint of a drawl, and it makes me laugh. “That's a serious clash of the Titans.”

The recreation area of her community has a tennis court, a couple of pools under canopies of palm trees—one with a waterfall—and a fitness center. Next, we drive into the residential section, which has part of the river running through it. And …

“Whoa,” I say. “Is that a running path?”

“Yep. Nice, huh?”

It's more than nice. “How long is it, do you know?”

“Two miles is what I've heard, but I haven't tried it yet.” Emma shoots her hand out. “Right here. Number sixteen.”

I pull in front of the Southwest-style town house she points to. “This is huge for just one person,” I say. I've spent the past few days looking for a place to live, so I'm getting good at guessing size from the outside. The sooner I get out of my stuffy hotel room, the better. “Does your family live here too?”

“Nope. I'm on my own. And I love it.”

I turn my engine off because I want to keep talking. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

Emma's eyes are instantly brighter. “Seven-year-old twin brothers. My career is sort of on autopilot now, so my mom spends her days shuttling the boys between soccer, baseball, and basketball
practices—whatever sport is in season. She has to keep them busy or they'll destroy the house. They're a hundred percent trouble, but still adorable.”

“That's exactly what my sister says about
me
.” How can Emma be so normal? Better than normal? “Do you need help with furniture, or boxes, or whatever? I could—”

“Thanks, but everything's pretty much done.” She's already halfway out the door. “And I really appreciate the ride. Hope it didn't take too much time.”

“Not at all.”

She doesn't reply, just smiles and shuts the door. What am I thinking? Emma Taylor is way out of my league. But I like a challenge.

She turns back to say good-bye, then stops waving when she notices my license plate. “YA I NO?” She laughs. “As in, ‘Yeah, I know I'm hot'?”

My friends haunt me wherever I go.

I lean out my window to say, “It was a stupid joke—a birthday present from my buddies.” My mom thought the idea was so hilarious, she helped them with the online application. “Getting a new plate is at the top of my priority list.”

Emma walks back to my side of the car, looks down at me with a lingering glimmer of humor in her eyes, and pats my arm. “That's your top priority, huh? Then what you
actually
need is a reality check.”

Definitely a challenge. “I think I just met one.”

Oh, crap … how bad did I flirt with Jake? A lot? Only a little? I close my eyes tightly and pretend I don't have to ask myself that question. Besides all of my own reasons to keep my distance, Rachel would never forgive me for even
thinking
about Jake.

Not like this.

I collapse onto my sofa and watch my ceiling fan go around and around and around.
It was nothing
, I finally tell myself. When two people first meet, they kind of joke around, that's all. And Jake is easy to talk to.

That's another thing Rachel will be happy to hear.

I grab my bag off the floor and fish out my phone. But while I'm thinking through exactly what I'll say to Rachel, I also find myself zooming in on the details of Jake's bio. His modeling credits began a little more than two years ago with lesser-known labels, and then designers like Versace and Armani discovered him. With such a red-hot start, why would Jake switch to acting so soon?

And what was with all the questions? Hardly anyone, especially a guy, ever asks me about school or my family. Jake didn't even seem superficial about it. He's both an open book and an intriguing mystery. A mystery I sort of want to figure out.

Wait … no.

No. No. No.

I
don't
want to figure him out, because what if I like what I discover? What is
wrong
with me? Jake belongs in Rachel's fantasies, not my reality. I send her a text:
Are u at home or in public where you might break someone's eardrums?

Rachel replies with:
Home. WHY?

There's no changing my mind now, so I send her the picture of Jake's bio.

While waiting for her reaction, I steal a few glances at Jake's headshots and can't decide if I should tell Rachel that I was wrong about his lips being digitally enhanced. I already know it would be a bad idea to describe the rest of him.

My cell rings and I brace myself for hysterical squealing, but all I hear is quick, heavy breaths. “Model ID Hotline,” I answer. “Can I help you?”

“Em … ma,” Rachel says, still panting. “It's hiiiimmmm!”

“Uh-huh.”

“How did you get this? I've looked
everywhere
, for
anything
. This has his name, his height, his weight!” There's a pause. “Oh my gosh, both of our birthdays are in December! And he's only one year older than I am! I
never
would've guessed that from his photos.”

Me either. But Jake has a younger quality about him in person. He lacks the sharp edge of arrogance that's so common in his magazine ads, which makes him even more attractive.

“Dang, they didn't list his e-mail or phone number on here,” Rachel says, instantly devastated. “I wonder if he's on Facebook. Do you think he tweets?”

I laugh. “No idea. But … he's in the cast of
Coyote Hills
, so I can ask him.”

That's when I should've known to throw the phone away from my ear.

“Shut up! Shut up! No way!” Rachel goes on and on until she says she's dizzy. “What's he like? Tell me evvverything!”

It doesn't matter what I say. I could tell Rachel that Jake has the personality of a boiled potato and smells like sardines, and it wouldn't change anything. “Well, you were right,” I admit. “He's actually pretty cool, and he even gave me a stack of headshots for you.”

Another shriek. “Did he sign them?”

“Um—” Crap! We got talking and I forgot to have him sign the photos. “I wasn't sure what you wanted him to write,” I say, already spinning lies. “You know, just your name, or
To my favorite fangirl
. What do you think?”

“Oh … that's a tough one,” Rachel says. “I don't want The Bod—I mean, Jake—to think I'm psychotic. So I guess you could just have him write
Can't wait to meet you
, or whatever. How many did he give you?”

“Let me see.” I thumb through the photos, and as I count out loud, Rachel's vocal pitch increases with each number. “Seven,” I finish.

I slip my favorite headshot inside a side table drawer.

“Seven? I can't believe this!”

Neither can I.
Naughty, Emma
. I yank open the drawer. “Wait, there's one more.”

The jubilation just keeps on coming. For probably fifteen more minutes, Rachel asks questions about Jake, and I try to answer them in the most complete way I can without revealing that I learned most of the information from a private conversation with him in his car.

I'm desperate to change the subject. “I met Brett today,” I eventually throw in.

“Who?” Rachel asks. “Oh! Brett Crawford! Did you faint, or what?”

“Close. I couldn't even look at him for a while. But he followed me when we had a break, so I
had
to talk to him. Then things were okay. And after all these years of being gaga over him, it's nice to know once and for all that the real Brett is
totally
not my type.”

“Whatever! He's like every other guy you've ever dated.”

“Um, duh. That's my point.”

“Don't
duh
me. Tell me about him.”

I skip the part when Brett wowed the room during our table read, and instead talk about his immature comments to Kimmi.

“Okay, so he's stupid. No shocker,” Rachel says. “But he wasn't a jerk to
you
, right?”

“No. But it doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters, because you already know you'll eventually date him. How could you not? So you've gotta make it clear, right from the start, that you won't put up with the same crap your other boyfriends gave you.”

I almost laugh. As if
telling
a guy not to break your heart—or embarrass you in front of the entire world—would actually make him think twice about it. “Brett doesn't date his costars, anyway,” I reply. “He straight out told me that today.”

“But, Emma,” Rachel says, her tone sweeter now, “if anyone can
change his mind, it's you. And Brett's gotta be interested if he followed you around. So I
honestly
think if you just turn on your charm, he'll become whoever you want him to be.”