Page 110 of Famous for a Living

I’m not going to instantly turn into a Carhartt-wearing rodeo girl just because he asked me out. I will always like my lipstick and my curls. Yes, even on days when nobody sees them.

Overall, I couldn’t have put more effort into tonight than I have. I’m pretty sure I put more effort into getting ready tonight than people going to the Grammys.

Mina prods me out of the bathroom and I grab my white coat. My heels dig into the floor as I turn, taking in the living room. Gone is the stack of board games that had built up on the coffee table. In its place is a flickering single candle. The place is spotless—Is that scent Pine-Sol?—and on the countertop in the kitchen bubbles a full pot of coffee with three mugs.

Three.

“Actually . . .” Mina steps in front of me at the last second, motions for me to go back to the bedroom like this is the protocol. When I don’t move, she sighs and opens the door a few inches.

“Oh, hello, Zaiah,” she says, one hand firmly on the door. “Cat is just finishing up.”

From the open sliver of the door, he catches my eye.

I shrug.

“Do”—she looks over at me, giving one more shooing motion before giving up—“come in.”

We look like we live in a gingerbread house as he all but ducks inside. He’s wearing that same plaid shirt I complimented him on at the coffee shop. His beard looks freshly trimmed from this afternoon. He’s wearing a new pair of leather boots I’ve never seen before. And in his hands is a bouquet of winter-red holly paired with twigs covered in pine cones, tied up in a simple red bow.

He looks quite . . . I take in a small breath. Force the adrenaline back down in my stomach. Nice. He looks quite nice.

“Aw. And he brought you a bouquet. Couldn’t have splurged on roses, I see”—she tsks, giving him a look—“but how nice. Care for a cup of coffee before your evening begins?” Mina steps backward toward the kitchen.

She’s taken on an accent. A motherly, slightly British, 1950s accent.

Zaiah’s mouth pops open in surprise. He glances over to the mugs on the counter. “That’s very thoughtful—”

“No, we probably ought to get going,” I say hastily, refraining from adding Mom on the end.

She presses her lips together. Nods as though this is unfortunate, but she understands. Expects it, even. “Just a few pictures it is.”

Twenty shots of us posing awkwardly together in front of the couch later, and we finally head to the truck.

“I feel bad,” Zaiah says under his breath, although the quickness of his steps says not quite enough to turn around. “Should we . . . stay for a minute?”

“Don’t.” I match his stride and then some. “This is what happens in every movie storyline. Frankly, if we hadn’t said no, she wouldn’t have known her next lines. And now we turn and wave.”

Together we stop at the passenger side of the truck and turn around.

Sure enough, she’s standing on the porch, hand clutched to her chest. Waving back.

That’s it. Enough movies. I have got to get her out more.

He opens the door for me and then moves to the driver’s side, and as the truck rumbles and he lifts his foot off the brake, he says, “What’s next?”

“Oh.” I give one last wave as the truck begins to move. “I think this is the part where she’s going to go inside, drink the whole pot of coffee herself, and reminisce on how her baby is growing up too fast. I think tonight I’ve somehow moved from roomie status to child. I should probably call Kevin and Jax to save her.”

I reach in my pocket and then stop.

He looks over as he drives, waiting. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just didn’t bring my phone.” I say it casually, and it probably means nothing to him, but to me, to me this is everything. I can’t think of a single memory in the past decade where I haven’t had my phone at my side. It’s unnerving, but another little rule I added to my growing list in this quest for healing.

If I can’t trust myself to give the person I’ve decided to spend time with my full attention, then I will leave it and make it easy. No brain cells spinning in the background of our conversation hunting for picture opportunities. No thoughts in the back of my mind of whether someone might have called or texted or posted or messaged, wanting my attention.

I could wait to hear about who Serena ran into at Don Pierre’s.

I could even wait a few hours to hear from my lawyer, if he emailed.