We go inside together.
The ground level is completely open, no walls anywhere. Combined with a thirty foot-high ceiling, the place looks palatial. I don’t allow any paintings to be hung in there because of the direct sunlight. Instead, I have a few glass sculptures I commissioned, with one of the walls being a giant TV screen.
Paige turns to me. “It’s gorgeous. When did you buy it?”
“A few years back. It was a gift to myself to celebrate the first movie I starred in.”
“I remember that one. Hit. The title totally fit the success of the film.”
I shrug although my chest fills with an absurd pleasure. Millions of people follow my career. Given that she’
s my assistant, it’s only natural that Paige keeps track, even though Hit came out before she started working for me. Why does it matter that she instantly knew exactly which one?
But somehow it does.
“How come you never use this place?” Paige asks.
“Eh. Too far out,” I lie.
It’s too open, too vulnerable.
I spotted several paparazzi out on the beach earlier. They’re keeping a low profile to ensure I don’t call the cops on them. It’s actually kind of funny; this is the one time I actually want them around.
Paige sniffs. “Whatever you have cooking smells incredible.” She looks around. “Did you get a chef out here?”
“Nope. Did it myself.”
Her eyes widen. “No way. I’ve never seen you cook. And you have a chef at home.”
“Usually just too busy.”
I go to the kitchen and pull the pizza out of the special wood oven. It’s a pain in the butt compared to the gas variety, but the end result is worth it. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” she says, then flushes. “I keep craving more food.”
“Makes sense. You’re pregnant.” I pour her a glass of ginger ale. I noticed she was sipping it all through our trip to and from Virginia.
“Thank you.”
“We can sit out on the patio, put our feet up and eat. Kind of nice to watch the waves.”
The scene is already set: a pair of padded white chairs with separate ottomans. A single calla lily lies on the table between us, and I place the pizza there along with our drinks. In deference to her condition, I forego wine and have a Coke instead.
I serve her first. She studies the toppings. “What are they?”
“Grilled chicken and mushrooms cooked in dry white wine and truffles.”
“Fancy for a pizza.”
“Ah, but oh so tasty,” I say. “Try it.”
She takes a small bite then moans softly. A hot streak of need spreads through me at the sound. But underneath is a simpler, baser satisfaction and warmth—it feels surprisingly right to provide for her.
“Told you,” I say, not wanting to dwell on the squirmy emotion for too long. I start on a piece. All I had was a roast beef sandwich for lunch, and I’m starving.
“Why aren’t you in the restaurant business like your cousin Mark?” she asks.
“Because I’m not interested in it.” I grin at her surprised face. “Funny, isn’t it? Mark’s a successful restaurateur but can’t cook for shit, and I have zero interest in restaurants even though I’m freakin’ awesome.”