Hollywood Remake (A Celebrity Love Story)

Chapter 7: Grease

Kate sat down heavily on the white duvet cover of the hotel bed and eyed the late-night room service menu. She wasn’t exactly hungry, but she needed some comfort food. Of course, all the menu items were puns on classic movie titles. Whoever named them had been way too clever. Kate wrinkled her nose as she ran her eyes down the list.

Breakfast Burrito At Tiffany's....

When Harry Met Salami....

Gone With The Wings....

Mystic Pizza.... A NY-style thin crust topped with your choice of cheese or pepperoni.

Now that was calling to her name, wasn't it? NY-style. Maybe that was her problem, she thought, looking down with a grimace at her mutilated blouse. Maybe she just wasn’t an LA-style girl.   

Of course, pizza wasn’t what she really wanted. Not even if it came with a nice, satisfying pool of orange grease congealing on top, like the pies from the real brick-oven pizza joints back home. Even the greasiest pizza didn't taste as good without someone to share it. Somehow she doubted the kitchen would be able to accommodate that request – even at a hotel as expensive as this one.

She probably should have gone somewhere a little more modest. She was only here because the Beverly Hilton had been the only hotel in LA she could name off the top of her head. Plus, she’d been distracted by the text messages.

At least he’d had the good grace to try to text after he’d ditched her on the dance floor. He’d let go of her hand, and she lost him in the crowd. When she finally pushed her way to where he’d been standing, that model had her arms draped around his neck. Her body had been pressed against his, and he was saying something in her ear.

I should have snapped a picture and sold it to TMZ, Kate thought. They looked like a hot couple.

Her first thought had been to make her way back toward the table where they’d all been sitting, but she thought better of it halfway there. There was no way she’d make it past the velvet rope without him. That was the VIP section. She was most definitely not a VIP. Not to the bouncers at some club. Not to Aidan either, apparently.

She just wanted to leave at that point anyway. Her head was throbbing from the deafening music. Why would anyone go to that place of their own free will? To her, it felt like hell on Earth.

She’d made her way to the club exit and was out on the street, trying to hail a cab, when her phone went off with the first text:

“Where ru?”

Whatever, Aidan, she’d muttered to the phone. He obviously had something going on with that model. It was her own fault for showing up on his doorstep unannounced, two days ahead of schedule. She had no right to be upset. She wasn’t upset. Nope. Not upset. OK, she was upset, but there was no way she was going to let him see it. She’d texted back:

“Dancing”

She’d already ducked inside a cab when the next text came:

“Where?”

The taxi driver was looking at her, waiting for instructions, and they were on their way to Beverley Hills by the time she’d tapped out a reply:

“Stop texting me! Go have fun!”

Her phone had rung then, and she’d sent it to voicemail. She hadn’t heard from him again until 45 minutes later, after she was already checked into the hotel.

“Everyone's leaving. Where ru?”

She’d stared at it for a few minutes, thinking through her options. She could tell him she’d gone to a hotel, but then he’d probably feel guilty. Might even try to come find her. That was the last thing she wanted right now. It was good that she’d found out exactly where she stood, before she let herself get any more attached. Let him go home with his swimsuit model. She’d be damned if she was going to cramp his style.