You Just Cant Get Enough | Chapter 42 of 43

Author: Cecily von Ziegesar | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 2340 Views | Add a Review

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THE REAL PRINCESS OF HOLLYWOOD

Myla Everhart stood in the LAX baggage claim, wishing she hadn’t worn her Pucci Sundial dress—every time she sat down, the back of her legs touched some invariably sticky surface. The first daughter of America’s hottest on- and off-screen couple craned her neck, looking toward the doors to the street. Ash had said he’d park and come inside to help her with her bags. Granted, she’d internationally overnighted her bags via Luggage Concierge, but he could certainly carry her plum Marc Jacobs tote full of French Vogues and her cashmere travel blanket.

Myla fished her emerald-adorned iPhone from the bottom of her bag. 1:14. Ash knew she landed at 12:30. What was the freaking holdup?

But then… that was Ash. Her Ash. Laid-back, easygoing, Ash.

She softened just thinking of him. Long before they got together, Ash Gilmore was her best friend and the only guy who got Myla. It wasn’t easy going through puberty as the child of Barkley Everhart and Lailah Barton—People’s Most Beautiful Couple, 2001, 2002, 2006–present. Most inattentive, too, by Myla’s standards. They’d adopted Myla as a baby, after spending time on-set in Thailand, filming an Adam and Eve–inspired love story that grossed some ungodly amount. It had been just Myla, until they brought home Mahalo from Bangladesh on her twelfth birthday. They’d just returned from a Babel-meets-Independence Day shoot and decided to bring back a souvenir. At least that’s how it seemed to Myla.

Then one day in the eighth grade, she was stranded after school because her driver was late to pick her up. Ash was waiting for his dad, Gordon Gilmour, a record producer who spent more time coddling whiny rock stars than taking care of his son. She and Ash were like two lost souls, who both happened to be extremely photogenic. Myla was in the middle of a rant about how Mahalo had gotten to choose his own bedroom furniture when Ash leaned over and kissed her, right there on the stairs of their middle school parking lot. They’d been Hollywood’s youngest Golden Couple ever since, and were always together.

But Myla’s parents—Barbar, as they were called by the press—had insisted on a family vacation this summer. “Vacation” meant a whirlwind tour of the Third World, doing United Nations aid work at their adopted countries: Thailand for Myla, Bangladesh for Mahalo and Madagascar for Bobby. Myla had to share a room with her two brothers, often in villages so small and remote she couldn’t get a cell phone signal or Internet. She couldn’t indulge in online retail therapy, update her Facebook status, or, more importantly, communicate with Ash. It was torture.

Granted, she could have called Ash every second while she was in Paris last week, visiting her old friend Isabelle, whom she hadn’t seen since fourth grade. But she’d been in the City of Love without the love of her life—thinking about him too much would have depressed her.

Myla punched a string of numbers into her phone, twirling a lock of her long ebony hair around her index finger. She smiled, catching a glimpse of the shiny, emerald-green streak that fell along the left side of her neck. It had been Ash’s idea, and Myla had initially been revolted, but now she loved the secret burst of color.

Isabelle picked up on the third ring. “Ma chère amie, I missed you, too.”

Myla could hear the clinking of silverware and wineglasses in the background. Even though it was after eleven there, Isabelle was probably just eating dinner now, before hitting Paris’s nightclubs.

“Stop that, Guillaume!” Isabelle squealed delightedly to her boyfriend. “Sorry, he’s being a total perv. Shouldn’t you be with Ash?”

“He’s late.” Myla fiddled nervously with the Green Lantern bubblegum machine ring she wore on a Tiffany gold chain. She and Ash had traded rings from a Cracker Jack box in eighth grade, and she had worn the plastic jewelry on her neck ever since. Myla fully planned to hire Mindy Weiss, the best wedding planner in L.A., to work the cheap rings into the ceremony when they got married.

“Better he’s late than you are, if you know what I mean,” Isabelle said bawdily, before cracking up. “Oh, that’s right! You haven’t done it yet. C’est dommage.

Myla rolled her eyes. “We can’t all be French sluts like you,” she teased her friend.

A woman in a JESUS SAVES (ASK ME HOW) T-shirt rumbled by, scowling at the dirty talk.

“I know, you’re waiting for the right time,” Isabelle yawned. “Just make sure to take advantage of being young and hot. Now go moisturize before he gets there.”

Isabelle hung up with a giggle, probably to stop Guillaume’s wandering hands again, and Myla flipped off her phone. Two girls walked by arm in arm, wearing matching Fairy Princess T-shirts and glittery purple leggings.

Myla sighed. Even if they were only ten, you had to start learning fashion sometime. She yanked the pile of dog-eared Vogues from her bag and thrust the magazines into the taller girl’s arms.

If thoughts of “stranger danger” occurred to either girl, they didn’t show it. They studied Myla’s round cheeks, smooth skin, and almond-shaped, shamrock-colored eyes. A flash of recognition flashed across their pink-hued faces. They must have seen her photo in People, helping Barbar hand out care packages in the Philippines. And here she was again, doing charity work of her own.

Ash Gilmour was late for everything, a habit he’d never wanted to develop but learned from his father, record impresario Gordon Gilmour. “Early means eager. Eager is weak,” he’d always said.

But when it came to Myla Everheart, Ash was weak. And he’d wanted to be waiting at LAX when she’d landed. He wanted to watch her come down the escalator to the baggage claim, to see whatever impossible shoes she was wearing, followed by her long legs with the tiny birthmark below her right knee. Then her slim little body, and her tumble of hair with the green streak just for him. And then that face—lips that reminded him of the cherries on top of a sundae and eyes that always looked a little sleepy but saw every little thing.

Ash parked his black Mini Cooper and stumbled out, half running across the wide one-way street reserved for shuttle buses and taxis. He dashed past planters of daisies lining the median and skidded to a stop. On the drive over, he’d called House of Petals to get Myla’s favorite hot pink peony bouquet, but they were crazed with some Endeavor agent’s wedding. He reached down and picked six daisies, then sprinted across the rest of the street, nearly getting hit by a limo driver.

Safely on the sidewalk, Ash composed himself and stepped through the automatic doors. The air conditioning swallowed him, but he saw no sign of Myla on the benches or near the baggage carousel. He checked the arrivals board. Her flight had made it. Had she left without him?

Myla was in the LAX ladies room, applying a final coat of Urban Decay XXX gloss in Baked. Satisfied, she tossed her hair and headed for the door. Surely Ash would be here by now.

Swinging her bag back to her shoulder, she pushed through the doors only to be greeted not by her boyfriend but by four paparazzi.

“Myla, where’s Barbar?”

Now that Myla was sixteen, and with her parents less, she got photographed more and more on her own. Some days she didn’t mind it, but after a fourteen-hour flight? Come on.

She gave the photogs a sarcastic smile, knowing an unflattering scowl would certainly make the tabloids. “Take your pick: Adopting a baby from a war-torn region. Building houses in a hurricane-ravaged stretch of the South. Having wild passionate affairs with their co-stars.”

A photographer donning a jet-black goatee asked, “Are they here, Myla? You can tell us.” His eyes were focused on Myla’s toned thighs.

Myla raised her eyebrows. “First, take a picture, it lasts longer. Which you should already know. Second, no, my parents are not here. Now please get out of my way.”

They fired a few more shots and were gone. Myla blinked post-flashbulb into the crowd of new arrivals. And that’s when she saw him.

There, clutching a sad bouquet of crumpled daisies, was Ash. His sun-lightened hair hung shaggily over his ears, and his chestnut-colored eyes looked like a heartbroken puppy’s. She stopped where she stood, waiting for him to come to her.

Once he spotted her, he nearly tripped over his Vans trying to reach her faster. When he did, he lifted her into the air, dropping the daisies to the polished airport floor. And with hundreds of travelers and tourists surrounding them, he kissed her like it was the only thing he ever needed to be good at in his whole life.

Myla was only vaguely conscious that the paparazzi were shooting photos of them. Their reunion wouldn’t make a cover but, because of her parents, they’d get an inset box. She could see the caption now: HOLLYWOOD’S PRINCESS FINDS HER PRINCE CHARMING.

A camera popped several shots right next to their faces. But this time, she wasn’t annoyed. In fact, she’d probably have the best one framed.

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Alice
Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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