Read Online Easy on the Eyes by Jane Porter - Free Book Online Page B

motioning to the valet attendant that I’m on my way.
    Christie follows me to the driver’s-side door. “But you’re not kidding. That’s why you date these dingbats, and they’re all
     the same, handsome but shallow.”
    “Trevor’s not shallow— ”
    “Then tell me one thing you have in common besides sex.”
    I slip the attendant a ten and slide behind the wheel. “He’s fun?”
    “My dentist would be fun if I only had to see him now and then.”
    “I see Trevor every five or six weeks.”
    “And that’s not a relationship. It’s casual sex.”
    “You yourself told me sex was beneficial.”
    “It’d be even more beneficial if it came with a healthy, happy relationship. Let me introduce you— ”
    “No!” I swiftly, firmly close the door but roll down my window. “Don’t even think about another setup. Understand? I love
     you, but honestly, Christie, I don’t like your taste in men.”

Chapter Four

    T he fund-raiser’s pre-party is at Steve Lehman’s house, and his five-acre estate is high above the city in elegant, affluent,
     exclusive Bel Air.
    There’s been a breeze all day, which has blown the smog out of the valley, leaving the city glittering like white fairy lights
     on a Christmas tree.
    Cocktail in hand, I walk slowly around Steve’s enormous Grecian-style pool, which glows with a hundred floating votives. An
     orchestra plays beneath a white canopy as fountains tinkle and beautiful people laugh and talk and mill about while keeping
     an eye out for someone more important to talk to.
    From the corner of my eye, I see Tom and Katie appear and be welcomed to great fanfare. Across the pool, Jessica Biel is talking
     to Kirsten Dunst. I knew it’d be one of those “who’s who” parties, but I thought I’d find an ally before I felt insignificant.
    This is where it gets complicated.
    The very fact that I’m here will put plenty of stars’ teeth on edge. If I were a different TV host, I’d work the party, say
     hello to the famous faces that I’ve interviewed in the past; but I can’t stand it when they give me that little look. The
     sneer. The half-annoyed, half-pitying glance that says you don’t belong.
    I had enough of that at Epworth. Although I was raised in South Africa, I never had a proper South African accent, and I don’t
     know if that was my dad’s doing since he was American, but the girls at Epworth teased me for sounding like a Yank, and they
     made it clear that as a Yank, I was merely tolerated, not accepted.
    There were times I was tempted to name-drop. I had impressive connections. The girls would have loved that my mother was a
     former Miss South Africa, and her mother was Lady Hollingsworth in England but dropped the title when she moved with her new
     husband, Lord Hollingsworth, to what was then Rhodesia. But I never did. Maybe it was the rebel in me, but I wouldn’t share
     my past, wouldn’t share my strength, wouldn’t give them access to me.
    My father always said I was the secretive one, but I’m not secretive. I’m just reserved. Contained. Willow was the one who
     wore her heart on her sleeve. She was emotional and tender, just like our mother. But just because I didn’t laugh or cry as
     easily didn’t mean I didn’t feel.
    I feel. I feel so deeply that it scares me.
    I don’t let many people in because when I do, I’m wide open. Completely vulnerable. The problem is once you’re in my heart,
     you stay.
    Even when you’re dead. Even when you’re gone.
    Feet already aching, I scan the crowd of expensive suits and elegant gowns, and while I know many of them by sight, none are
     friends like Christie or Celia from
People
magazine. My friends aren’t A-listers, we’re the industry’s worker bees, and I’m here only because of Max.
    It was Max who helped me through the first year following Keith’s death. After signing me to a contract, he had me move straight
     to Los Angeles. By the time I arrived with my car and trailer full