“It’s not my plane,” he says. “And it wasn’t my idea.”

I give him a look, but he raises his hands.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, trying to be as annoyed as possible, but the truth is I’m a little impressed.

And annoyed at myself for being impressed.

I’m supposed to be above all this. Supposed to be immune to his charms. Immune to the siren call of Hollywood stars and all the fancy trappings that come with them.

It’s disappointing to discover I’m just as easily taken as Jeremy always thought I was.

“You love celebrity,” he used to say. “You want to be famous.”

He’d say it as if it was the most disgusting thing a person could want. As if wanting it meant that I deserved what happened. That I deserved people assuming that my success was a direct result of fucking a celebrity.

Not that Jeremy was exempt from wanting that kind of attention. He refused to admit it out loud, but I knew the truth. He wanted people to talk about him. Wanted people to know him.

He’d get down on his knees for a private jet.

I’m pretty sure, at least.

At least I know I’m not willing to do that. Not for a private jet.

I also know that I’m still mad about the whole dance thing, which I know technically isn’t really Gabe’s fault and when it comes down to it, I’m really angrier at myself than anything, but right now it’s easier to be annoyed about a private jet.

“It’s not mine,” Gabe says again as we get out of the car. “And he insisted.”

I’m confused until a familiar face appears at the top of the ramp. He strikes a pose.

“Darling!” Ollie says, arms akimbo. “It’s been ages.”

I can’t help it, I’m thrilled to see him. And grateful that I don’t have to spend an entire private plane ride to Montana with just Gabe. The car ride was tense enough.

Gabe helps the driver unload our bags as Ollie skips down the stairs and pulls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet.

“When I heard that you two crazy kids were re-creating your famous interview, I begged Gabe to let me crash,” Ollie says, once I’m back on the ground.

“I refused,” Gabe says.

“He refused,” Ollie confirms.

His hands are on my arms and he’s leaning back, looking at me like a proud parent whose daughter just returned from her first year at college.

“He wanted you all to himself,” Ollie says sotto voce.

“I did,” Gabe says, walking past us with our bags.

Even though I’m still a little irritated at him, I flush. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed and befuddled by all this attention.