Page 8 of The Reunion

“Well,thatwas an experience,” Bre says under her breath once we’re finally through the gauntlet. “It looks so much more enjoyable in pictures.”

“It’ll be smooth from here,” I say, to myself as much as to Bre, nodding to the pair of security guards who stand still amid the bustle. “No press past those guys.”

Fanline went all out with the decor, and we haven’t even made it inside yet—there’s a posh-looking cocktail area off to our left, including a strategically lit photo op wall made of live succulents; our bright pinkGotVlogo is emblazoned on it in curving, curling neon lights.

From just off the carpet, one last reporter calls Ransom’s name.

“Excuse me for just a minute,” Ransom says with another light touch, his fingers grazing the bare skin of my lower back. He leans in close, like there’s a secret he can’t wait to share. “I can’t help but notice,” he says, breath hot in my ear, “the distinct lack of botched tattoo on your back.”

I can’t help it, I laugh—and he flashes me his moneymaker smile before breaking away to go answer the reporter’s question. That smile is megawatt bright, the kind that would stop traffic (possibly even of the space travel variety). Despite all our complicated history, I’ve missed it.

“Okay,” Bre whispers, once he’s out of earshot, eyebrows so high I worry they’ll leap right off her face. “What wasthat?”

“It’s nothing.”

The alternative is that it issomething, which is impossible, because Ransom has Gemma and I have a scarred heart.

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

I glance his way, watch the reporter’s eyes fill with stars as Ransom answers her question. He’s always been good at making a person feel like they’re the only one in the room; his natural charm is magnetic, and it’s intense. It’s impossible not to feel safe with him.

“Well, if it isn’t Livvie Latimer—girl of my dreams!”

My head whips up at that distinctive drawl. There’s only one person who’s ever called megirl of my dreams.

“Ford Brooks!” I greet him. “It’s been a million years. What have you been up to over there in London?” He’s got a smile that rivals Ransom’s, though it’s lopsided and usually goes hand in hand with whatever joke is on the tip of his tongue.

Ford politely thanks the reporter he’d been talking with and heads our way. When he pulls me into a hug, I look over his shoulder to see Bre mouthing, wide-eyed,Girl of my dreams??

One week in our third season, Ford and I were shooting some tennis scenes, and he started having the most bizarre dreams. One night I was riding a triceratops onto the court, another night we were both mermaids playing tennis with our fins. This went on for a solid week, then stopped as suddenly as it started—ever since, he’s called megirl of my dreams.

“No Juliette tonight?” I ask, when we’re face-to-face again. According to many a tabloid cover, he and actress Juliette Wells are one of London’s hottest couples—he met her shortly after moving there from the States.

“She’s shooting in Iceland right now,” he replies, beaming with pride. “Another Jonathan Cast project.”

Bre gasps beside me, and I don’t blame her—it’s a really big deal.

“Wow, congrats to her!” I say. “I look forward to seeing it.”

“Another year or two, hopefully,” Ford says. Jonathan Cast is notorious for blowing budgets by shooting three times longer than he needs, then being ruthless and meticulous in the editing room until every single second is perfection. He gets away with it because the final results are brilliant, always.

Ford turns his attention on Bre and smiles. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure…?”

“Ford, this is Bre Livingston, who’s technically my assistant but is also a close friend—Bre, meet Ford.”

A hint of pink flushes in her cheeks. For a split second, I worry she’ll go speechless, but she recovers smoothly. “So tell me all about London—are the double-decker buses as fun as they seem?”

They chat for a bit as we make our way inside, past the security guards who let us through without a hassle. I glance back over my shoulder to see if we should wait for Ransom, but he’s chatting with another reporter now; while I tend to hold everything back with the press, he’s overly generous. He relishes it, I think, though he would say I’m wrong about that.

If I thought Fanline had gone all out with the exterior decor, the inside is every bit as amazing. The lofty ceiling is starlit, dotted with countless twinkle lights that make it look like the night sky. Foliage covers the walls—it feels like we’ve been transported straight into the most beautiful modern garden, and the room is intimate despite its expansive height. Fifteen circular tables are draped in pristine white linens, set with delicate bone china and an array of glasses waiting to be filled. A stage spans the length of the far wall, on which there is also a huge screen; like everything else, it boasts our logo along with Fanline’s.

For a moment, it’s like the world stands still: I’m hit, suddenly, by just how rare this all is. That I waspartof it—part of something iconic—that the show has been trending daily, now that it’s streaming and a new generation has started bingeing our old episodes. Maybe I’m just nostalgic after seeing Ransom and Ford, but it’s not lost on me how incredible this is.

“Oh, look, Liv!” Bre calls from where she and Ford ended up while walking and talking. “Here’s my table!”

I can hear the relief in her voice. She’ll be sitting at the plus-ones table—she’s been legit terrified she’d end up starstruck to the point of speechlessness if she somehow landed a seat with me and the rest of our core cast. I go to join them and see her name scrawled on a white card in fun bright pink hand-lettered cursive; the card itself is nestled neatly atop the thick, fleshy leaves of a miniature potted succulent.

“Let’s see who you’re with,” Ford says, circling the table. “I don’tknow any of these—oh, wait, here’s Havilah Loren!” He picks up the tiny pot with Havilah’s name on it and smoothly switches it with one markedCaroline Crenshaw, originally seated next to Bre.

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