“Tyler, you’re getting this job because everyone wants to see you fail,” I say, as sweetly as possible. I give him my best fuck-you smile. “You have the reverse Midas touch with people; everything you handle turns to shit. So the team will step in and save the day, and Mr. Davis will finally have a reason to can your sleazy ass.”
Tyler laughs. “That’s bullshit. Right, Mr. D?”
“I don’t know. I’m not as well-versed in the bullshit department as you are, Kinley,” Davis says, fixing Tyler with an annoyed stare and walking away. Tyler’s smile falters, and he goes after the executive. Flint, meanwhile, hasn’t stopped looking at me.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asks.
“Is now not a good enough time?”
“We need to talk. Now,” he says, setting his drink down. Before I can respond, someone walks over to us. Hard to forget a woman that tall, beautiful, and radiant. Charlotte puts a hand on Flint’s shoulder.
“You must be Laurel.” She smiles; her teeth are distractingly perfect. “I’m so glad to meet you formally. I know we bumped into each other at the house months back.” She laughs and holds out her hand to shake.
She’s wearing the beautiful gown I saw in the text Jessa sent. And glinting on her left hand, I spy a diamond engagement ring.
I look into Flint’s eyes. You bastard. You utter, complete bastard.
“Nice to meet you,” I mutter, shaking.
“Flint’s told me so much about you.” She squeezes his arm. He looks impatient, restless.
“Can we talk outside?” he asks, voice tight. “Charlotte, can you give us a minute?”
“Of course. Is everything all right?” she asks, blue eyes wide. No, everything isn’t all right. Your fiancé flew you out the day after hooking up with me, and I didn’t even begin to understand what an utter sleaze he was until now. Man, some things I really wish I could say out loud.
“It’s fine,” Flint says.
“Fine,” I echo. “Let’s go.” I lead Flint out, through the ballroom and down a long hallway, into a private room overlooking the garden out back. We push onto the balcony, so the only listeners are some palm trees and a blue heron standing on one foot by the pond, pecking at its wings.
“We’ve got to talk about this Charlotte thing,” Flint growls when we’re finally alone. His eyes are blazing, his jaw clenched. “Listen to me.”
A hysterical laugh lodges itself in my throat. “No. I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to talk. She’s got a fucking ring on her finger, and I don’t need to have that subtle mystery explained to me. It’s spelled out pretty clearly.” I push off the balcony and head for the door. Flint grabs my wrist. I know if I shake him away, he’ll let me go. But I still don’t have enough self control where he’s involved to walk away when there’s a chance to touch him again, feel the stubble along his jaw, press myself against his body…
Stop. Fucking stop, Laurel.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” he snaps.
“Look.” I turn to him. “I don’t want to talk about Charlotte. I don’t want to work with you on another season because I don’t need the daily reminders of how blissfully happy you are. And I don’t want to be paraded around on fucking camera anymore.”
“Why are you being so goddamn difficult?” Flint shouts. That finally sends me over the edge. In front of the garden, all the stars in the sky, and that pervy blue heron, I shout back,
“Because I love you, you jackass!”
Flint pauses, looking unsure of what to do. But I can’t stop myself, and I keep going.
“I’ve been in love with you for months. During shooting, I thought we had a chance. But you went back to Charlotte, and I went home. Then you had the fucking audacity to play with me like this. To keep on playing. And I can’t take it anymore!”
Flint is speechless for a minute. Whatever he’s about to say gets interrupted.
“What’s going on out here?” Charlotte demands, walking onto the terrace. She is not kidding around; that is a steely-eyed lawyer’s gaze if I ever saw one. If I weren’t so worked up right now, I’d be damned intimidated.
“Laurel,” Flint manages. I’m not doing this with Charlotte here. Even I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment.
“Enjoy the premiere,” I blurt out, rushing past them both. “I can’t be here anymore.”
I run out and down the hall, past the ballroom, and into the street. Now I give myself permission to cry just a little, mascara tracking down my face. I don’t care if there are still cameramen and paparazzi outside, who’ll probably get an up close and personal look at my transformed state, from super confident producer-slash-star to makeup-smeared crazy person. I storm out, down the red carpet, and out onto the street. Finally, I have the sense to grab my phone and call for a cab, which is mercifully right nearby.
“Looks like you went to a wild party,” the driver says when I practically fall into the backseat. He looks me over, some concern on his face. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, staring out the window at the city lights as we drive away. Well, the party’s over now.
34