? ? ?
The phone call from my friend at Vanity Fair comes in just as I’m getting out of my car the next morning, so I’m running a few minutes late. Pulling a folder from my messenger bag—it’s full of information and ideas I’ve gathered for the retreat—I pray to the gods of happy-flings-turned-rivals that this is enough to soften Evie up and get her to sign off on Jonah as our photographer.
Upstairs, Jess points me in the direction of the conference room. All the way down the hall, I can see Evie through the glass, her head bent so that her hair obstructs her face while she scribbles something in her notebook. Her skin is this insane combination of flawless and rosy that I’ve seen makeup artists try to mimic for years. Her brown eyes have thick lashes and a knowing gleam. Evie has that way about her, as if she’s not often noticed in a crowd—maybe intentionally—but to me, she’s like a beacon. Small but mighty. Unassuming but poised. I really wish I could fucking see her without it feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. It would make feigning indifference so much easier.
She has some sort of smoothie in front of her, and it matches the little jewels on a barrette in her hair.
Ugh, I am in deep.
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” I take the seat across from her. “Some stuff came up.”
“Stuff?” she asks, pushing the straw around in her drink.
“Work stuff,” I clarify, and I hate the way my words come out like I’m explaining myself to her, laced with guilt. “Anyway, Kylie sent me some things from the planner they used last year. I printed them up and added a few new ideas I thought might work.”
I place the packets on the table in front of her, avoiding her eyes and hoping she goes for the subject change. I’m sure she’s wondering why I’m suddenly so helpful and Johnny-on-the-spot about this retreat.
I can feel her watching me, narrowed eyes tracking my movements as she picks up the papers I’ve given her and holds them warily. She still hasn’t said anything and when she looks down to the printouts, I busy myself straightening the rest of my papers, making sure she has a pen, and generally behaving as though I’m being a lot more helpful than I am.
“Oh, right,” I say casually, “I should mention before we get started: I need to switch the photographer for the VF shoot next week.”
She turns her face up to me. Her brows come together in confusion. “Why?”
I debate whether I should lie and realize it’s safer to just be honest. “I thought we might hire Jonah.”
“As in your brother, Jonah?”
“Right.” Scratching my eyebrow, I tell her, “He’s going through a bit of a rough patch, and I told him I’d try to get him on this job.”
She sets down the packet. “You think they’re going to be able to switch it out last minute?”
I lean in, relieved her first reaction wasn’t rage. I try on a smile I hope feels like the expressive version of triumphant jazz hands. “They already did.”
Only when her eyes go wide do I fully register what I’ve just said.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
“You did it without talking to me?” she asks slowly.
Shaking my head, I say, “I dropped my friend a line yesterday to see if it would even be possible, but he called and said it was a go before I got in this morning.”
Evie studies me for a few quiet beats. “I think it’s a conflict of interest. I think Brad would agree.”
There’s the edge of a threat in her tone, and I twist the cardboard band around my coffee cup while I think of how to respond. “I’ll talk to him.”
“I’m not sure I understand what led to this,” she says, confusion lacing her words. “You told me the two of you don’t get along. This is Jamie and Seamus’s first big shoot. Do you really want to—”
“How well Jonah and I get along isn’t the point. He’s the right guy for the job.”
“Then why didn’t you suggest him last week?”
“Because I assumed he was busy.”
“Why would you assume that?” she asks, shaking her head a little. “He’s been gossip fodder for months.”
Heat rises in my neck with the humiliation that Evie knew all of this about Jonah and I didn’t. “I think we both know that what people say about us isn’t always reflective of our ability to do our job.”
She nibbles her lower lip thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything else. Evie: calm, as ever.
“It’s not even that I mind your brother doing the shoot,” she says at length. “He’s still a big name, even with all the controversy.” She pauses, studying me some more. “But did you think it would go over well with me for you to just roll over any input I have in this? You represent Jamie. I represent Seamus. This is a big shoot for Trick, and these are things you and I need to be incredibly thoughtful about.”
I do a series of nods to be agreeable, though probably one too many. “If you don’t mind that he’s doing it, and agree that he’s a big name, why are you getting so pissed about this?”
I want to make a fist and punch myself in the mouth as soon as the words are out. Evie is acting anything but pissed right now. I need to stop letting my temper shoot out so abruptly with her; this combination of attraction and competition makes me completely insane.
I see the angry flush rise in her cheeks—and the effect on me is a confusing rush of desire—but again, she stays calm, gathering her things and pushing back from the table.
“You’re right,” she says. “What’s done is done. I’ll have Jess email you the wardrobe notes for Seamus’s end of the shoot, as well as my thoughts on the information you’ve given me today for the retreat.” She closes the folder around her printouts and stands. “Justin can send Jess anything you need me to review.”
“We’re going to talk through our assistants now?” I ask, looking up at her.
“It seems like the best idea, for a number of reasons.” She walks around the table and leaves the room.
chapter thirteen
evie
“Evie, you’re going to break this machine,” Daryl laments, putting her hand on my quad to slow down my leg extensions. “What is with you?”
I offer up a breathless: “Carter.”
Standing from the machine, I grab my water and take a few deep drinks. Sweat pours off me, and everything burns. I am a beast this morning, but it feels amazing. I realize it’s either kill myself here at the gym, or go to work and punch someone in the solar plexus.
I should probably be mortified about getting up and walking out of our meeting yesterday, but screw him and his perfect forearms and cute crooked smile and diva brother.
I’m so tired of wanting to shove him into the wall and then shove my hand down his pants.
I am so over all of it.