THAT WAS CLOSE.
If this isn’t about a bank robbery I don’t think I want to hear it.
MC, I nearly put my face in Evie’s boobs in her office.
Okay, no, I want to hear this.
She’s so badass and straightforward.
Which is sexy and intimidating all at once, and her shirt keeps popping open.
And then I went to tell her and it was like . . . impossible to want to leave without kissing.
Dude.
Just keep reminding me she’s Lucifer.
I mean, not really she isn’t.
She’s the nicest person.
It seemed like she wanted to kiss me.
Or bite your face?
In a good way.
In a bad way.
Whose side are you on?
The side where the two of you get married and she gives birth to a fully formed toddler who draws on your bedspread with toothpaste.
Dick.
Bye.
chapter fifteen
evie
If I thought I was angry with Carter before, now there’s humiliation thrown into the mix. Over the next couple of days, I spend entirely too much time looping back through those few seconds he’d leaned in and looked at me like I wasn’t the enemy. I must have appeared to melt in my chair.
With any other romantic failure, there’s the regret, and the replaying of the good times and bad times. Maybe there’s even the occasional awkward run-in around town because, as huge as LA is, it feels tiny. But it’s a different matter altogether to work alongside a romantic failure. To pass him in the hall, to see him at meetings, to be forced into a tiny space to plan company retreats together . . .
I get to the small conference room first and take a seat on the couch at the far end, near the windows. It gives me the benefit of being able to see Carter walking all the way down the hall and toward me—not the worst view in the world—escorting the planner from Corporate Fun!
She’s put together in a bland, anonymous way, but Carter—because he’s the devil—exudes sex. Hands in his pockets; lazy, confident stride; crooked smile. Is it more noticeable now because I’m not getting any? Probably. Or is it just how he is? His dark dress pants fit him perfectly, sitting low on his slim hips and hugging his quads. I swear I can see the outline of his cock along his thigh. His dress shirt today is a subtle blue-and-white-check pattern and seems like it was poured on him, it looks so good. When he smiles more broadly at something the planner says, his entire face lights up and somehow, he looks sweet again.
I’m ruined, I can see that now. I look bleakly out at the next few years of my life, working here or somewhere else and unable to get over my hate-crush on Carter Aaron. Or even worse, watching him with someone else. I’m doomed.
I stand when they enter, smoothing my skirt before shaking hands with the woman—Libby Truman—who already seems enamored with Satan’s Errand Boy and his stupid perfect face. As she holds on to his upper arm, she gushes about how funny he was on the walk down here.
On the walk down the hall. Thirty seconds, tops. How amazing, no doubt.
We sit, do the perfunctory explanation of what we need—and honestly, I feel like we could have had this meeting over the phone. We require someone to plan some games for the group of fifty or so people over two days. We require activities that won’t (a) make us all cringe or (b) trigger our grossly competitive natures. We require alcohol. That’s it; it’s pretty simple.
But whenever possible, people like to come to the P&D offices for meetings. It’s for the exact reason I can see Libby occasionally looking out through the glass walls of the room: she’s hoping to spot a celebrity.
Unfortunately for her, she sees only Justin, who peeks his head in about five minutes into things.
“Jett Payne is here; he’s waiting for us upstairs. Also, Kylie wanted me to let you know that she overordered for the break room Keurig, and you’re free to take a box or two home.”
Carter stands with a smile. “Thanks, Justin.”
My jaw drops.
“You double booked?” I ask him, wearing a tight fuck you smile of my own.
“I guess I did. Sorry about that,” he says, as if it were purely accidental and he’s not meticulous about his calendar. He stands, reaching forward to shake Libby’s hand. “Great to meet you, Libby. Evie can handle the rest of the discussion. And make sure she validates your parking. Looking forward to what you two have planned!”
Libby, a little breathless, overexclaims, “It will be great!”
? ? ?
About an hour later I wrap up the meeting with Libby—still fuming—and head back to my office while checking the rest of today’s schedule on my phone.
I have forty-five minutes to get across town to meet Sarah Hill for a hair appointment. We just landed Sarah a part in an adaptation of a runaway bestselling teen novel, and the studio insists her hair be a specific shade of blue for the role. It’s in her contract that her agent and the producer be present for quality control. What it means, essentially, is four hours in a salon, trying to stay alert enough to be able to tell the subtle difference between fifteen different shades of blue hair.
Passing Carter’s office, I stop dead in my tracks, seeing that he’s already put two boxes of K-Cups in the middle of his desk.
When I was a teenager, my father was strict; it was the opposite of Daryl’s family, who basically let her run around with whoever she wanted. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was sixteen, and even then there were rules. I could date as much as I wanted, but I couldn’t have a boyfriend, which meant no consecutive dates with the same guy. I’m sure the intent there was that I didn’t get too serious with any one guy, because serious leads to sex. Their plan worked, mostly: by eleventh grade, I hadn’t had sex yet. Had never really even come close.
And then I met Kai Paialua. I managed to sneak as much time with him as I could, away from my parents’ watchful eyes. The night of the Homecoming game our senior year, we found ourselves in a bedroom at a party. Somewhere in another room Santana was playing on repeat, his sexy guitar riffs egging action along, and . . . I wanted to have sex with Kai. I was pretty damn close, too—his pants were around his ankles and he was checking to see if the condom he’d carried in his wallet since sophomore year had expired—and I knew I was at a crossroads. Go one way and that was it, we’d have sex and there would be no turning back. Or pull my skirt down from around my armpits and my hymen would live another day.
Needless to say, I never saw my virginity again.
Loitering in the hall outside Carter’s office, staring at those damn K-Cups on his desk, I feel that same potent blend of thrill and dread. If I follow through with the plan forming in my head, I won’t be innocent anymore.
And so, five minutes later, the K-Cups are all swapped out, the pods inside no longer matching what it says on the boxes. And I’m on my way to the salon, nobody the wiser.
Same great flavor . . . now in decaf!