The waitress shows up, delivering our pots of heated oil and the fresh meats. Ty smiles at her. “Can we have two more platters of those things?”
She nods. “Sure. For you and...?” She turns to Oakley, who’s suddenly taken a deep interest in my phone.
“Yeah, both of us,” Ty says.
Oakley ducks his head again and somehow scoots closer to me. His jean-clad leg brushes up against mine, and my sweater feels too thin with his arm so close to mine. I swear we’re almost sitting on top of each other. I can feel his muscles flex and bunch as he reaches for more food.
“Can you move over?” I wiggle my butt to show him how uncomfortable I am. I need some distance.
“No. I barely have one ass cheek on the bench.”
The twins giggle.
“Oh, shit, how much was that?” Oakley grins.
“Now you’re just doing it on purpose,” I accuse.
“I’m just making a contribution to the twins’ college fund,” he says with a wink at the boys.
They grin back. And then Shane, who never talks to anyone but Spencer, starts grilling Oakley about the types of decks he has. Are they short or longboards? Midsize cruisers? Does he have a favorite wheel?
It’s the most interest I’ve seen the twins show a stranger in the last couple of years. They used to be reckless and crazy, doing wild stunts on their bikes and boards, but Mom and Dad’s deaths made them feel vulnerable and unsafe. They still ride and skate, but not as often and not very far from the house, which is why W’s suggestion to drive to Boyle Heights was a nonstarter.
“Nah, I haven’t boarded in a couple of years,” Oakley admits. “I tried, but the public places are hard for me to keep a low profile at, and if I rent out the park that means kids don’t get to use it during that time. I kind of gave it up when I went on tour.”
Shane nods, but I don’t think he gets it, how limiting Oakley’s life must be. I feel a smidge of sympathy for my fake boyfriend.
“Are you going to have to crawl under the table and hide?” I ask.
“Hope not.” As he stretches past me to dip a loaded skewer into the cooking pot, his arm brushes against my boob.
My body reacts, and somehow, even through his hoodie, he can tell.
He turns to me.
I freeze.
That’s when the flash goes off.
“Time to go, boys and girls,” murmurs Tyrese.
I have never, ever in my life seen anyone move so fast. One second I’m squished in the booth next to Oakley; the next, he and Tyrese are ushering me and my siblings toward the door.
“I swear that’s Oakley Ford’s bodyguard!” a girl squeals from the booth next to the one we were just sitting at. “I recognize him from that concert documentary MTV aired last year—”
I don’t get to hear the rest of that sentence because we’re already on the other side of the room. Tyrese halts only to toss two hundred-dollar bills at the hostess, tells her that “should cover us,” and then pushes everyone out the door.
Oakley, meanwhile, is laughing his ass off. “You!” he sputters to his bodyguard. “They recognized you.”
Tyrese doesn’t even crack a smile. He shoves Oakley toward the passenger side of a sleek silver Mercedes. “Get in,” he barks then glances at the rest of us. “Claudia’s gonna want to have a chat about this. Text me your address and we’ll meet you there.”
Wait. They’re coming to my house? Why?
Tyrese doesn’t give me a chance to protest—he’s already sliding behind the wheel of the Benz and starting the engine.
I turn to my sister, dumbfounded. “What the heck just happened?”
She sighs. “Welcome to the wonderful world of Oakley Ford.”
@1doodlebug1 Someone saw Oakley Ford and his bodyguard at Fondue Heaven w some family! Check out this snap!
Tyrese wasn’t kidding. Not only did Claudia want to have a chat, apparently it was so important she couldn’t even do it over the phone. Oakley’s entire publicity team gets on a helicopter and flies to El Segundo. Then they take a fleet of Escalades to our modest split-level house and park the three huge vehicles at the curb. As if that’s not going to draw attention.
Now we’re all gathered around my living room, which is way too small to accommodate this many people. Tyrese is standing in the doorway. Paisley and the twins sit on one side of the sectional. Oakley and I sit on the other. And Oakley’s PR team looms over us as Claudia rips into her client for his reckless behavior.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she yells in that Mickey Mouse voice of hers. “You are not allowed to make these kinds of decisions without consulting me first!”
Oakley crosses his arms and looks bored.
“Vaughn, get on Twitter!” Claudia snaps, and when I open my mouth to question her, she holds up one hand in warning. “I swear to God, if you ask why, I am going to lose my mind!” Her face is redder than a tomato.
“Pretty sure you already have,” Oakley murmurs under his breath.
I fight hard not to snicker, and rummage around in my canvas bag for my phone. I pull up Twitter and dutifully wait for Claudia’s next command.
“Compose a Tweet to Oak about your sister working at his agency,” she orders before turning to glare at Oakley. “Are you happy with yourself, Oak? You totally screwed up our timeline! The sister Tweet was supposed to happen before the first date!”
One of the assistants—Amy, I think—speaks up soothingly. “It can still work, Claudia. We’ll just spin it to say that Vaughn DM’d Oakley her phone number, they went out and that’s when they realized her sister works at Diamond. Easy fix.”
“It’d better be,” Claudia mutters, and she looks so upset I feel a bit sorry for her.
I quickly send the Tweet before her cheeks can get any redder.
Vaughn Bennett @OakleyFord OMG! Can’t believe my sis works at your agency! #smallworld
One of the phones in Amy’s hand buzzes. She hands her stuff to another of Claudia’s assistants and types something in the phone.
A second later mine beeps. I read her reply and roll my eyes.
Oakley Ford Verified @VeryVaughn Small world...or maybe it’s fate.
Claudia glances at her own phone and releases a long breath. “All right. Good. The two of you need to keep Tweeting for a while so it doesn’t look like you were only on there to establish the Paisley connection.”
“But my account is private now,” I remind her. “Why do we have to keep talking online?”
“Because you still have followers and those people will sell these Tweets to the tabloids.”
“No, they won’t.”
Claudia looks at me like I’m dumb. And she doesn’t even bother trying to correct me.
Reality slaps me across the face. Oakley and I are not partners in crime. We’re not sharing a moment of anything here. He doesn’t Tweet me. He never liked my drawing. I don’t even know if he’s seen it. It’s Amy who is behind all those Tweets and likes and favorites.
I scoot over a little so that my leg isn’t so close to his.