Dating You / Hating You

  Two . . .

  She pulls up short as her phone rings, retrieving it from her purse. “Evelyn Abbey speaking.” A pause, and her forehead furrows. “What? No, I think there’s been some mistake. I don’t have a car for sale.”

  I rock back on my heels. My bad mood is a distant memory.

  “No,” she says again. “I told you, I don’t have—yes, that’s my number, but I’m not selling a car. And definitely not at that price.” Ending the call, she turns to leave, but the phone rings again.

  “Hello? . . . No, there’s been some sort of mix-up, someone else just . . . No, I don’t have a car for sale. Can I ask where you saw this? Craigslist . . . and the Times?” She looks back at me from over her shoulder. “And what did the ad say?” A moment of silence. “Tesla Model S, one owner . . . One thousand dollars or best offer?” she shouts, and hangs up the phone, turning to me. “You did this!”

  It’s my turn to shrug. “Did what? I didn’t know you were selling a car. Good for you—taking a chance on the LA public transit system!”

  “That’s it, Aaron,” she growls, walking back to me and pointing a finger to my chest. “No more freebies, no more help. From now on, you’re on your own.”

  “Narcissist much?”

  She leans in close and I get a whiff of her. It slaps me somewhere nostalgic, making me dizzy. “Just do your job today, okay?” she growls. “Watch that your brother doesn’t screw this up, and make sure Jamie doesn’t slow Seamus down.”

  • • •

  Come nine thirty, Jonah is still nowhere to be found. By ten, I’ve almost worn a hole through the studio floor—and possibly the seams of these pants—when he comes strolling in.

  Talking on his cell phone.

  Carrying a takeout coffee cup and sporting dark sunglasses.

  Evie, thankfully, is in Seamus’s dressing room trying to calm the actor down.

  “What the fuck, Jonah?” I say, crossing to him. The fabric between my thighs chafes audibly with each step. Swish swish swish. “Nice of you to stop by.”

  He looks up at me over the top of his lenses. “Chill out.”

  “Chill out,” I repeat under my breath, turning away and pushing a hand through my hair. The seams of my jacket protest. “We moved things to accommodate your schedule.”

  “Would you relax?” he says, clearly agitated now. “My assistant has everything set up, and I’ve already gone through the shoot list with the creative director. I’ll do a final check of the lights and we can get started. By eleven, exactly like we discussed. Just get out of my fucking space.”

  If my brother came with one set of instructions, they would say: Does not play well with others. In school he used to get into fights almost daily with kids who teased him about his ever-present camera. Now, as an adult, he just doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him; as long as he’s making money, he’s fine. It’s something I’ve never been able to understand. His assistant took care of it this time, but what Jonah fails to realize is that at some point, somewhere, someone will decide he’s not worth the hassle. Now the crew are annoyed about being kept waiting, the talent have both returned to their dressing rooms in varying states of frustration, the editors are all typing wildly into their phones because the photographer I arranged has them already behind schedule, and Evie—aside from telling off people wanting to buy her car—has been wearing her best I told you so expression since the moment eight thirty came and went without any sign of my brother.

  Thank God I posted that ad this morning. The delight in seeing Evie lose it is the only thing keeping me together.

  I’m halfway down the hall on my way to Jamie’s dressing room when the screaming starts.

  “Who put raisins in these cookies!”

  I knock on the partially open door and poke my head inside. “Is everything okay?”

  By this point Jamie is dramatically retching into a garbage can and Allie is standing over her, rubbing her back.

  “There was a raisin in the cookie,” Allie says to me before turning back to Jamie. “Honey, let’s take it down a notch before people start talking. If I have to get makeup back in here to clean you up, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  “Aren’t these the ones from craft services?” I ask, picking one up to examine it before turning it over. “We looked at these earlier, I don’t remember any—” I stop and stare down at the cookie in my hand. It looks like someone has pressed raisins into the underside of the cookie. Lots of them. Raisins that weren’t there earlier this morning.

  I swing my head around to face the door. “I’ll be back.”

  I set down the cookie and head toward the door. “Allie, the photographer is here. Can you get Jamie prepped to start soon? I’m sorry about all this, by the way.”

  “Carter, they’re raisins, not amphetamines. She’ll be fine.”

  I nod, offering Jamie another apologetic smile before I step out and close the door behind me. I am fuming.

  Evie is with Seamus and his assistant in his dressing room. If I had any doubt that she was the one responsible, those hopes are dashed as soon as she sees my face. Her eyes light up, cheeks flush.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I growl, poking my head through the doorway. “Evie? I need to talk to you.”

  “Sorry, Carter, we’re just in the middle of something,” she says, but pointedly looks down at the floor.

  “Unfortunately, it’s important. Excuse us for just a second, guys?” With a calm touch that surprises me, I reach for Evie’s arm and gently lead her down a narrow hallway and into a sound-mixing room, empty but for some cables, a dim fluorescent light on in the corner, and equipment locked up along the far wall, my pants swishing the entire way.

  “What’s that sound?” she asks with a grin, but I ignore her.

  My hand around her arm is shaking, I’m so furious.

  Furious . . . and hot. I’m really hot. These pants are tight as hell.

  “You are fucking unreal.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” she says. “We’re minutes away from starting the light tests.”

  The door closes behind us, sealing us in the dim light, and Evie wrenches her arm out of my grip. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “We can take five minutes to fucking talk.”

  “So talk.”

  “Is this where we are now? We’ll just keep tearing little pieces out of each other?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, hands to her hips, “I can’t hear your man-baby words over the seventy-five phone calls from people wanting to buy my nonexistent Tesla.”

  “Did I do the lotion thing to get back at you for the coffee?” I begin. “Yeah. Do I regret it? Hell no. I can still hear the echo of your frustrated roar from the other end of the hall.”

  She takes a swaggering step closer. “That must be rough, being the consummate people-pleaser that you are. How depressing to need every single person’s approval.”

  “That would be a first for you, right?” I ask, leaning in. “Caring what other people think?”

  “Only because I don’t need to be everyone’s best friend to get the job done.”

  “Or anyone’s, for that matter.”

  Her face is so close to mine, brown eyes flashing. “Are we really getting into this again?” she asks, shaking her head at me. “Carter, look at this from my side. No one ever told a guy he needs to be nicer at work to get ahead.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but snap it shut. Evie moves in even closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to look up at me. We could be embracing. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not glance down to her dress.

  “I tried nice, Carter,” she says, “and here I am, fighting to keep my job—a job I’m more qualified for, if we’re being honest. You might be the one everyone likes, but I’m the one who gets the job done. So stay out of my way.”

  Her words bounce around the otherwise silent room, and I’m left a little stunned. The truth of what Steph said about being a
woman in this business comes rushing back, and the weight of guilt settles deep in my stomach—which is laughable because the last thing Evie would want from me is pity.

  “Fine,” I say.

  She clearly didn’t expect this. “ ‘Fine’?”

  I nod. “Yeah.” I take a couple of steps back so I’m leaning against a wall. I need air with her so close. “You are good at your job. We both are. From the start we agreed that wasn’t the problem. Brad set up this bullshit competition, and we played right into it. Little did I know what a sexist shit show it would become, and I hate it. I do.” I push off again, and move back to her. “But you’re pretending the fucked-up system of toxic masculinity is the reason you’re a dick to me, when really I think you just hate how things have changed between us.”

  When she doesn’t respond, I lean in. “So here’s the thing, Evie: if we put our heads down, and do our jobs, and stay out of each other’s way, then we can just be colleagues.”

  She gives me an aggressive shrug. “Okay? Sounds good to me.”

  “Colleagues. That’s it,” I say, and her shoulders fall a little as she gets where I’m going with this. My heart is pounding so hard, I have to pull off my suit jacket so I don’t feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. Evie watches me take it off and drop it next to us, eyes rapt as she looks back to my face.

  “Passing in the hallway, small talk, work emails. Whatever this is,” I say, waving between us, “would go away. You may not like the glitter explosion in your car, but at least you know I was thinking about you when I did it.” I pause, swallowing. “At least now you know I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I can’t believe I just said this. I can’t believe I didn’t really realize it before just now. Are we really this immature? Jesus Christ, I guess we are. With this admission, it feels like a tight cage around my chest has been unlocked, and I can let out a huge breath.

  “Well,” I say quietly, “there’s my dramatic admission for the day.”

  I expect her victorious Evil cackle, or even awkward, stunned silence. So I’m surprised when she moves up against me and slides her hand into my hair, pulling me down, down to her mouth.

  I am immediately, completely on board. She pulls my lower lip into her mouth, sucking and nipping just hard enough to tap a mallet to the gunpowder of my blood. My hips press forward against hers, and the sound she makes in response dumps fuel everywhere.

  I am on fire.

  We don’t have time for this. She says it into my lips even as she stretches higher, pressing into me. Even when she reaches for my hand, urging me to touch her.

  We don’t have time for this.

  Her hand is like a clamp around my wrist, dragging it down over her breast, beneath her dress, up her leg. Against my mouth, her lips feel like a holy experience—eager in a way that tells me I’m not the only one who thinks about this all the fucking time.

  My hand finds the lace of her underwear, sliding under, and her little gasp telegraphs her thoughts immediately: Touch me there, get me off, do it quickly.

  I laugh in thrill, amazed at how easy she is to remember. The shape of her, the way she moves against my hand. Only the second time I’ve touched her, but here we are, snapping back into focus. Her hand slides down over the front of my pants—which have become their own kind of torture device—and she giggles into my mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she says between shallow breaths.

  I don’t care about my fucking suit. I don’t even care when her hand loses focus and slides back up my body, pulling my head against her. Her neck is warm and thrumming beneath my teeth. Half of me wants to bite her so she comes stumbling out of this room like a screaming sex telegraph, but the other half wants her to leave the room put back together—keeping this perfect little secret after she comes around my fingers with her hands digging into my shoulders and her mouth open in that quiet, soft cry.

  After, I slow my touch but don’t pull away. Evie’s eyes are closed, her face tilted up to the ceiling. With my free arm around her, I’m practically holding her up, and this mighty force in my arms somehow feels so fragile.

  But I like that about her. I like that when she’s on alert, every tiny bit of her packs a punch.

  “We didn’t have time for this,” she whispers again.

  “Oh well.”

  She pulls her head up, looking at me with unfocused eyes, and grins. “Oh well.”

  Evie makes to move back, and I untangle my hand from her underwear, letting her go. She looks at the buttons of her dress, straightening things, running fingers through her hair. With reluctance, I bend, picking up my jacket.

  “Thanks,” she says, then bites her lip.

  I laugh, and this breaks her grin free. “You’re welcome.”

  What the fuck happens now?

  She opens her mouth to speak, but a fist bangs on the door and I swear to God all four of our collective feet leave the ground with how much it terrifies us.

  “Carter!”

  I clasp a hand over my chest. It’s only Jonah, but I think I’ve just lost three years of my life.

  I lean over, opening the door. Light from the hallway spills into the dim room and I squint over at him. “What?”

  He takes quick stock of the scene before him. “We’re getting some green-screen shots before we move the set pieces into place.” With a little grin, he adds, “Thought you two might want to come out.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “You think I’m a fucking idiot?”

  I stare at him wordlessly.

  Jonah rolls his eyes and then looks past me to Evie. “You must be the maddening wo-man.”

  “You must be the douchebag bro-ther.”

  He smiles, delighted. “Carter’s love looks a lot like hate, doesn’t it?”

  Evie unleashes her amazing cackle and I reach forward and smack him. “How did you know we were in here?”

  Jonah turns, laughing, and heads back down the hall. He calls over his shoulder, “That’s where everyone goes in this studio to fuck.”

  chapter nineteen

  evie

  Monday-morning meetings are going to be an issue.

  Carter is sitting across from me, bent head-to-head with Aimee over a spreadsheet. I’m only now taking the time to notice that his hair has gotten a little shaggy in front, but he’s kept it short on the sides and . . . well, I’m quite enjoying it. Today he’s wearing a light blue shirt, and I don’t know if it’s intentional, but the top two buttons are undone, showing a nice hint of his pecs. Unfortunately, now I can’t really blame him for the Evie Blouse Disaster of Late October, because there is no way I am telling him that I can see chest-below-collarbone for fear that he would remove it from my view. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and he’s doing that fascinating trick where he flips a pen over the back of his hand.

  Back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  He made me come with those fingers.

  Back and forth.

  My chest twists a little as I realize how hard I’m swooning, and how far that will take me. Because who knows what is going on between us? We sure haven’t talked about what happened Friday.

  After Jonah found us, we left the mixing room in silence. We walked down the hall and found that our presence was completely useless anyway: Jonah and the crew had the shoot under control, and we wrapped right on time.

  After only a brief shared look of bewilderment, Carter went to his car, I went to mine, and we left separately. He didn’t call, I didn’t call, and we haven’t made eye contact again. But, thankfully, we haven’t melted back down into petty sabotage, either.

  Oh, no.

  I’m softening toward him again, which can mean only one thing: my defenses are down. It would probably be wise for me to make a list of all the ways he offends me on a personal and professional level.

  1. He’s too overtly sexy for the workplace.

  2. He clearly can’t button his shirts. Deleted
b/c hypocritical.

  3. He

  I look up and stare blankly at the fingers flipping the pen back and forth across his hand.

  I’ll compile the rest of the list later.

  I’m also—and I loathe saying it because I despise the cliché of two girls pitted against each other for the boy—slightly annoyed by Kylie. She’s sitting at the end of the table near Brad’s perch, waiting like all of us for the boss man to appear, but she isn’t even trying to be subtle about staring at Carter. She may or may not be having an affair with Brad, but she definitely wants to bang Carter. I am zero percent on board with this plan, because just before I light his tight pants on fire, I’d like to actually have sex with him.

  Maybe that’d get him out of my system.

  “How was the Vanity Fair shoot?” Brad asks, strolling into the room, and both Carter and I jump.

  “Great!” we exclaim in unison.

  Brad narrows his eyes at us, and Carter grins. “It went off without a hitch.”

  I nod. “No bumps.”

  “Or grinds,” Carter adds, and stifles a grin.

  I stare at the table, trying to strangle down my laugh. The giddy thrill of having Carter acknowledge what we did on Friday makes me want to jump on the table and start channeling Missy Elliott.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brad sit up. “Yeah?”

  “They got all the shots they needed,” Carter says. “Everyone left happy.”

  “On the whole, I was very satisfied,” I add.

  Carter coughs, and the room falls into a heavy silence.

  Brad’s steely gaze narrows and he glances back and forth between me and Carter, who are very pointedly not looking at each other. “What am I missing?”

  “Nothing,” we say in unison again.

  “I don’t want to know any more,” Brad says, turning to Ashton.

  Everyone is awkwardly shifting in their seats, looking at each other in silent What do you know about this? communication. No one cares about the photo shoot; there’s drama all the time at those things, but it’s rarely between the agents. Now they’re pigs sniffing for truffles. Our colleagues are either dying of curiosity or convinced they know something, but no one is oblivious. Not in this business.