“Let’s do horror or something instead.” I sigh. “But, really, you don’t need to stop partying on my behalf.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Jane nearly shouts. “The Olivia Love Pity Party is a rager.”
I laugh and tell them to head over. I’ll offer wine or whiskey, whichever they want more. I may have lost the love of my life, but at least I still have my friends.
By the time they knock on my front door, pizza and ice cream in hand, I’ve managed to tidy up and make myself presentable.
“Nothing on social media.” I point at both of them. “No one needs to know I’m pouting.”
Jane rolls her eyes. “The world needs to see you unbothered!”
“The world needs to focus on the real stuff, not my life.” I roll my eyes right back at her. “And no more talking about me! We have movies to watch and pizza to stuff in our faces.”
We followed through on the plan. Giving each other facials, yelling at the TV through no less than three horror movies, and not saying a word about my life, Stephen, my future, or romance in general.
Not that I stop glancing at my phone, hoping to see a late-night text appear.
It never does.
Stephen
Ishouldn’t have come to this event. I sigh and try to ignore Olivia pouting from a distance. I knew she’d be here. Being with her in public only risks making things worse. And things are already terrible, so that’s saying something.
The reality TV project was supposed to be simple enough. All I needed to do was put together a reality show featuring rich kids working for their parents’ friends. Kids that wouldn’t have jobs if it weren’t for their last names and connections. No disguises, just letting the cameras roll as grown men and women try to rein in spoiled kids that they can’t fire for the duration of the contracted season. Simple, right?
At least it was until Olivia came along, pushed toward me by her father in the greatest show of irony to date. And why would I have said no? Garrett and I had been friends since high school. The things we’d done together in the past would shock and awe.
Olivia was picture perfect—charismatic, talented, intelligent, beautiful. The camera loved her. The fans adored her. And I was powerless to resist her. Even now, seeing her in her formal gown that highlights every curve and makes her look like a 1920s starlet tests my resistance. The slight frown on her face, her hair almost tamed in a classy side pony, the way she hesitates before taking a drink of wine…
I shouldn’t have accepted her as my personal assistant. I should have put her on the show with someone else instead. Shortly after Olivia and I first started working together, fans began teasing us relentlessly, wishing we’d be a couple. They said we had obvious sexual chemistry or whatever. Not that it hurt our ratings. People were so obsessed with Olivia and me hooking up, they were having battles online and constantly reaching out to the show to find out the real score between us. The media outlets were constantly trying to get a scoop, and if they couldn’t, they’d just make one up. The truth is, we were nothing but professionals and didn’t hook up…until we did. And the one time Olivia and I weren’t careful, the paparazzi was there to capture it. All it took was one stupid picture for my world to come crashing down.
“How long are we staying here?” Molly, the girl I’m trying to parade around, asks. She slips her arm through mine, dragging me back to my body and out of my fantasies.
“Until we get you a deal,” I remind her, gently taking a step away. “That’s the point of this.”
She pouts, her full lips jutting out until she looks like a plastic Barbie doll. Molly is pretty and she has good potential, but she lacks focus. I sigh and walk her around the room, trying to keep a bright smile as I schmooze with all the money in the room. Being with me should get her a few opportunities tonight. At least that was the plan when I promised my buddy I’d introduce his daughter to Hollywood. That was a few years ago but I always make good on my promises.
My eyes keep wandering to Liv. She brushes people to the side after a short conversation. They all leave smiling, but I know none have gotten what they wanted. Olivia is picky and isn’t interested in anyone so direct. Well, at least I hope she’s not.
Her eyes flick to me again and she looks me over, taking in the suit I wore for the event. She bites her lip, then glances at my “date.” Immediately, frustration and hurt flood her eyes. The rest of her face stays relaxed. I wonder if anyone else notices her longing looks or the obvious envy radiating from her.
She is used to being the one on my arm—a personal assistant staying close to the boss and keeping manipulative people away. It was an easy excuse to hide the fact that we wanted to stay close, to have a reason to touch each other, to laugh and have private, personal conversations.
But letting her go was the right thing to do, for both of us. I can’t give in again. I can’t. Garrett would literally kill me. We can’t go down this road again. But I want her as badly as a junky craves a fix. I still want her, fucking need her. I want her body writhing underneath mine. I want to hear her scream my name as she shatters around me. I want to taste her, inhale her, violate her. I want her, all of her.
But Olivia can’t know that. She would be better off hating me.
Her cheeks flush pink as she notices my attention. She sets her glass down, walking into another room. I point out to Molly a prominent producer and she giggles, pats my arm, and walks toward him, emphasizing each step with a sway of her hips. She’ll have his attention; keeping it is another matter. She definitely can’t keep mine.
My feet take me to Olivia, like they always do when unchecked. She pulls me toward her, mouth parted and ready, but I grip her shoulders, holding her away. “Olivia. Please.”
“So, you can bring a hot date, and I can’t even get a kiss?” she says with a pout that I want to kiss off her lips. “Stephen, is she more than a friend?”
My name on her lips is a sin. It has to be. Even a demon would cave for her. I swallow, glance at the door, and kiss her. It’s swift, just a brush of my lips across hers, but it brings back every stolen kiss, every giggling attempt to run away like teenagers just for five minutes to be alone at parties just like this.
Nostalgia, longing, depression, they all settle into my mouth and she pulls away. “What? Don’t like kissing me anymore?”
“You know that’s not it,” I whisper.