“That’s your story. I let you win,” Nate says.
The rest of the men show up, talking trash about each other’s pool skills. Edgar wanders over to where Kim’s working. “How’s the résumé coming along?”
“Almost done. We were just talking about sending it off to somebody I know,” Kim says. “I was telling her about the issues his boss has been having.”
“Yeah, being so hot a bunch of women pant over him,” Jo says lightly. “Doesn’t seem like a problem problem.”
Kim shakes her head. “God gave women self-control and self-respect for a reason.”
“Maybe he’s hot enough to overwhelm both,” I say, thinking about that stranger at the airport. He almost made me forget myself. Actually, if I’d met him before Eugene pulled his I froze your accounts stunt, I might’ve called him…and hung out and let things go from there.
“Please.” Kim scoffs. “My boss is hot, especially given his age, and I never fell for him.”
Wyatt takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “Why would you, when you have me?”
“I mean before you popped back into my life.” Kim pats her fiancé’s arm.
A wave of pure longing pulses through me. This is what I want. It’s unfolding right here, right in front of me, played out by my friends, and my heart aches not only because I don’t have it, but because my family doesn’t think I should aim for it at all.
But they’re wrong. I’m going to aim as high as possible, even if I have to spend the next eight weeks babysitting a mystery man.
Chapter Seven
Declan
The second I land and turn on my phone, missed messages show up. Nothing that looks like one from the pianist from the airport, but then it hasn’t been that long, and she’s likely jet-lagged from the trip. She’ll probably call tomorrow. In fact, that makes more sense—tomorrow’s Saturday, when most people have free time.
I work, of course…but I’m not most people.
I grab my stuff and walk up the ramp and into LAX itself. People check me out as I join the flow of travelers. I can feel their gazes, especially the women. I’m used to it, though. Women have been eye-fucking me since I hit puberty. In junior high I had a friend named Freddie. His mom used to lower her tank top every time I went over to hang out.
Ignoring the usual ocular coitus, I spot two unknown numbers on my phone. They tried so, so hard to reach me, calling at least ten times each, but I snort at the pathetic attempts. There aren’t that many people whose numbers I’ve blocked recently. Ella needs to do better. Or maybe it’s Jessica. Hard to tell, since they’re both competing for gold in the Crazy Olympics.
Maybe I should just get a new phone and a new number. Wouldn’t that be fun?
It takes me no time at all to go through customs and immigration. Global Entry is worth its weight in gold. Actually, it’s just electronic information stored in a government database, so it has no weight. But it’s nice to have after eleven at night in LAX, and passengers of fully loaded Boeing jets just deplaned from various parts of Asia.
I text Benedict to let him know I’ve arrived. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
“Welcome back to the city of dreams,” he says.
“I don’t know about dreams, but at least it’s got my own bed.”
I spot the car service I always use for travel and hop inside. The chauffeur starts off toward my place after confirming the destination.
“Did you see that my connecting flight got delayed, too?” I say to Benedict.
“I did. Rough. Such bad luck on this trip.” Fake sympathy drips from his tone. He’s not too crazy about working on a Friday night, and he’s not good at hiding it from me. Which is why he’s an assistant, not an actor.
My phone pings with a text from an unknown number. Maybe it’s the piano lady…
–Unknown: I really, really, really need this. I’m only getting married once!
Damn Ella. I block the number. “You sure you don’t want to sacrifice that goat? I’ll triple this year’s bonus.”
“Positive, thank you. But I do have a potential assistant for you while I’m gone.”
I knew Benedict would come through. He’s desperate to work on his supposedly Oscar-winning screenplay. “Who?”