Dating You / Hating You
Page 12
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I grin as we both move to the treadmills. My assistant, Jess, is a godsend, and I would cut down anyone who tried to take her. “Hot or not, I’m not trading you.”
Daryl shrugs. “He’s sweet and makes me laugh, but come staffing season I will burn the place to the ground if he still hasn’t learned how to answer a damn email.”
I’m sure Daryl will be fine—she runs with the upper middle of the pack performance-wise, but she’s undoubtedly beautiful, and charming enough that any agency would want to keep her around.
“You’re so good at this, Evie,” she says. “You’re so good at handling the stress and the personalities.” Blowing her cheeks out, Daryl releases a long breath. “Eric is probably never going to remember everything we went over this week. Hopefully Brad will eventually figure out that this isn’t the kid for the job.”
And I just hope Daryl isn’t blamed when Eric messes something up. Because it’s true that there are a million little things to remember, and when you try to make your brain roll through them like a list, they feel overwhelming. On top of that, the P&D organization itself seems to be made up of a constellation of eccentricities. Of tiny, nitpicky, really irritating eccentricities.
Like the way the legal department won’t read emails or contracts that aren’t in one of two specific fonts.
Or John Fineman’s odd—and dramatic—disdain for scripts with female characters named Maria.
And the fact that Brad once outright fired an assistant whose heels clicked too loudly on the marble floors near the elevators.
Being an agent is about a lot of things—balancing egos, coordinating projects, managing expectations, and above all, making money—but one thing it is never about is how something makes us feel.
And as Daryl and I each retreat into our own heads and I put on my headphones, something slowly dawns on me. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m not in a relationship is that I live all of my life precisely like that: assuming that nothing is ever about how I feel.
• • •
Carter and I are meeting at Eveleigh, a rustic farm-to-table joint on Sunset in West Hollywood. It’s perfectly situated between our two offices, as though we might simply leave work and stroll down the road for dinner. And although our texts have grown increasingly flirty, I wish it had occurred to me sooner that this might really just be a casual work-buddy dinner, because I have very clearly not come straight from work. Do I look too eager? Too high maintenance? I’m already concocting a credible explanation for why I might have worn a strapless black jersey dress and gold sandals to work, but when I hand my keys to the valet and look up under the vine-wrapped awning, I see Carter there, right in front of me in a dress shirt and freshly pressed trousers. He looks too crisp; there’s no way he’s just come from work, either.
In the time since I saw him last, I think I’d somehow convinced myself that he couldn’t be as cute as I remembered. Which would be fine because I like his personality a lot. But he is that cute; he’s even better-looking than I remembered, with dark shaggy hair and a sharp jaw, and this sweetly earnest gaze behind his glasses. And when he smiles, charisma just pours out of him and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, Evil,” he says, walking toward me.
It doesn’t feel weird to reach up and hug him.
He wraps his arms all the way around me, and I shiver a little when I feel the solidness of his body against mine.
“It’s so good to see you.”
Don’t think dirty thoughts. Don’t think dirty thoughts. “You too,” I say.
The embrace lingers, like we’re old friends seeing each other after a long separation. It isn’t weird, though—it’s easy, just like before.
I know relationships are work. My mom reminds me of this all the time, and of the balance it takes for two people to combine their lives into one. But I’ve always felt like it shouldn’t be work right away. Over time, yeah, I can see some effort needing to come into play when the honeymoon phase wears off and you can finally admit to yourself that it’s really irritating when they leave their socks on the couch or how they slurp their milk while eating cereal. But initially, being with someone should feel like the best and most natural thing in the world.
I’ve never really felt that chemistry before, but I definitely feel it with Carter. My blood hums just being near him, and I can’t stop grinning. He smells amazing and holds me so tight, squeezing a little more just before letting go.
Straightening, he gazes down at my face. “I think I forgot how pretty you are.”
“Me too.”
Wait, what did I just say?
“Aww,” he says, laughing. “I like being called pretty.”
Linking his fingers with mine, he turns and we check in at the hostess stand. His hand is big and secure—like a clamp around mine—and I can’t stop focusing on the way it feels. So not a buddy dinner then.
Hand-holding might seem like a simple, innocent way to signify closeness and attraction, but my hand in Carter’s feels anything but simple.
They say we have more nerve endings in our fingertips than we do in our lips, and as we snake our way through the dining area and to our table I swear I feel every millimeter of contact between us. When he lets go so we can sit, my entire body feels cold.
He swallows, and I’m mesmerized by his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his smile slowly creeps in from the side of his mouth.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m really glad to be here.” It’s not like me to be so forthcoming, but I can’t help myself. My filter seems to have malfunctioned on the walk from the front of the restaurant to my chair.
“Me too,” he says, and then turns his attention to the incoming waiter, who tells us the specials and takes our drink orders.
“I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka,” Carter says, and I snort. When the waiter makes a slight face but starts to write it down, Carter stops him. “Not really. Sorry. I’m kidding. Inside joke. Bad joke. I’ll have whatever IPA you have on tap.”
The waiter is unamused. “Stone or Lagunitas?”
“Lagunitas.” Carter’s tongue peeks out, touching his lower lip.
I can’t stop looking at him.
The waiter turns to me.
“I’ll have a glass of the Preston Barbera.”
When the waiter leaves, Carter leans an elbow on the table. “You give good shoulder.”
“I . . . what?”
He nods to my dress. “Your dress. Your shoulders.” Clearing his throat, he adds quietly, “You just . . . look amazing.”
I whisper, “Thanks,” and take a long drink of ice water to cool down the boiling just beneath the surface of my skin. “So, what’s the latest in Carterland?”
He grins at my subject change. “Work. Dodging calls from my parents. Texting a cute agent down the road. You know.”
I blush, deflecting, “You’re dodging your parents?”
“They want me to make more of an effort with my brother, but really it’s just their continued disapproval that I moved here in the first place.”
“Oh, no.”
He waves this off. “Mom is positive I’m going to end up homeless and buying crystal meth from a guy living in a box on Skid Row. I tried to tell her my apartment has a doorman and I don’t even know where Skid Row is, but she remains unconvinced.”
Daryl shrugs. “He’s sweet and makes me laugh, but come staffing season I will burn the place to the ground if he still hasn’t learned how to answer a damn email.”
I’m sure Daryl will be fine—she runs with the upper middle of the pack performance-wise, but she’s undoubtedly beautiful, and charming enough that any agency would want to keep her around.
“You’re so good at this, Evie,” she says. “You’re so good at handling the stress and the personalities.” Blowing her cheeks out, Daryl releases a long breath. “Eric is probably never going to remember everything we went over this week. Hopefully Brad will eventually figure out that this isn’t the kid for the job.”
And I just hope Daryl isn’t blamed when Eric messes something up. Because it’s true that there are a million little things to remember, and when you try to make your brain roll through them like a list, they feel overwhelming. On top of that, the P&D organization itself seems to be made up of a constellation of eccentricities. Of tiny, nitpicky, really irritating eccentricities.
Like the way the legal department won’t read emails or contracts that aren’t in one of two specific fonts.
Or John Fineman’s odd—and dramatic—disdain for scripts with female characters named Maria.
And the fact that Brad once outright fired an assistant whose heels clicked too loudly on the marble floors near the elevators.
Being an agent is about a lot of things—balancing egos, coordinating projects, managing expectations, and above all, making money—but one thing it is never about is how something makes us feel.
And as Daryl and I each retreat into our own heads and I put on my headphones, something slowly dawns on me. Perhaps one of the reasons I’m not in a relationship is that I live all of my life precisely like that: assuming that nothing is ever about how I feel.
• • •
Carter and I are meeting at Eveleigh, a rustic farm-to-table joint on Sunset in West Hollywood. It’s perfectly situated between our two offices, as though we might simply leave work and stroll down the road for dinner. And although our texts have grown increasingly flirty, I wish it had occurred to me sooner that this might really just be a casual work-buddy dinner, because I have very clearly not come straight from work. Do I look too eager? Too high maintenance? I’m already concocting a credible explanation for why I might have worn a strapless black jersey dress and gold sandals to work, but when I hand my keys to the valet and look up under the vine-wrapped awning, I see Carter there, right in front of me in a dress shirt and freshly pressed trousers. He looks too crisp; there’s no way he’s just come from work, either.
In the time since I saw him last, I think I’d somehow convinced myself that he couldn’t be as cute as I remembered. Which would be fine because I like his personality a lot. But he is that cute; he’s even better-looking than I remembered, with dark shaggy hair and a sharp jaw, and this sweetly earnest gaze behind his glasses. And when he smiles, charisma just pours out of him and onto the sidewalk.
“Hey, Evil,” he says, walking toward me.
It doesn’t feel weird to reach up and hug him.
He wraps his arms all the way around me, and I shiver a little when I feel the solidness of his body against mine.
“It’s so good to see you.”
Don’t think dirty thoughts. Don’t think dirty thoughts. “You too,” I say.
The embrace lingers, like we’re old friends seeing each other after a long separation. It isn’t weird, though—it’s easy, just like before.
I know relationships are work. My mom reminds me of this all the time, and of the balance it takes for two people to combine their lives into one. But I’ve always felt like it shouldn’t be work right away. Over time, yeah, I can see some effort needing to come into play when the honeymoon phase wears off and you can finally admit to yourself that it’s really irritating when they leave their socks on the couch or how they slurp their milk while eating cereal. But initially, being with someone should feel like the best and most natural thing in the world.
I’ve never really felt that chemistry before, but I definitely feel it with Carter. My blood hums just being near him, and I can’t stop grinning. He smells amazing and holds me so tight, squeezing a little more just before letting go.
Straightening, he gazes down at my face. “I think I forgot how pretty you are.”
“Me too.”
Wait, what did I just say?
“Aww,” he says, laughing. “I like being called pretty.”
Linking his fingers with mine, he turns and we check in at the hostess stand. His hand is big and secure—like a clamp around mine—and I can’t stop focusing on the way it feels. So not a buddy dinner then.
Hand-holding might seem like a simple, innocent way to signify closeness and attraction, but my hand in Carter’s feels anything but simple.
They say we have more nerve endings in our fingertips than we do in our lips, and as we snake our way through the dining area and to our table I swear I feel every millimeter of contact between us. When he lets go so we can sit, my entire body feels cold.
He swallows, and I’m mesmerized by his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the way his smile slowly creeps in from the side of his mouth.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m really glad to be here.” It’s not like me to be so forthcoming, but I can’t help myself. My filter seems to have malfunctioned on the walk from the front of the restaurant to my chair.
“Me too,” he says, and then turns his attention to the incoming waiter, who tells us the specials and takes our drink orders.
“I’ll have a Red Bull and vodka,” Carter says, and I snort. When the waiter makes a slight face but starts to write it down, Carter stops him. “Not really. Sorry. I’m kidding. Inside joke. Bad joke. I’ll have whatever IPA you have on tap.”
The waiter is unamused. “Stone or Lagunitas?”
“Lagunitas.” Carter’s tongue peeks out, touching his lower lip.
I can’t stop looking at him.
The waiter turns to me.
“I’ll have a glass of the Preston Barbera.”
When the waiter leaves, Carter leans an elbow on the table. “You give good shoulder.”
“I . . . what?”
He nods to my dress. “Your dress. Your shoulders.” Clearing his throat, he adds quietly, “You just . . . look amazing.”
I whisper, “Thanks,” and take a long drink of ice water to cool down the boiling just beneath the surface of my skin. “So, what’s the latest in Carterland?”
He grins at my subject change. “Work. Dodging calls from my parents. Texting a cute agent down the road. You know.”
I blush, deflecting, “You’re dodging your parents?”
“They want me to make more of an effort with my brother, but really it’s just their continued disapproval that I moved here in the first place.”
“Oh, no.”
He waves this off. “Mom is positive I’m going to end up homeless and buying crystal meth from a guy living in a box on Skid Row. I tried to tell her my apartment has a doorman and I don’t even know where Skid Row is, but she remains unconvinced.”
