Dating You / Hating You
Page 44

“She just got here,” she says, nodding over to a doorway leading to the dressing rooms. “She’s in her room with her trainer.”
“Great.”
“That’s how we roll.” Her eyes follow some of the caterers as they begin unloading. She taps one of them on the shoulder as she sets down a tray of cookies, and points to the rest wrapped in cellophane. “There are no raisins in any of these, right?”
The woman looks at a label on the bottom of a tray and then consults a well-worn clipboard. “Food allergy? I didn’t see that on the order.”
“Fussy actress,” Allie corrects, and the caterer offers her an understanding smile.
“Let’s see,” the woman says, scanning the pages before stopping on an itemized list. “We have coffee and tea service, soda, fruit juices, ice water with assorted citrus, energy drinks, chocolate chip cookies, assorted Danishes, sports bars . . .” She rattles off a seemingly endless list, flipping through the papers again before smiling up at Allie. “The only raisins should be in the trail mix and it will be clearly labeled.”
Allie gives her the thumbs-up and turns back to me. I snag a cookie from the tray and then pause, looking down at it. My suit is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, like Spanx. Have I put on that much weight? Absently, I touch my stomach.
“Jamie is fussy about raisins?”
Allie nods. “She’s one of the most level-headed actresses I’ve worked with, but, Lord, is she particular about her food.” I raise a brow and Allie waves me off. “Don’t worry, she’s not a diva or anything and would never hold up a shoot, she’s just really, really particular.”
“As in particular with a side of losing it?”
“Borderline?” she says, grinning. “But regardless, that’s why I’m here.” Her phone dings and she swipes across the screen. “Which is more than I can say for Seamus. I’ll take care of Jamie; you just make sure he’s on his best behavior today.”
“Seamus is Evelyn Abbey’s problem, not mine.” I casually scan the room for Evil over Allie’s shoulder, not sure if I feel more pleased or disappointed when I don’t see her.
“Good luck to her, is all I have to say. He’s so used to having his head filled with adoration on that YouTube channel of his that he can’t take a simple no. I know it’s a sign of the times, but he got his start on the same platform where my nine-year-old uploads her What’s in My Backpack videos. Kids today want to be famous. You ask them, ‘Famous for what?’ and they don’t care. Did you know that at Seamus’s first YouTube photo shoot he wanted his own toilet seat and Kanye’s Graduation album played on a continual loop—and when he didn’t like the color scheme in one of the set designs, he said he’d be back when it was repainted?” Allie scans the area. “He will lose the plot one day, mark my words.”
I nod, having heard all of this—and more. “If you feel that way, then why on earth did you encourage Jamie to take this part?”
She lowers her voice. “Because Jamie needs this role, and right now Seamus is hot. Let him pay six hundred dollars for a hipster reflexologist to blow marijuana smoke in his face and balance his fucking chakras—I don’t care. But here? He’d better show up and do the work, not fly off the handle. Pretty early in his game to start showing his ass.”
I laugh. “I’ll be sure to give my colleague the heads-up. And keep those raisins away from Jamie.”
“I will.” Allie switches off her phone and slips it into her pocket. “Let me know when the photographer is here.”
I give her a tight smile when I realize that means Jonah still hasn’t materialized. “Will do.”
I turn and almost run right into Evie.
Shit. “Oops, didn’t see you eavesdropping behind me.”
“Eavesdropping?” She pulls back to give me an amused smile. “Oh, Carter. You love hearing yourself talk enough for the both of us.”
Like they have a mind of their own, my eyes quickly skirt down the length of her body and back up again. She’s wearing a sleeveless button-down shirt dress, with the top two buttons open, exposing collarbone and just a hint of cleavage, and I’m left momentarily speechless by her shoulders and her boobs. When I meet her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitches and I know that I’m busted.
“I see all your buttons are accounted for today,” I say.
“See? That wasn’t so hard. You’ll learn this workplace etiquette with more seasoning, sport.”
I turn as she slips past me. “It was simply a battle between workplace etiquette and a complete lack of interest,” I call after her. “Lack of interest won.”
She stops, spinning slowly to face me, and I feel sweat prick at the back of my neck. My suit seems to shrink further. Instinctively, I tighten my fingers around the cookie in one hand and the phone in the other, feeling every one of my stupid texts with Michael Christopher flash before my eyes. I can’t help but worry the sentiment in each is scrolling across my face, too.
I nearly put my face in Evie’s boobs in her office.
Keep reminding me that she’s Lucifer.
Right. Lucifer. Remember, Carter: it’s essentially her or you.
“Did I touch a nerve?” I ask.
There’s the slightest twitch in her jaw, one so slight it would probably go unnoticed by someone who hasn’t memorized every inch of her face.
Her posture becomes less rigid, her expression suddenly softer. “How are you feeling today? You good?”
Confused by this change of tactic, I instinctively want to cover my crotch. Instead, I straighten, taking the smallest step back. “Why?”
“No reason,” she says with a casual shrug. “You just look a little, I don’t know . . . fluffier than normal.”
There’s a distinct emphasis on the word fluffier, and I feel naked and afraid as her eyes drop all the way down my body and back up, before she takes the cookie from me.
“Are you depressed?” she asks, tossing it into the trash. Smiling sweetly at me, she coos, “Carter, you don’t need that.”
It takes a minute for the pattern of her questions to register—How are you feeling today? You good? Fluffier than normal . . . —and then I get it: Evie fucked with my suit.
I would strangle her right now if I had more range of motion inside this tiny jacket. But instead, as I watch her walk triumphantly down the hall, I pull my phone from my pocket, open the saved post in my browser, and hit submit.
One . . .
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!”