Dating You / Hating You
Page 49

“Well, he’s doing a series on career road bumps and I was mentioning to him that you might be great as a guest.”
Carter outwardly flinches. Embarrassment flashes across my skin and I’m hoping I can keep the blood from flooding my face by sheer will alone.
I force a tight smile. “I’m intrigued.”
“Great, great,” he says, reaching for the drink set in front of him. “I’ll connect you two. You get knocked down but always manage to get yourself back up. That’s what I like, sport. Good talking to you, Carter.”
And with that, he pats us each on the shoulder in turn and moves on to the next conversation.
Carter’s expression shines with irritation. He’s doing that thing that makes me insane—the quiet studying, with those honest green eyes—and it feels so dangerous to be standing here with him, in this setting, which is somehow both work and social, and a little Us Against Them.
I can’t resist him when he’s like this. He looks gorgeous. His lips are slightly wet from his beer, eyes relaxing into that knowing glint, like he can read every thought I have and he finds each one amusing.
I wish I could be more like him, and I realize with a slug to my gut that that’s what a lot of this is for me. I’ve always been good at my job, but Carter has an easiness about him that I’ll never be able to emulate. He’s simply . . . comfortable in his body, in his mind. I have to work so hard for every client, every deal, every second maintaining my level head. It’s satisfying that I can make him insane sometimes, but it’s short-lived.
Still . . . I seem to get to him, too, in a way that I haven’t seen anyone else do.
I pull my lip between my teeth, thinking on this possibility that maybe Carter is a little hung up on me, too.
“You look like you’re cycling through a lot of things right now,” he says.
“Like what?”
He shrugs and steps a little closer. “Like whether you should kiss me or punch me.”
The bald honesty of this makes my chest squeeze so tight, I have a moment of breathlessness. “It’s a daily struggle.”
This seems to delight him. “Really? I was kidding. Friday aside, I figured you were mostly up for the punching.”
“It is heavily favored.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I struggle similarly.” He pauses, taking a sip of his beer. “Alas, kissing is usually favored.”
I swallow, working to contain my outward reaction to this. My shoulders go up in this external tiny squeal and I lift my drink to my lips to mask it as a shiver from the chill.
“Should we talk about that?” he asks quietly.
I’m opening my mouth to tell him yes, absolutely, but not here when a floppy arm comes around me. I startle, and Rose appears at my side, bringing with her a heavy whiff of tequila.
“Evie!”
“Hey, Rose.” I smile as she presses a wet kiss to my cheek.
Aimee comes up behind her, and I get the distinct impression she’s been keeping an eye on Rose’s booze intake. “Hey, guys,” she says.
Rose leans in closer. “You’re amaaazing.” The word is drawn out into several syllables and brings out the lime smell just on the edge of the tequila.
I laugh at this, working to gently step out of her embrace. “Aww, thanks.”
“No, I mean it. You’re my girl hero.”
I look up at Carter’s face and bite back a laugh at the surprised amusement there. For once he doesn’t seem annoyed to hear someone compliment me.
“Just your girl hero?” Carter asks, laughing.
“My hero he-ro . . .”
“Rose has had a really good party,” Aimee says with a smile and a nod. “Rose, honey? Are you ready to head out yet? I can drop you on my way.”
Rose waves her off and looks at Carter, giving him a very long, very drunken once-over. “Hey, Carter.”
He laughs, cheeks a little pink. “Hey, Rose.”
He slips one hand in his pocket and gazes back at my face. Something inside me pulls tight, a string being tied around my midsection, at the way his attention to me is a quiet statement about where his thoughts are . . . and who he’s here for.
I get caught in that look, snagged by it.
“Evie,” Rose stage-whispers into my ear, and I shiver from the wet condensation of her breath on my neck. “Any chance we’ll get to be Eskimo sisters on this one?”
This question comes like a bucket of ice poured over my head, and I step away, fully out of her arm now, shaking my head. “I’m not sure that has anything to do with me.”
I look up at Carter but can’t tell whether he’s heard. I want to take Rose’s drink away, lead her to a couch where she can sit down and get some air, maybe sober up.
Turning, I collide directly with Brad’s chest.
“I see Rose has her fifth margarita,” he says with a laugh caught somewhere between reprimand and pride.
“Fourth,” Rose says, and then adds, “But these are strong.”
Without preamble, Brad lifts his chin to her, asking, “You gonna pick up the pace this quarter, Rosie?”
I feel my face heat at the patronizing Rosie and the work-performance question thrown so sharply down into the small circle of us standing here.
Rose flushes, too, and says, “Oh, yeah, Q3 was just an outlier for me.” She looks away, glancing out the back doors, and sips her drink as we all drown in awkward silence.
“Well, not so much of an outlier,” Brad says, bringing her back into it. “The rest of the team is crushing deals left and right. Ashton signed three majors this month. Carter got Jett Payne a recurring spot on a Netflix show and a starring role in a Ridley Scott movie. Evie here has Sarah Hill in this year’s biggest teen craze. I think you’re gonna need to figure out where you fit into the puzzle.”
“If I do,” Rose says, and never before have I wanted to escape a conversation more than this one. “Sometimes I look at someone like Evie and wonder if I’m cut out for this. I mean, I love it, okay? But . . .”
Carter and I meet eyes and quickly look away. This is painful for both of us. I want to tell Rose to stop. I want to tell her she’s gone too far, this is a conversation for closed doors, with me or someone else who’s sympathetic—not here. Seven days of the week—even on holidays—Brad is out to win. He’s not going to worry about appearances and say something to ease her mind. He’s a predator, and if you show him a trail of blood he will hunt you down until he’s eating your entrails.
Graphic but true.
“Just depends,” Brad says with menacing quiet, “whether you’re more comfortable being a failure or a quitter.”
I down my wine, knowing I’ll regret drinking it so fast but also unable to stop myself because I need to do something other than stand here, listening to Brad give this poor, nice person her very negative year-end review in the middle of a party.
Snagging another glass from a passing tray, I turn and walk toward the Christmas tree, intent on admiring it and getting the hell away from the echo of that conversation.
But I can feel Carter on my heels, and he stops just behind me, staying quiet while we each take a few breaths.
“Wow,” he says quietly, and I nod.
A few more seconds pass before he whispers, “Evie?”
“Yeah?”
“What are Eskimo sisters?”