Ten Rules for Faking It

by Sophie Sullivan

  His text tone signaled.

  Okay. Should I be worried?

  No.

  Tucking his phone in his pocket, he crossed the street, passed the kids playing, and took the couple of steps up to the entryway landing.

  Buzzing number 3, he waited.

  “Hello?” Everly’s voice sounded scratchy through the speaker.

  It took him a second to find his voice. “It’s Chris.”

  The pause made his breath hitch until she asked, “Pine?”

  His lips twitched. “No.”

  “Evans?”

  “Wrong again.” He glanced around to make sure no one was watching this ridiculous exchange.

  “Pratt?”

  “Let me in, Everly.”

  “Oh. You do know my first name.”

  Stopping himself from smacking his head against the side of the house, he sighed, pressed the button again. “Of course I do.”

  The buzzer sounded, and he pulled the door open. The house was charming with a wide staircase leading to a couple of upper units. His grandmother lived in a heritage home just outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Chris hadn’t seen her in too long, but he’d always loved going for dinners there. They were simple and delicious. Before he’d passed, his grandfather insisted on gathering as a whole unit at least twice a month.

  Grandmother never allowed business discussions at the table, and though she had more money than the San Verde bank, she didn’t care much for “things.” She believed in family, forgiveness, and hard work. Most of that had rubbed off on Chris and his brothers. The jury was still out on his sister. Chris always felt close to his grandmother. She saw through smoke screens others didn’t and knew, unlike the other men, or women, in his family, he craved what she and his grandfather had shared before his passing.

  Shaking off his maudlin thoughts, he took the stairs up and veered to the right. Everly’s door swung open before he knocked.

  “What are you doing here?” She was dressed in a pair of pink sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, and her long, chestnut-brown hair was pulled up into a ponytail. As usual, her face was free of makeup, but even without it, her skin was flawless. Her blue eyes watched him warily. She had the most expressive gazes. He could tell when she was nervous or excited just from a glance. Maybe that’s a sign you’re paying too much attention. What would it take to make her lower her shield? To open up.

  His arms itched to wrap her up in a hug, but he wasn’t sure if she’d accept it, if it would be over the line, or if he’d be doing it more for himself. Sticking to safer territory, Chris thrust the brown paper bag toward her.

  Her eyes narrowed. She took a small step back. “What’s that?”

  He smiled, amused by her wariness over something so simple. “Dessert.”

  Her eyes snapped up, and she scowled at him. As she turned and padded into her apartment, she said, “I don’t like birthday cake.”

  “I heard. That’s not what this is.” He let himself in and shut the door. He’d never been in her apartment—there’d never been a reason. Probably isn’t one now.

  Glancing around, he saw it was simple and quiet with small splashes of color—teal cushions on the gray couch, a pale pink blanket that looked like she’d been wrapped up in it draped over the back. The television was paused on a show he didn’t recognize. Light filtered through the gaps in the closed blinds. It made sense that his apartment here didn’t have much character, but in this tiny space, Everly created a stronger atmosphere of comfort, of home, than his apartment in New York, which he was temporarily leasing out but had owned for years. There was a hallway to the left and a dividing wall to the right. He assumed one went to the kitchen and the other to the bedroom and bathroom. She headed to the right.

  “Good thing I came home so I could greet visitors. Want a drink?”

  Around the wall was what he expected—a small, narrow, clean kitchen.

  His jaw tensed. Visitors? “Your ex didn’t show, did he?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “No.”

  Thank God. He hoped she never had to look at Simon again. “I’ll take a water, thanks.”

  She grabbed a bottle from the fridge and passed it to him. He offered her the bag, opened the water, and took a long drink to ease the dryness of his throat. Excellent. More dead air. When he set his water down, his eyes landed on the multiple issues of Cosmopolitan sitting on her counter. Biting his lip to hold back a smile, he reached for them.

  A small noise escaped Everly’s mouth. She set the bag on the other counter and took the magazines from him, shoving them into a drawer. He tried to peek before she closed it and was pretty sure he saw more issues. A closet Cosmo junkie. Didn’t see that coming.

  Her cheeks were a subtle, but noticeable, shade of pink. He wanted to tease her, make that blush spread over her skin. Everly backed up, and Chris cleared his throat.

  He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, ever, so he stuck to safer topics.

  “Who came to visit?”

  “My mom.” She closed her eyes and sighed.

  Say something. She shouldn’t be embarrassed by wanting to know ten ways to please herself in bed. Damn. Do not think about Cosmo. Say something. Break the silence. Now. What? I’m sorry you’d dated a loser. You deserve more, and I want to be the man to give it to you. Shit. No. Do not say that.

  Everly opened her eyes. “My mom has it in her head that Cosmo is some sort of Bible for all single women. She brings me several issues each time she visits.”

  Chris chuckled, thinking it was nice to know something about her—something small and personal.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “It’s nice she wants you to be happy.” Way to go not saying pleased. His heart rate amped up. “You going to look in the bag?”

  “I’m not in the mood for dessert.”

  Determined to get rid of the tension in the air, he crossed the kitchen, which really was just a matter of taking a few steps. “Do you have a fork, then? It’s chocolate-caramel pie from Dario’s, and I’m addicted.”

  For a second, she said nothing, and then slowly, a smile lifted her lips, her eyes brightened, and she laughed. Pleasure filled his chest at the sound. She was always gorgeous, but when she laughed, she was adorable. Those expressive eyes brightened, and her cheeks rounded with happiness, her rigid stance relaxing.

  She tilted her head to one side. “Shouldn’t you tell me to put it in the fridge for later?”

  Making a face, Chris shook his head, opened the bag, and withdrew the take-out container. “No way. You don’t put food this good in the fridge for later. There are rules about these things.”

  A strange expression he couldn’t decipher passed over her features. He almost asked if he’d said something wrong.

  She held out her hand. “Then I changed my mind. I want it.”

  His breath stumbled in his airway, and he made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan. Chris could write a freaking book on what he wanted. And couldn’t have.

  “That seems fair. It is your birthday, and I did bring it for you.”

  She took it from him, her hand reaching out cautiously as if he were dangerous. Ha. The only dangerous one is you, Everly Dean. She was the kind of woman who could distract a guy from a well-made plan.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry your birthday sucked.”

  She shrugged, dug a spoon out, then popped the lid of the container. “Most of them do. Not always this bad. At least it’s almost over.”

  No one should feel that way about their birthday. What happened to make her feel that way? He spent too much time thinking about Everly—what her favorite dessert was, why she’d become a producer, why she lived in San Verde when she could work anywhere, what it would feel like to kiss her, to see if she had more than just those few freckles dotting her nose or wake up in her bed.

  She’s your employee. And not a short-term fling.

  “Is the station phone going nuts?”

  Now h
e shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about work, which in and of itself was strange. His gaze was fixed on the spoon with the bite of creamy rich chocolate heading for her mouth. She licked her lips before opening them, and Chris’s stomach tightened, his breathing shallowed. He could imagine, vividly, how she’d taste. The chocolate covering a hint of caramel with whatever would be uniquely Everly. When her eyes drifted shut, her mouth closing around the spoon, he curled his hands into fists, fighting the urge to lean into her. Inhale her. Taste for himself.

  Her eyes fluttered open, locked on his. “Delicious.”

  Yes. Yes, she was. He needed to get back to work.

  “I should go.” It might have come out a little sharper than he’d intended, but come on, he was hanging by a thread here. Between wanting to hug her, kiss her, comfort her, and have a strongly worded conversation with her ex, Chris’s emotions were on overload.

  Tilting her head to one side again, her hair swung to the left, giving him the scent of vanilla. Pursing her lips, she studied him. “Why did you bring this? You don’t even like me.”

  Shock silenced him. His heart beat an uneven tempo beneath his ribs. That’s what she thought? I like you too much. I think about you all the time, and it distracts me. You make me think about coming home to a tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood. You make me forget why I’m here.

  “That’s not true. At all,” he managed, voice gruff.

  Her eyebrows arched up. “Really? Evidence would suggest otherwise.”

  What evidence? He was always polite and professional with her—he made sure of it. It took a tangible amount of energy to not clue her in to how he felt. Usually, he walked away from an interaction with her feeling like he’d run a race in jeans.

  “I’m not sure what you mean or why you think that,” he admitted. “But I promise you, it isn’t true.” What else could he say?

  Fighting to stay still, not shuffle under her watchful gaze, he wished he could think of something else to say to erase her look of doubt.

  “Well … thanks.”

  Shoving one hand in his pocket, he retrieved his keys, closed his fingers around them tightly. “No problem. See you tomorrow.”

  He let himself out, nearly flew down the stairs in his efforts to get some fresh air. His phone rang the minute he got back in his car.

  His chest still felt tight. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” his father said, his voice booming through the Bluetooth.

  “I secured two new sponsors today.”

  He didn’t expect applause or even a “Good job.” He knew better.

  “Your sister was listening to the show this morning.”

  Chris bit back his groan. He loved his sister. He truly did. But she was the only girl in a family of boys—extended family included—and she was the epitome of indulged. Particularly by their father. At thirty-three, she’d yet to hold down a job long term because she was too busy “finding herself.” Ari spent her days searching for her chakras or chi or whatever it might be at the moment. Usually, she found them at star-studded parties or all-inclusive spas.

  “I don’t need to tell you how bad dead air is for a radio station, do I?”

  Nope. But he would, anyway. “It was seconds.”

  “Seconds following an unprofessional outburst from your producer. I told you to boost ratings, not find ways to tank them.”

  “Dad.” He could already see where this was going. The back of his neck prickled.

  “Ari’s been thinking about hosting a show. Something tied into her love of fashion.”

  There it is. He dropped his head to the steering wheel. It was bad enough to have his dad checking in with him constantly. Weekly phone calls, Skype sessions, memos with suggestions. Chris did not want his older sister underfoot for his final few months. He definitely didn’t want to be her boss—knowing she wouldn’t listen to anything he said—for the brief slice of time she’d explore this new adventure.

  Besides, that spot was currently filled with two very capable employees. The ratings weren’t great, but they weren’t down by much in comparison to the other slots. The station was doing better than when he’d arrived. After having gone through several management changes over the last few years, the staff who’d been there awhile were tentative about Chris’s arrival. He’d overheard them on his first day, commiserating about the new owner, how he’d emailed a list of expectations and policies. Not wanting to set himself back before he even got his feet wet, Chris hadn’t mentioned he was the owner’s son. Seemed safer. Ari had no desire to have people like her if telling them who their father was got her where she wanted to be quicker.

  “This isn’t something someone just does for fun. These people go to school. They intern, pay their dues. They’re passionate about it. It’s a career, not a hobby.” This felt like another test. “The station is under my control, Dad. Things are going well, and today was nothing more than a hiccup.”

  “My guy keeping an eye on your numbers says you’re not even rated as one of the top stations in the state. You’ve got a long way to go and not a ton of time to do it. Maybe it’s more than you can handle.” The words sat between them like concrete. Working for his dad felt like being on a reality show like Survivor or MasterChef. The contestants got in the groove, and all of a sudden, the host throws a wrench into things, making winning feel impossible.

  His dad cleared his throat loudly. “You remember the deal, right?”

  Chris started the car and put it in Drive to head back to the station. It’s on my mind 24-7, so yeah, Dad, I remember. Eighteen months turning around this off-the-map station, almost twelve of which had passed. At the end, Chris’s dad would let go of the reins. Feels more like a vise. Chris would be head of communications for all his father’s companies. He had plans to unite the divisions of each company. It was exciting. Or would be. The best part, and most ironic, was that he’d have far less communication with his father. And maybe, though not likely, earn a drop of his father’s respect. He knew he was a lucky man to have the opportunities he did. But they didn’t come free of charge.

  “These things take time,” Chris said carefully. The ratings were improving in some areas. After they’d narrowed their demographic and played to it, they’d seen a large spike.

  “Along with strong leadership. The 10:00 a.m. show is the lowest ranked and the quietest spot of the day. Letting Ari try her hand won’t hurt anything.”

  “You can’t just fire two people because your daughter woke up wanting to play deejay today.”

  “That’s not the only reason, Christopher. It would serve you well to remember who you’re talking to. A good leader knows when to cut his losses, and I personally think you should cut the segment. People want music, not chitchat. Get rid of them. Both of them. The producer and the deejay.”

  [4]

  Everly was considering how many episodes of Veronica Mars in a row qualified as too many when her phone buzzed on the coffee table.

  Trying to move as little as possible while reaching for her phone, she half slipped off the couch, managing to stop herself from falling by bracing one hand on the table. One more reason to live alone. She glanced at the screen as she righted herself back into her comfy position.

  STACEY: Backyard. Bring the list.

  Head resting on the arm of the couch, Everly smirked and typed out a response.

  EVERLY: Clarify.

  STACEY: Get your ass out here.

  EVERLY: My birthday. Can’t go out. Rules are rules.

  STACEY: Don’t make me come in there. Bring your damn rules. Or I’m going to invite a bunch of my fun friends to your house now.

  Everly sat up, laughing out loud, while typing.

  EVERLY: On my way.

  STACEY: Atta girl.

  EVERLY: No one says that, dork.

  STACEY: Just did.

  The grounds of the house had been expertly manicured to create a community garden in the fenced backyard. When Everly went through the gate, her thr
oat thickened and she stopped on the concrete path to stare.

  Stacey had tied purple and black balloons to one of the wrought iron bistro set chairs. A pink bakery box from Baked—home of the best chocolate ganache cupcakes on earth, owned by one of Stacey’s friends—sat in the center. A gold, dress-up tiara sparkled on top of that box, the late-evening sun bouncing off the fake jewels. It took her a while to open up and feel close to people, but once she’d let them in, the nerves took a back seat. Every now and again, even in a close relationship, they snuck back, overwhelming her with the reminder that she was not as isolated as she sometimes believed.

  “Are you coming over here or not?” Used to her, Stacey stood, hands on her hips, smiling. Her blond hair was loose and wavy, like she’d just let it out of one of her haphazard buns. She’d changed from this morning and now wore a pair of cutoff jean shorts and blue T-shirt that read: SARCASM LOADING.

  “Seriously. You are really bad at this,” Stacey said, walking over and taking Everly’s arm, pulling her toward the table. She yanked out a chair, nudged Everly—not so gently—into it, and sat across from her. A car drove by, music pumping loud, breaking into the quiet.

  Everly worked on not bursting into tears. Growing up in a house where emotions swung like a pendulum, she’d learned to hold back her own. Weigh and carry them before deciding whether it was worth sharing them. She knew that part of her problem getting close to people—men in particular—was a defense mechanism. Expecting nothing was infinitely safer.

  “You didn’t have to do this, Stace.” Her voice came out rough. She felt bad when people did nice things for her. She could never wrap her head around the idea that she deserved it. Stacey would kick your ass for thinking that. You deserve whatever you’re willing to give, and you’d do this for her.

  Stacey picked up the tiara, inspected it closely, tilting it so the sun bounced off the fake jewels. Then Stacey placed it firmly on her own head. Everly burst into laughter instead of tears.

  “You’re awesome,” Everly said, noting the gift bag on another chair.