“How’s it going with Brian?”
“Ugh.”
“Did you break up or something?”
“No, but if you’re talking about normal relationships, that one is anything but. You may think you have it bad with straight men but, trust me, gay men can be even worse.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry.”
He sighs. “It’s fine. Want to watch Freaks and Geeks and do a shot every time James Franco comes on screen? Maybe if I get drunk enough, I can call Brian over and imagine he’s James.”
“You have a headache.”
“It’s getting better.”
“That still seems like the last thing you should be doing right now. Plus, it’s Thursday.”
“I don’t have to work tonight.”
I laugh. “Yeah, but I have to work in the morning.”
“And?”
My grin grows bigger. “And I think I’ll save my heavy drinking for the weekend.”
“Why?” he jokes.
“Because he’s in almost half the scenes. I’ll be drunk off my ass after ten minutes.”
“Nu-uh. There’s like a whole one or two episodes where he only shows up once.”
I gasp, my palm slapping my forehead. “Oh my God! I have to tell you what happened today.”
“Spill.” He sits up and makes room for me on the couch. “Wait. Let me guess. You met James Franco?”
“No. Is that a real guess?”
“You work at a movie studio. Anything’s possible.” He tapped his lips and tried again. “You gave your boss a blow job in the broom closet.”
“Close, but no.”
“Really?”
I roll my eyes and plop down next to him. “It just never stops with you, does it? Mr. Mulroney’s father—”
“You mean Simon.”
I pause and heave out a breath. “Okay, yes. Simon’s father came in and invited me to a barbecue at his house.”
“And you gave him a blow job? Or are you saving that for the barbecue?”
“Eryk!” I slapped at his leg.
He kicked me in the thigh. “God, you said I was close. I’m just guessing… will Simon be there?”
“He didn’t seem like he wanted to go, but I think so.”
Eryk sits up straighter and clutches my arm. “If you want, I can go as your date and pretend to be straight in order to make him jealous.”
I crinkle my nose. “He already saw you in high heels. I don’t think there’s any going back.”
“Damn,” he mutters.
I reach forward and grab the TV remote. “So when’s your next show?”
“Next month. Here’s hoping it will be just as dramatic as the last one, with jealous ex-lovers and sultry forbidden bosses running rampant all over the place.”
I roll my eyes once more and hit the button for the TV guide. “Here’s hoping that never happens again.”
CHAPTER TEN
Saturday, I change outfits four times. I go from jeans and shirt to a flirty sundress to leggings and a blouse then to just bra and underwear, staring dismally at the clothes strewn all over my bed.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of standing in front of the mirror, I end up in the same jeans and pink t-shirt I started off in. Frustrated, I yell down the hall for Crystal.
“What?” she asks, poking her head around the frame of my bedroom doorway. She’s wearing nothing but a sports bra and black leggings and is somewhere in the middle of painting her nails. With one hand outstretched to dry, she holds the bottle of red polish in the other one.
I nervously flap my hand around. “I don’t know what to wear.”
“Didn’t you say it was a barbecue? You can’t get much more casual than roasting meat in someone’s backyard.”
“Yeah, but it might still be kind of upscale. It’s a Mulroney barbecue. In Beverly Hills. Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be like the ones I’m used to.”
Crystal shrugs. “It’s still in a backyard, and it’s not a wedding. What you have on is good.”
“Really?”
She pauses, taking a second to look me up and down. “Actually, no. Here’s what you should wear.”
She goes to my closet and, using the hand with dry nails, picks out my black tube skirt and a loose white tee.
“Isn’t that kind of short?” I ask.
“The t-shirt counteracts it.”
I hold the clothes up against myself and look in the mirror. I can’t decide if I look like I’m going to a club or to the library to meet up with my study group. “So you’re saying the shirt is so casual that no one will notice how short the skirt is.”
She sits on the edge of my bed and begins painting her second hand. “Something like that.”
“Screw it. I’ll wear it.”
By the time I’m ready to go, there’s still plenty of time to make it all the way to Beverly Hills. I take the long way, not minding when I end up sitting in traffic.
The road David Mulroney lives on is even nicer than Mr. Murakami’s. Most of the houses — no, mansions — have spacious front yards. I can tell which house is my destination before I see the address. The road in front of it is lined with cars, each one of them probably costing more than ten of my little Chevy. I pull into a spot behind a white Mercedes and do one last check in the mirror.
My heart speeds up and I can’t seem to find the strength to open the door. I’ve never been good at schmoozing, and this entire party is going to be just that. Its likely I won’t know anyone there, unless of course, Simon shows up after all.
He doesn’t count.
I grab the bowl of fruit salad and open the door. I stop when I see the catering van in my rear view mirror. It’s rolling into the Mulroney driveway and I know it’s carrying food because the giant decal on the side gives it away.
I drop the bowl back in the seat. Of course a Mulroney barbecue is catered. They probably wouldn’t do it any other way. Suddenly, I feel incredibly stupid.
I thank Jesus I did not get all the way into the house with that fruit bowl. There’s a rain poncho laying in the back seat. Snatching it up, I lay it across the bowl, lest anyone see my horrendous transgression.
“Sorry strawberries,” I whisper to it. “Sorry blueberries.”
They’ll probably go bad sitting in the car, but saving food isn’t worth me walking into a party with a neon sign shouting “I Don’t Belong Here.”
I take a deep breath and exit the car, making sure to pull my skirt down before walking up the drive.
Colorful flags are strung from bamboo poles, creating a path leading to the backyard. To stop my hands from fiddling with my skirt, I clasp them in front of me while I walk around the edge of the house.
The backyard is massive, as well as lavish. It’s probably eight times the size of my apartment, with tall hedge rows along the edge. A stone patio stretches out from the house, ending in a sparkling pool. A few kids and teens swim in the water, and one of them goes down the slide and lands with a big splash. The water flies out of the pool and hits a group of ladies nearby.
The women pretend to be mad, but then laugh, all three of their similar wide brimmed sun hats shaking.
Against the house’s outer wall, long tables are spread with white tablecloths. Several catering staff members scurry around, setting up hot pans of pulled pork and sides. At the end of the tables is a full bar attentively manned by another waiter. The only thing making it similar to a barbecue back home is the southern food.
Gaggles of people are spread across the space, bringing the total head count to somewhere around a couple dozen. I twist my hands together and stare, unsure of where to go next. Not one of the people look familiar. Neither Mr. Murakami or his wife are anywhere to be seen. Neither is Simon.
I’m debating just running and finding a bathroom to hide in when someone calls my name.
It’s David. Somehow I missed him standing only a few yards away with two other men. Relieved to have been called on, I walk towards th
em.
“Hello,” I wave at the three of them. Both of the strangers are about David’s age. They inspect me as I come to a stop only a few feet away.
“Glad you could make it,” David smiles. “Michael, Fred, this is Sydney Andrews. Sydney, Michael runs a shipping business and Fred is an agent at Clear Coast Talent.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, offering a friendly smile. Both of the men are dressed semi-casually, with bright colored button-ups, but their shiny watches and perfect teeth betray their wealth.
“How do you know the Mulroneys?” one of them, I think Fred, asks.
“She’s Simon’s new assistant,” David says before I can answer.
“Oh.” Fred’s eyebrows furrow a little bit.
Wait for it… wait for it.
There it is — the sympathetic look. He smiles at me reassuringly.
“How is he doing there?” asks Michael, taking a sip from the beer bottle in his hand.
David’s face grows dark. “Well enough.” He glances at me. “I probably shouldn’t speak ill of Sydney’s boss around her.”
I wave my hand. “Don’t mind me. I have my own beef with him.”
The joke hits its mark and they chortle. I laugh along, although mostly at the thought of what they would think if they only knew about me and the butt of their joke.
“There he is now,” Fred says.
My shoulders tense up.
“Simon!” David calls, waving his son over.
I cringe and stare at the grass, waiting for Simon Mulroney’s look of disapproval. Instead, he wears a slight smile as he saunters up. He glances at the men, then brings his gaze back to mine. Our eyes lock and the familiar fire gets lit.
Damn him. He can’t be predictable in the slightest. Maybe that’s part of what turns me on.
“We were just talking about you,” David says.
“Lovely,” Simon answers, the tone of his voice showing he suspects the talk wasn’t very positive. He still looks at me, and my cheeks heat up under his gaze. Isn’t he worried about the other men noticing the way he’s staring?
“Seen your brother around?” David asks.
“Nope.”
David looks to the other two men. “Colt is probably busy doing something useful.”
Simon abruptly takes off, walking towards the house without so much as saying goodbye. An uncomfortable silence follows his departure. I watch him go in, opening the back door and disappearing.
I can’t blame him for leaving. If someone had made such a backhanded remark relating to me, I probably would have screamed at them.
David clears his throat. “He’s always been that way. Sydney, help yourself to a drink. The bartender can make you anything you like.” He winks at me.
I force a smile. Why is he so nice to me and yet so cruel to his own flesh and blood?
“Thanks,” I say. “It was nice to meet you,” I tell the two other men.
Pleased to be relieved, I walk off. At the bar, I ask for a seltzer water. My stomach is rolling in an uncomfortable way and adding alcohol to the mix doesn’t seem like a good idea.
There are lawn chairs stretched out beneath the veranda, and I sit on the edge of one to watch the kids play in the pool. Simon is nowhere to be found.
I don’t blame him. His dad wasn’t exactly welcoming, despite having called him over in the first place.
“Hi,” a female voice says.
I quickly stand up. A brunette woman no more than a few years older than me hovers nearby. Wearing a sundress and a pearl necklace, her attire matches her friendly smile.
I probably looked sad and lonely, so she decided to come over. All I know is she’s an angel to talk to me.
“I’m Whitney Tatum.” She extends a smooth hand connected to a slender wrist. Her shake is flimsy, more like a goldfish flopping around than anything else.
“Sydney Andrews. Nice to meet you.”
She takes a sip of what looks like lemonade. “I saw you talking to David.”
“Yeah, I met him the other day. I work for his son.”
“Oh.” She gives me a knowing look. “Simon.”
“That one,” I agree. “Do you know him?”
“I’ve known the Mulroneys for years. My father worked with David for decades.”
“Ah.” Feeling self-conscious, I take a drink of my seltzer water. I’m slightly regretting coming to this party. This Whitney woman is nice, but I’m already afraid we won’t have much to talk about.
“That Simon is a loose cannon,” she says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Working for him is always pretty exciting.”
“I would know better than most.”
“Ah,” I say, though I have no clue what she means. Is she trying to let me know she had a romance — or at least a rendezvous — with Simon? And why would she even tell me about such a thing?
I take another drink of water. Maybe she’s referring to some kind of scandal. Engaging in gossip isn’t what I came here to do. I don’t know how to slip out of this conversation, though, so I just smile at Whitney.
She takes a half step towards me and inclines her head in my direction. “Has he ever tried anything on you?” she asks in a low voice.
“No,” I quickly lie. So maybe he didn’t have a fling with Whitney. Maybe he came on to her or even assaulted her.
She looks surprised. “Really? Maybe he’s finally getting his act together.”
Now she’s got me at least mildly interested. “You mean with women?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. It does seem unlikely, though. He’s been with so many of them.”
Ugh. Now I really am glad more didn’t happen between us. My suspicions were right.
“That girl he was engaged to broke his heart.”
I stare at her. “He told me it ended because he couldn’t handle a relationship.”
Whitney looks at me with great interest. “Is that what he said?”
“Yeah.”
My chest burns. Maybe he lied and only told me that because he’s not interested in me, specifically. God, I really am stupid.
People are lining up to get food, but the uncomfortable twisting in my stomach has turned into a wave of nausea.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I just need to run to the restroom.”
I walk past her and find my way to the double doors leading into the house. The large hallway, decorated all in tones of cream and white, stretches down to the front of the house, where a spiral staircase drifts up to the next floor. There’s a little table near the door bearing a pot of some kind of vine and I set my drink down on the edge of it, then take a moment to breathe deeply and remind myself why I came to this party.
It was not because of Simon. Therefore, it doesn’t matter what he does or what he did in the past.
Still, I need to take a moment to myself, so I slowly walk down the hall, peeking in through the half open doors. The third door opens into some kind of small library. A man is in it, his back turned to me, his head down.
“Oh, sorry,” I begin.
Simon turns around and my mouth clamps shut.
We look at each other for a few seconds before he speaks. “Come in.”
“I was just looking for the bathroom. I should go.” I say it, and yet I don’t move. My hand stays on the doorknob and his eyes stay trained on my face.
“It seems my father has won you over.”
“Not quite,” I honestly say.
He has somewhat, but now I feel guilty about it. Especially considering the way I’ve seen him with Simon.
“You believe everything he says about me?”
I let go of the doorknob and take a step into the room. The hurt in his words is obvious.
“He hasn’t told me anything about you. Not really. Nothing that’s a fact, anyway.”
“Hm.”
He leans against the small wooden desk in the corner and picks up a glass paperweight from its surface. He lightly tosses it back and forth in his hands. We both w
atch it fly, catching the light coming in from the side window.
“He wasn’t very nice to you,” I say.
I pause and consider my words. I guess I’m siding with Simon.
“He never is.”
“Damn,” I hiss. “Why not?”
Simon shrugs. “Ask him.”
I laugh. “Yeah, right. Should I go out there and ask him now, or after dessert?”
He puts the paperweight back down. “He’d probably give you an answer. He’s not ashamed of much, and he seems taken with you.”
I look at the bookshelves, feeling slightly guilty about that. If I have won David Mulroney’s affections, it’s purely coincidental. I certainly haven’t done anything to deserve them.
“My father has a lot of expectations,” Simon continues. “For some reason, they only increased once my mother died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
We could almost be two normal people in this moment, having a candid conversation about relationship issues. I tuck some hair behind my ear, thinking it’s about time I slipped away.
“You look nice,” he says, his eyes not leaving my face.
“Don’t.”
He laughs. “Sydney, relax. I’m just complimenting you. It’s not a big deal.”
When my name sounds that good on his lips, every time he opens his mouth it’s a big deal.
“Crystal picked my outfit out for me. I didn’t know what to wear. I thought maybe…” I pause, a little embarrassed to admit it. “I thought maybe it wouldn’t be like a barbecue back home, back in North Carolina.”
He looks at me with interest. “What are they like in North Carolina?”
I shrug. “Well, casual, like this one. Except everything is cooked there, in the yard. I’ve never been to one where having it catered was even an idea. Cooking is part of the experience.”
“Sounds nice.”
“So, where’s your brother?” I ask, trying to get the conversation off of me.
He shrugs. “Somewhere out there being the belle of the ball.”
I grin. “You mean belle of the barbecue.”
He smiles. “Or that. We don’t really get along.”
I run my fingers along the side of the door. “Who do you get along with in your family?”
“No one anymore.” He jerks his chin up at me. “What’s that face for?”
Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) Page 43