My Charming Rival

by Lauren Blakely

  “What about now? Do you want to hang out? Get a bite to eat? Are you done with classes for the day?”

  I nodded. “Yes, but I have a quiz tomorrow morning in my advanced bio class.”

  “A quiz?”

  “Yeah. A quiz.”

  “I bet you’ve been studying for days, right? Weeks, even? You’re probably way ahead?”

  I begrudgingly nodded. “Yes,” I admitted. I knew the material cold. This morning’s question in my advanced bio class reaffirmed how ready I was.

  “Okay, so the quiz isn’t really an issue. Since I know you don’t like food, do you want to go get a pedicure, Jess?”

  “I do my own nails. So unless you’re the one getting a pedicure…” I said, letting my voice trail off, figuring that would keep him at bay. Guys didn’t get pedicures. The ones that did usually didn’t like girls. I started to walk away.

  “I’ll get a pedicure if you come with me,” he offered, and I stopped in my tracks because William was going toe-to-toe with me without blinking an eye. “Think of it as work.”

  “As long as I can pick your color,” I said, because I could play this game of brinkmanship, too.

  “Have at it.”

  Oh.

  He was calling me on my bluff. I didn’t intend to get called on, so we walked into a shop called Daisy Nails that was painted a bright shade of yellow, and I headed straight for the bottles to choose the one best for him.

  10

  William

  * * *

  She surveyed the colors in the rack on the wall, a smirk on her face. “Hmm, I could see you as an orange.”

  “Orange? Really? I thought for sure you’d say pink,” I said.

  “Is that a hint? You want me to pick pink?”

  “No. I just figured you’d choose what you thought would be the most embarrassing color for a guy to wear.”

  “I’m not that easy to read, Harrigan. I’m not necessarily going to make the obvious choice,” she said, and truer words were never spoken. She was a tough one, which made her all the more alluring.

  So damn alluring with her feistiness, combined with her accent, mixed with her prettiness. She had it all—brains, beauty and a prickly, take-no-prisoners attitude that drove me crazy. Crazy for her.

  Then James’s words flashed like a neon sign. Very soon.

  A pang of guilt touched down inside me with the reminder that I needed to move faster—I wanted to tell Jess the full truth about my job, but I also wanted to get to know her better without an agenda. If I’d met her under other conditions, I’d still want to get to know her. Besides, once I did, then I could let down my guard about my twin motives. There. Bye, bye guilt.

  “Okay, then. Which color?”

  “Red,” she declared as she plucked a bottle from the plexiglass shelf. “Fire engine, cherry, apple red, and you must wear it for at least a day.”

  “This is going to be great when I go for a swim tomorrow,” I muttered, shaking my head. I could already hear John’s voice when he saw my toes. Note to self—wear socks for next twenty-four hours. Even in the ocean.

  We turned around and walked to the counter.

  “One pedicure, please,” Jess said to the woman seated behind the high white desk with a daisy drawn on it. She glanced up at us, an eager look on her face quickly replaced by a bored one when she realized we were plebes, not celebs. “Go take the chair by the dryers,” she said, gesturing vaguely.

  Jess scanned the shop, then leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “So typical,” she mumbled.

  My ears pricked. Perhaps this was a clue. “Right,” I said, then rolled my eyes and flubbed my lips.

  “They always do this. Seat us regular people up front so they can keep the leather chairs by the back open in case a celeb comes in.”

  Ah. Now that made perfect sense. “Well, they need to keep them away from riffraff like us,” I said, picking up the conversational thread quickly.

  “Totally,” she added.

  Another manicurist filled up the water in the foot tub at the base of a brown leather pedicure chair. “Did you pick a color?” she asked Jess because she probably thought she was the one getting the pedicure.

  “Yes. For my friend,” Jess said with a devious twinkle in her blue eyes.

  I plopped down in the seat of the chair and began untying my laced-up boots. I dropped my boots and socks on the floor, swung my feet over the water, then let them hover as I rolled up the cuffs of my jeans. I dunked my feet into the water, and leaned back into the chair. “Ah, I’m relaxed now,” I said, making a show out of enjoying myself as the manicurist began. “So Jess. I’m your friend now?”

  She furrowed her brow. “Hmm?”

  “You called me your friend. You said for my friend.”

  She shrugged a shoulder, and looked away as her lips dared to curl up in a smile. “It’s just an expression.” She eyed me up and down. “All ready for the spa treatment?”

  “Almost. There’s one more thing.” I handed her the remote control for the massager portion of the chair. “I’m going out on a limb here, Jess, but I have this feeling you might like to be in control.”

  She hit the button for knead and did not bother to hide a wicked grin as the machine rollers pushed hard against my back, moving me forward like a crash test dummy with each roll.

  “Ah, doesn’t that feel relaxing.” I was going to hold my own and then some with her.

  “Let me give you an even more relaxing one, then,” she said, clicking on the remote to boost the speed to a level that simulated bakers whacking rolling pins on my back. I bumped against the industrial-strength massage chair without letting on that it was the most annoying piece of furniture ever created.

  She relented, turning off the controls.“You’re relaxed now,” she said with a wink.

  “I’m cool and calm and zen,” I said as the manicurist scrubbed the heel of my right foot. It tickled, so I cracked up and pulled my foot away.

  That made Jess laugh. “You’re ticklish.”

  “I guess we aren’t all as tough as you,” I teased, as she glanced at the door, shifting from side to side as she peered through the glass.

  “You looking for someone?”

  She returned her focus to me, crinkling her brow. “Aren’t you?”

  “Um…” I began, but didn’t know how to continue because I was thoroughly flummoxed. I held out my arms in question. “Who would I be looking for?”

  “Someone famous,” she said as if the answer were obvious.

  “Right,” I said quickly, as if I was doing the same thing. I should be doing the same thing. “Of course. I’m scoping for the stars. I’ve got stars in my eyes.”

  “My brother says that about me.”

  “Brother. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about this brother since I told you about mine.”

  She gave me a look as if to say I was lucky to get any information. “He’s in New York. He runs a company. He’s going to have a baby soon.”

  “He is? That’s impressive. Some new advancement in science like that movie Inconceivable with the former governor of Texas who used to be the Swiss bodybuilder?”

  “No! He and his wife. My God, everything that comes out of your mouth is a twisted joke,” she said, but she said it admiringly, so I was pleased.

  “Why, thank you. When is this baby due?”

  “Several more months. They’re having twins. My sister-in-law is awesome. She loves movies, too, but she doesn’t work in Hollywood. She’s a jewelry designer, and they’re madly in love. Even though it took my brother five years to figure out he needed to win her back after he broke up with her when she was eighteen,” she said, then told me more about Kat and Bryan, then about Bryan’s cuff link company, Kat’s necklaces, and her own parents’ jobs. She lit up when she talked about them—she was a family girl, and that was so cool. No issues, no trouble, no bitching about her parents or how she was raised. She simply liked them; I was the same way about my fam
ily, and it warmed my heart to know we shared that.

  I told her as much. “Have I mentioned how cool it is that you get on well with your family?”

  “Thank you,” she said with a sweet smile. “Sounds like you do as well.”

  “I do. Very much so. Tell me more about you. So far, I know you’re crazy about your family, movies, and photos, you’re going to be a doctor, and you do your own nails.” I wasn’t angling for information; I was simply enjoying talking to her. I lowered my voice as I asked the next thing, sensing she was a private person. “Do you do your own nails because you don’t want people seeing you do the things the people in your photos do?”

  She was instantly tense.

  11

  Jess

  * * *

  I straightened my spine. He was spot-on. He’d read me like an open book left on the coffee table just for him.

  Not wanting to admit he was right, I shook my head. “No. I do it myself to save money,” I said, because I’d rather play the money card than the uptight-in-public card. Besides, I was the observer. I wasn’t the observed. Even though I didn’t warrant being the subject of any shot, I didn’t want to even take the chance that someone might see me with my shoes off, or with my mouth open, or with my guard down. Avoiding a potential Nick Balloons moment of any sort was an abiding goal in my life.

  “Ah, gotcha,” William said, and nodded. He seemed as if he understood. “Let me see those hands, then.”

  “My hands?” I asked, as the manicurist patted the white towel on the edge of the foot tub, a sign for William to place his foot there for drying. He did as instructed, reining in a laugh as she patted his foot down, then began filing his toenails.

  “Yes, your hands, Jess. We’re in a nail salon. It’s totally acceptable.”

  I held out my right hand, and he moved my fingers so they touched his palm, sending tingles down my spine. He pretended to inspect my nails closely. I pretended I didn’t care that his hands were on me. My body said otherwise, though, as a shiver of want rolled through me. I made a note to smack some sense into myself tonight, because right now sense had vacated. It had a way of doing that when William got close to me.

  “Navy blue,” he said, in his low and sexy voice that left an imprint of longing inside me.

  “Navy blue what?”

  “If I’d have picked out a color for you, I’d have picked navy blue. To go with your eyes. They’re dark blue,” he said, looking at me.

  If I were in a movie, if I were that kind of a girl who was soft and sweet and eager, I’d gasp and say you noticed. Then he’d nod once and whisper I notice everything about you.

  Instead, I swallowed the dry knot in my throat.

  “Dark blue is my favorite color,” he said softly, then started to slide his fingers through mine. I never knew holding hands could be such a turn-on. But as he laced his fingers through mine, flesh against flesh, my skin sizzled with the first sparks of a darker, deeper desire.

  My eyes floated closed for the briefest of seconds. This had to stop. I was dangerously close to soaring away on a cloud of borderline lust. I was in a nail salon of all places. I opened my eyes, desperate to grab hold of some kind of witty comeback. But anything and everything fell through my fingers with the way his dark eyes were hooked on me. I didn’t trust William as far as I could throw him, and seeing as I wasn’t terribly good at throwing guys, that wasn’t very much or very far.

  Yet he was so hard to resist.

  He made me feel so many things. From the way he talked with me, as if he truly wanted to know me, to his carefree ways, to these sexy little moments when he shifted from talking to touching, it was as if we existed in this private little bubble of connection. I didn’t want to leave this island of burgeoning heat, either.

  “Right now, gray is my favorite,” I said in a voice I barely recognized.

  His lips curved up slowly as he grasped my hand. I didn’t even notice the manicurist anymore, and I doubt he did, either, as we seemed to inch closer, to crave contact and meet in another kiss.

  But the moment caved in on itself when my phone bleated loudly. Once. Twice. Three times. I let go of his hand to swipe my phone from my back pocket. My mother had texted, and her note popped up on the screen.

  Just finished up with Sandy. Her assistant happened to mention while I was doing Sandy’s eyes that the bridesmaids are picking up their dresses late afternoon tomorrow in Manhattan Beach, and that the officiant should be there, too, to pick up the matching bow tie and cummerbund for her tux.

  Forget kissing William. I wanted to kiss the screen. I wanted to kiss Sandy’s assistant. Maybe even my mom.

  I tapped out a quick reply. Nice work. Happen to know where? What place? Did you get details?

  As I sent the message, I spotted Lolanna Winnifred, the sixteen-year-old daughter of a six-packed and strapping action star who’d been a fingerless mitten model before he made it big on the silver screen. Immediately, I went into stealth mode. I scrolled through my phone, acting casual, but keeping my eyes on Lolanna as she walked into Daisy’s Nails, too. I checked out William, happily enjoying his pedicure. He didn’t so much as look up when Lolanna, who was designing a collection of mittens now, too, walked past him, heading straight for one of the reserved chairs in the back. Lolanna scooted up on a chair, wriggled off her teal-blue flip-flops with a cloth flower on the toe strap, and settled into the chair, oversized sunglasses still on.

  I typed more on my phone, as if I were answering a message, then laughed at the screen, positioned it higher, tapped it twice to zoom, and snapped a shot of Lolanna soaking her feet. Anaka would make good use of the photo.

  William gestured to his feet. The manicurist was starting to polish his toenails red. “Didn’t want you to miss the main attraction, Jess.”

  “Of course not,” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket.

  The lady next to William started looking at Lolanna, and then a woman across from us peered over the top of her home design magazine at the girl. All the while, he didn’t seem to notice a thing.

  I cocked my head to the side, considering the constitutionally good-looking British guy in front of me. Was he acting clueless or did he truly not recognize the teen daughter of one of America’s most bankable male action stars? How could he miss her? Every night I studied my flash cards. I had a whole stack of index cards with celebrity faces pasted on them. The ones with children had their kids’ pictures on the back side. Thanks to my daily regimen of review, I could spot a face in seconds—from the A-list down to the D-list, their offspring, their significant others, and sometimes even their agents and managers, too, but usually only if they were dating or doing said agent or manager.

  “What?” he asked, when he realized I’d been staring at him. “Do I have something on my nose?”

  “You don’t recognize her,” I said, as if I’d caught him rooting around for money in his mommy’s purse.

  “Sorry?”

  “You don’t recognize her,” I repeated in a low voice, and nodded slightly in Lolanna’s direction. He followed my move, and I watched his eyes survey the sunglassed girl quickly, then he returned to me.

  “Sure I do.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Who is she, then?”

  “You know, she’s that girl,” he said, and waved a hand dismissively.

  I laughed and shook my head. “That is hilarious.”

  He held up his hands sheepishly. “Fine. You caught me. I am not one hundred percent up to speed on American celebs. Which movie did she star in?”

  I laughed again, then leaned closer to him to whisper Lolanna’s pedigree.

  “Oh yes! Exactly. I was going to say her next.”

  I shook my head. “And I thought J.P. was trying to give me a real run for my money.”

  “You don’t think I’m worthy competition?”

  I pointed from my naked nails to my blue eyes. “Let’s just say I’m more impressed with your color matching skills than with your f
acial recognition abilities. You obviously don’t practice the latter, do you?”

  “The latter?”

  “You know, flash cards. Website studying. Photos of famous faces. Don’t you practice?”

  “Of course, of course. I could spot the BBC stars like that,” he said, and snapped his fingers. “But like I said, I need to get up to speed with this side of the pond. Do you? Practice a lot?”

  “Of course. How else would I be able to do my job? You never know when, where, or who you might run into. Always be prepared.”

  “Right.”

  “Why aren’t you taking her picture now that you know who she is?”

  “Well, didn’t you? I mean, we’re working for the same guy. He always takes the first to file.”

  “This picture isn’t for him. The shot I got is for my best friend only.”

  “Does she run a photo agency?”

  I shook my head. “She uses them in this really spoofy, funny sort of way. Here. I’ll show you,” I said, then I tapped on my phone to call up Karina’s Burn Book. But I stopped before the page loaded. Something about this moment felt too close, too intimate. I might want to press my body against his, but I wasn’t ready to show him my best friend’s tongue-in-cheek, anonymous website. Whether he recognized Lolanna Winnifred or not, he was still the competition. Besides, he might very well be asking me for ice cream and pedicures for the very same reason I was saying yes to his requests—to glean information.

  “Darn. Page not loading,” I said, and stuffed the phone in my back pocket.

  “Bloody phones,” he said with a nod, as the manicurist put the finishing touches on his toes. “Mine was slow as hell while I was looking up the movie times earlier. Speaking of, are we back on?”

  “You think now that we’ve shared a pedicure—or rather that I’ve watched you have your toes done—that a movie is happening?”

  He shrugged sheepishly. “I was hoping so.”

  Then it hit me. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I wanted to know what he was up to. I wanted to know why he didn’t recognize Lolanna. “You know, William, I believe if we finish up soon, we can even see that film this evening. Let’s not wait till tomorrow.”