My Charming Rival

by Lauren Blakely

  But now, he was at it again with Riley Belle.

  “Yep, third. If you believe what the press says,” I said.

  William shook his head. “His wife should leave him. She deserves so much better. Anyone deserves better than that.”

  “Probably,” I said, but who knew what their story was? Maybe they had an arrangement. Stranger things had happened. I cocked my head to the side when I heard the faint stirring of a hybrid car engine nearby, followed by a second vehicle, also with the same barely-there swoosh to its motor. There was hardly a celebrity in this town who didn’t drive a hybrid or an electric, so my ears had been trained to pick out the softer hum, even the distinctions between models.

  I peered over the low stone wall as a silver Nissan idled briefly, then cut the engine. Right behind it, a dark green Toyota parked.

  I was quick to the draw, a gunslinger in the Old West.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  I grabbed shots of Riley and Avery exiting their respective cars. I snagged images of them walking hand in hand to a metal bench outside the smog facility. I recorded their every move for digital posterity, thanks to my sturdy and dependable top-of-the-line camera that I didn’t even need a flash for, so they had no way of knowing I was lurking nearby as they settled in on the bench.

  I zoomed in as they chatted, as she smiled and looked in his eyes, as he tucked a strand of her brown hair behind her ear, as he ran a hand down her bare arm, then as he leaned in for a soft kiss on the lips. The tabloid readers would go wild. They loved a tawdry tryst. The entire time I made sure to capture her right side. That would be my gift to her, since Hollywood itself was the gift that kept on giving—there was always something to photograph.

  Soon, they stood up and walked back to his car. She slipped into the passenger side, and they drove a few hundred feet down the street.

  “Are you going to shoot more?”

  I scrolled through the window on the back of my camera, checking out the night’s take. I had easily snapped more than one hundred pictures of them.

  “I believe my work here is done.” I rose, grateful to be free of the crouch. William stretched, too, as he stood, then handed me my helmet. I hopped onto the back of his bike and we rumbled off to the library.

  “What’s next?” he asked, as I unlocked my own scooter.

  “I hand these over tomorrow in the early afternoon.”

  “Do you have another stakeout?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows what shenanigans tomorrow will bring? I see the client for lunch, then volunteer at the hospital. But do you want to meet up in the afternoon? The hospital is close to campus.”

  “What do you do at the hospital? Distribute Band-Aids from your ever-present stash?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Aren’t you just a funny guy?”

  “Why, thank you,” he said, adopting a deliberately smarmy grin. “Seriously, though. Do you do medical stuff? Like a shot clinic?”

  I reined in a grin that threatened to spread across my face. I found it adorable that William had no clue about medicine or hospitals, just like he was amused at my lack of language skills. I shook my head. “I don’t even have a bachelor’s degree, William. No one is going to let me give shots. I bring my parents’ dog to visit the kids. Jennifer’s trained as a therapy dog.”

  He reached for my arm and trailed his fingertips down my bare skin. Goosebumps rose as I shivered from his touch. “The fact that you do that is completely cool. Which also means it makes you even hotter,” he said.

  “Thank you. So you want to meet me and you can go with me on whatever shoots I’m on in the afternoon, and we can fine-tune wedding plans?”

  “All work and no play,” he said with a mock sad face.

  “Of course. We are only business partners.”

  “All business. Unless…”

  Neither one of us said anything for a few seconds, and I thought about how angry I’d been a few hours earlier when he’d been following me, and here I was now, paired up with him, getting high on that fine line of tension between the two of us.

  I could take another hit. Inhale him.

  But that would only mess with my plans. Make me lose focus. I couldn’t risk that. “I have to concentrate on school and work,” I said softly, but it was barely a protest.

  “Seems to me, Jess, you’re pretty damn good at both school and work,” he said, and reached for one of the loops on the belt buckle of my jeans. Gently, he tugged me closer, and I let him pull me into his orbit.

  “We’re in the parking lot of the library,” I pointed out, but it was hardly a no. More like an observation. He wrapped his hands around my waist, lifted me, and sat me on his bike.

  “Now you’re on my bike,” he said playfully, his hands never leaving me. His hands made it harder for me to remember why I had to keep him at arm’s length. Because when he was that close to me, I didn’t want any distance. I knew I had to concentrate on school and work, but at the moment I could only concentrate on him.

  “Now what?”

  “Now this,” he said, pressing his strong thigh on the inside of mine, gently nudging open my legs. He moved closer, wedging himself into the space between my legs. Heat flared inside my body as my belly executed a series of backflips that would do an Olympian proud.

  His stormy gray eyes remained fixed on me, blazing more intensely as he stroked my thigh with his thumb. I wore jeans, and I wished terribly that they would simply go poof, that the fabric would disappear and I could feel his touch against my skin. But then I’d be naked from the waist down on a bike in a parking lot, and if that’s not a recipe for awkward, I don’t know what is.

  There was nothing awkward, though, about the way my body responded to him. He knocked down all the walls inside me, all my control, all my precision-balanced need to have my world spinning at a perfect pace I set and controlled like an engineer. Letting go scared the hell out of me; it stomped on all that I held dear. My life was a ladder, each step leading to the one above, and I wasn’t anywhere near the top. I had so many plans. Big plans. I didn’t want to risk a single one of them with a distraction like a guy. Nor did I want to risk tumbling off the food wagon once more if I fell for someone. I hated feeling out of control with food, and I didn’t want to relapse like I had the last time.

  But even as I feared what would happen if I gave in, the truth was, William and I worked well together, and we laughed well together, and we kissed well together, and I’d just landed shots that would pay me more than a pretty penny. Maybe he wasn’t as big a distraction as I feared. Maybe I could balance.

  Or maybe I was running on lust. Because the slightest contact sent me sky-high, as those delicious tingles unleashed themselves all throughout my chest with each touch. He swept his thumb along my thigh, up to my hip, and then he hooked it into the waistband of my jeans.

  He hadn't even kissed me yet, and my bones were humming a happy tune.

  He inched his hands under my T-shirt and, reflexively, I arched my back.

  “Mmm,” he groaned lightly, then pressed further between my legs, his hard-on hitting me exactly where I wanted him. My mind spiraled as I imagined more, so much more. I pictured him unzipping my jeans, tugging them down, sliding into me, and sending me into that zone of bliss I so rarely entered, that forbidden world where lust ruled the day. I could have that with him, and I let myself enjoy a taste as I wrapped my legs around him, hooking my ankles behind his thighs.

  “You trapped me,” he teased.

  “Good. I like where you are.”

  “Me, too, Jess. Me, too,” he said, as he gripped me tighter and gently rocked his hips against me. A slow, purposeful grind that made me moan, and then rope my arms around his neck. I was operating on desire, pure physical desire, but it’s not as if I was out of control. I was in control, because I wanted him badly. He was a choice I was making in this moment. I didn’t know if we were coming or going, if we were a blip on the radar screen of my life. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t thin
king about my future or how to make us happen beyond the here and now. I was living in my present, and in this span of time—this seemingly meaningless moment on this planet of a billion moments—this was the only one I wanted to live in. William Harrigan might have stepped into my life on a ruse, but there was no doubt that this thing between us was fully real.

  I raised my chin, tilting my face to him. “I’m so turned on,” I breathed out, eyes on him, speaking only the truth.

  “I hope it’s patently obvious that I am, too.”

  That elicited a wicked smile as I rocked against him, feeling his erection pressing into me. “Yes. It’s obvious and I like that you’re wearing a billboard.”

  He cracked up. “Yep. That’s me. I’ve got a billboard in my pocket.”

  Then, feeling daring, I grabbed his hand, and pressed his palm between my thighs, so he could feel, through my clothes, how hot I was for him.

  “So do I,” I whispered, and his eyes darkened as he felt me. I returned his hand to my waist as I said, “Now kiss me hard, and make me forget I ever pretended to dislike you, because that’s all it ever was—pretending.”

  He pumped a fist. “I knew you were checking out my ass from the first time I met you, right?”

  I nodded, and I’m sure there was a wicked glint in my eyes. “Now I’m going to check it out for real,” I said, and he moved in to kiss me, gently touching my cheek with the back of his fingers before he slanted his mouth to mine, his lips brushing lightly against mine at first, then more insistently as he kissed me harder. I looped my arms around his waist and cupped his fabulously firm ass.

  A moan rumbled up through his chest as I touched him, but he never let go. He kept kissing me, the kind of kiss that couldn’t be stopped, that was like a comet tearing across the sky, hell-bent on having its way. The kiss was its own life force, powerful and potent, and left nothing but pure heat in its wake. As he kissed deeper and harder, I tap-danced my fingers to the top of his jeans and dipped them into his pants, under the waistband of his underwear, and there, his gorgeous butt was in my hands, his naked skin all mine.

  He pressed harder against me, rocking into me, his movements telling me he liked the way I touched him. Then he dropped his hands from my face, and seconds later, they’d found their way up my shirt, and under my bra.

  He broke the kiss momentarily. “When you grope me like that, I hope you understand that it leaves me no choice but to feel your breasts,” he said, and maybe it was the scientist in me, but I loved that he didn’t say boobs or tits or girls or jugs or anything a thousand times worse or cringe-worthy. They were breasts, plain and simple. But then there was nothing plain or simple about how he touched them, kneading in slow motion with an appreciative groan.

  “Damn, I love your breasts,” he said. He pushed up my shirt to my neck and buried his head between them, kissing one, then the other, lavishing a delicious amount of attention on each as he took turns with his mouth, lips, tongue, and hands, like he would never deprive one breast of attention for the other. What a gentleman, treating them both with lusty reverence. I let go of my hold on his firm ass to grab the back of his head and keep him buried against my chest. Everything he did to me felt so incredibly good, as if fireworks were having a fiesta inside my body. I wanted to do everything with him right now, but I also wanted to do precisely what we were doing. Devouring each other, and yet holding back, too.

  Soon, he lifted his head, and his hair was messy and his eyes were hazy.

  “You look really hot right now,” I whispered.

  “You look really hot all the time.”

  I ran the tip of my index finger lightly across the scrape on his forehead. “Your cut is fading,” I said, then pressed my lips gently to the mark on his skin. “I wanted to do that the day I met you,” I whispered.

  “I wanted that, too.”

  We kissed more, and it was the kind of kiss that marked the other side of the mad frenzy. It was the winding down, the after kiss, the I-can’t-stop-kissing-you-even-as-I-adjust-your-shirt-and-you-snap-your-bra-and-we-both-start-to-say-goodbye-to-the-other.

  “I know what to enter you as in my phone,” he said, taking out his mobile, tapping something in the screen, then showing it to me.

  “Claire Tinsley,” I read with a smile. “So you know this celebrity dog trainer?”

  “I do. And I’m quite fond of her. But wait. Is she a friend of the bride or groom?”

  I flashed him a smile. “Neither. She happens to know a private detective.”

  “What a helpful private eye,” he added.

  “He’s very helpful. And very handsome. He’s criminally handsome.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And she’s dangerously pretty, and I can’t wait to see her tomorrow.”

  THURSDAY

  THURSDAY

  Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny

  22

  Jess

  * * *

  Early the next morning, I printed copies of the photographic evidence, then saved all the files on my hard drive and my online backup. With that done, it was time for my morning ritual of Hollywood brain exercises. I clicked over to my favorite entertainment news site and read a piece about who might be playing the Gretchen Lindstrom role in the remake of We’ll Always Have Paris. I scoffed at all the suggestions of too-young starlets. It was an affront that the classic movie—a true example of silver screen perfection—was being redone at all. But yet, I had to be conversant in the parlor talk of who should play the landmark role of the female lead. I jumped over to a story about The Weekenders, noting that Avery Brock—philandering toad, I mouthed as I read—was doing one more rewrite. That script must have been a hell of a train wreck for him to make changes this close to shooting.

  I stared at the photos I’d shot one more time. The guy was a cheating scum and I hoped the real lesson learned would be to stop messing around. But then again, if people like Brock cleaned up their acts I might not have a job. We were all bottom feeders, needing each other in our sycophantic, symbiotic way.

  I made a living off scum like him. His toad-like ways made my job possible.

  My phone beeped, and a smile lit through me when I saw a note from HBG.

  Just in case you were wondering, I’m glad it’s tomorrow right now.

  I quickly replied: Me, too.

  But then, a sliver of worry touched down in my belly. I didn’t know what I was doing with William, or why I was risking getting closer to him. I knew the dangers, I knew the stakes. The more time I spent with him, the more control I relinquished, like it was slipping through my fingers. If I kept letting go, would I spiral into a zone I’d clawed my way out of?

  Maybe I could resist him romantically, I told myself. Maybe I could spend time with him planning for the wedding without liking him more and more.

  But I was too logical to believe that line. I did like him more and more. So much more that my heart was dancing as we made plans to meet outside the hospital when my shift ended.

  My mind was no longer occupied with the director. Good guys like William had a way of making bad guys like Brock fall from my head.

  Keats had secured a table on the deck at Rosanna’s Hideout. I spotted him as I walked down the promenade, his mirrored shades covering his eyes. He seemed to relish playing the role of young businessman about to close a deal at lunch, like the rest of this whole town. At the entryway of the restaurant, a large potted fern had been conveniently placed. The owner of Rosanna’s Hideout must have known that the restaurant would benefit if paparazzi had an easy hideout from which to snap photos of the stars seated at the tables.

  I told the high-cheekboned maître d’ presiding at the podium that I was joining Keats Wharton.

  “Right this way,” the handsome and sure-to-be-aspiring-something man said, and led me to Keats’s table. Keats stood up, beamed knowingly, and held out a hand. An eager fellow, he gave me a big, gregarious shake. I’d texted him last night with a report on the success of the mission.

&nb
sp; I sat down and Keats gestured to a menu.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I said.

  “I was going to order a pear and walnut salad, hold the walnuts. Are you sure you don’t want something?”

  “I ate on campus,” I said, lying, but not caring. I had an energy bar in my backpack, but I was also skilled in holding out when it came to food. I could easily wait until I returned to my apartment that evening. Besides, you never knew who was watching, and I didn’t want to wind up like any of my subjects.

  No eating on camera. No tables turned here, thank you very much.

  When the waiter came by, Keats ordered his nut-free bed of lettuce and a glass of seltzer water, and I asked for an iced tea.

  “Lunch of champions,” Keats remarked after the waiter left. We chatted about the restaurant and LA, then he rubbed his hands together and grinned again. “But enough of that. I’m dying to see what you have.”

  “I believe you’ll be pleased.” I unzipped my backpack, and reached for the manila envelope with the printouts of the photos I’d taken. “Just a little sampler for you. I also have a draft saved in my email of the file transfer link. I’ll send it to you as soon as we’re all set.”

  He undid the clasp on the envelope and gingerly pulled out the photos, looking around to make sure no one else was copping a peek at his ten thousand dollar investment. As he surveyed the images, his eyes widened and his lips curved up. His reddish cheeks grew even brighter. “Nice,” he said as if he were salivating on the word. He emitted a brief laugh, the sort of satisfied chuckle you hear in a movie when a hit’s been carried out properly and to completion.