by Mel Curtis
“Banana cream pie.” Amber sank back in the green bench seat and closed her eyes. “If I so much as put a spoonful on my tongue the button of my jeans will pop, but it would be so worth it.”
“Dessert! I long for Bungeoppang. Do you think they have it here? Where is Miss Waitress?” Ren stood and went in search of her.
Evan hadn’t made a sound.
“I’m not joking.” Amber turned her head to look at him. “No dessert for me.”
“Pity,” Evan said, his gaze deceptively lazy, like a lion before it sprang on its prey. “Anything that makes your buttons pop would lift my spirits.”
He’d yanked them back into dangerous territory. Amber sat up. “You really can’t separate your life from sex, can you?”
“Now who’s no fun?” His thigh stroked Amber’s once, a teasing touch that reminded her of deeper contact.
“Ah, sex. Finally a topic I am versed in.” Ren grinned as he sat. “Evan wanted me to tell him more about Senge Tenzing.”
Evan choked on his water. Amber whacked him on the back a bit too vigorously. She was laughing too hard to be gentle.
Ren sat straight, looking proud to be the center of the conversation. “In three days Senge has open sessions where anyone can go and ask questions about their sexual dysfunction. Evan must go.”
“I’ll say,” Amber seconded.
Lucky for Evan, their food appeared. Ren ate as if he hadn’t seen food for days. Amber suspected he shut down the social part of his brain so he could concentrate on fueling that huge body of his.
Next to her, Evan’s steak sandwich made Amber’s mouth water. She stole one of his French fries. It was only fair since his thigh had taken up a gentle rhythmic motion against hers – glide and retreat, glide and retreat.
“Hey,” Evan swatted at her hand. “Save room for pie.”
Amber sucked the salt off her French fry before taking a bite, savoring the warm potato. “It’s almost as good as McDonald’s.”
“Here, have another.” Evan swiped a fry in catsup and handed it to her.
“What happened to saving room for pie?”
Evan gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m all for pants popping, remember?”
“Ha, ha.” Hoping to satisfy some of her appetite, Amber dug into her salad with a gusto that came nowhere near Ren’s, but still was to be respected.
“Ren likes food,” Evan observed. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman enjoy eating as much as you do.”
“I like food, but I’m not a foodie. I’m not even particularly picky. It just has to be worth eating, you know?” Amber mopped her lettuce in dressing. “I just have to set limits.”
“You learned that in camp.” Glide-retreat.
Although she was grateful Evan hadn’t put the word fat in front of camp, Amber’s cheeks grew hot. “I keep forgetting you saw that.” And so much more. She barely stopped herself from slouching her shoulders together.
“You act like your media legacy is a bad thing.” Evan quickly added, “Other than your ten second porn…”
Amber sent Evan a look meant to end the conversation. It usually worked with Trina. Evan? Not so much.
“The 60 Minutes segment and what I’ve seen of your Foundation infomercials…none of it is bad.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.” From Blue and Cora and their friends.
Evan hesitated. His thigh came to rest against hers. “You haven’t seen the 60 Minute thing?”
“No.” Amber pushed a piece of chicken around her plate. “My mom wouldn’t let me. Not 60 Minutes. Not any of the infomercials.” And if she stumbled upon them on television she quickly changed the channel.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Because I dissect game film. As a professional athlete I can’t get away from watching myself, over and over. I learn something every time.”
“Your point?”
“Aren’t you selling those glorified Rules of yours? Don’t you need to know how your dad talked about your miraculous transformations?”
Amber dropped her fork in defeat. “Way to ruin a meal. Now I have to watch them.”
“Ren thinks you’re brave, so it should be no big deal.”
“Whereas you think I’m stupid?”
“Not stupid. Stubborn maybe.” Evan shrugged. “I’ll watch those videos with you if you want. I have this huge high definition TV – ”
“That kind of viewing experience I don’t need.” She’d had a bad case of acne when she’d attended fat camp.
In the end, they topped off their lunch with shared orders of banana cream pie and carrot cake, since Ren’s Korean delicacy wasn’t on the menu. Amber limited herself to two bites of each. Evan finished off the pie and Ren inhaled the carrot cake.
“I’m disappointed,” Evan said as he slid out of the booth when it was time to go.
“Why?” Amber asked.
Evan glanced at her midriff. “Your button didn’t pop off.”
Chapter 27
An hour later, Amber discovered the door to the Dooley Foundation unlocked, but the office had a vacant feel to it.
Frankly, every place Amber went without Evan’s big body somewhere in the vicinity felt empty. The man took up too much space – physically and in her head. He could be a self-centered, stubborn pain in the ass one minute and a gentleman the next, unlike Kent Decklin, who was just plain phony.
Charity Case. She bet that’s why Kent had touched Amber mechanically, just going through the motions until she was ready for prime time. Evan touched Amber as if he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
And Amber couldn’t keep her mind on the real issue. How was exposing Evan’s private pain going to get him to play better? Maybe it was time to talk to Blue.
Careful of her father’s framed Ego picture inside her purse, Amber set it gingerly on her desk, prepared to show it to her brother. She hadn’t noticed if Blue was in his office. She ventured down the hall, but everyone was gone. Gemma had an excuse. She was in class. But Cora and Blue?
She entered Blue’s vacant office. The Foundation infomercials and books sat on his bookshelf. Evan had said they weren’t that bad. She picked up the stack of materials.
The outer plastic had been removed from the DVDs, but the security tape still sealed them. She opened a goal setting book. The spine groaned as if no one had ever read it. The same for the next one. And the next.
Why that sneaky SOB…
Blue hadn’t been studying up on the Rules. He’d lied. Evan was right. Amber couldn’t trust anyone. It was a good thing Amber had been named CEO, because she was the only one who knew a smidgen of what the Rules were about.
Before she let that thought go to her head, Amber acknowledged that a smidgeon wasn’t enough to make the Foundation successful. If she was going to secure her future, Amber had to stop relying on people who didn’t like how she dressed, sold her out to the press and screwed around all day instead of helping Amber figure out the Rules. Which meant she had to be like a professional athlete and review her game film and playbook, no matter how painful the experience.
Amber ignored the way her hands shook as she carried the stack of materials into her office. She freed the infomercial with the most recent date on it and loaded it into the red laptop with trepidation. Just how humiliating was this going to be? In the bonus materials her father had included film of Amber at fat camp, but Amber wasn’t quite ready to view that yet. She chose the introduction.
Looking young and vibrant in a conservative polo and khakis, Dooley Rule walked through a lush country garden, filled with abundant flowers and a winding stone pathway. Looking at his warm smile and wide blue eyes, it was hard to believe he was gone.
“Have you ever felt you weren’t good enough? Many people do. My daughter, Amber, struggled with self-esteem during her teenage years.”
A photo of Amber in her tubby phase flashed upon the screen. Amber cringed. She was wearing a too-tight T-
shirt that hugged every unflattering young curve. Buying clothes a size too small was her mother’s way of encouraging Amber to lose weight. Not that her mother had been around much in Amber’s teenage years, preferring to go on location with her second husband, an Italian film director.
“But by following my personalized coaching program Amber cleared the path for a happier life.”
A photo of a slimmer Amber on the red carpet with Sam Slade, the panty-muncher, slid into view.
“Jerk,” Amber mumbled.
“Now with personal coaching and a series of motivational books from the Dooley Foundation – ”
Way to sell, Dad.
“ – you’ll explore the obstacles you’ve created for yourself and learn how to choose the path to a richer, happier life.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve turned to the dark side?” Cora appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. “Daddy would be so proud.”
Would he? Amber pushed aside the question, paused the infomercial and moved her tote with the Ego picture she’d meant to show Blue from the desk to the floor. “You realize you have to sell the Rules in order to gain your inheritance?”
The way Cora smiled had goose bumps forming on Amber’s arms. “Some of us are destined to manage and some of us to sell. Must run. I’ve got an appointment.” She gave a little wave and made her exit, leaving no doubt in Amber’s mind that she’d do anything to see Amber fail.
And what about Blue? Did he want her to fail as well?
Courage to watch the video deflated, Amber closed the media player window and took out a pad and pen. She had to prepare for her session with Lyle. She made a list of as many Ground Rules as she could recall and then put a check by the ones she thought would help the gossip columnist. Unfortunately, she checked nearly everything.
Deciding a frapuccino was needed to bolster her spirits, Amber shoved the pad into her purse and locked up.
“Just make it through the session with Lyle without making a fool of yourself and it’s a win,” Amber muttered, trying to rub away the tightness in her chest. She’d worry about what to do with Blue and Cora later.
After dropping Amber off at her car, Evan craved coffee. Whatever he and Amber were dancing around wasn’t good for his game. Training and playing at an elite level required a single-mindedness that watching out for a water gun toting life coach didn’t allow for. Regardless of how hot she was.
Evan placed a quick call to Cy, requesting help with the photographer who Amber claimed had taken to stalking her. Maybe Cy could use his contacts to get the guy to back off.
Evan ended up at the Starbucks near the practice facility. He wasn’t looking for Brock to go Round Two.
But sure enough, when Evan arrived, there was the vindictive broadcaster sitting in the corner of Evan’s Starbucks talking on his cell. You’d think Brock would realize by now that this was Evan’s turf. Despite Brock trying to bully him in the interview, Evan wasn’t going to change his habits – not for Jack or Spinks or Amber or Brock.
Admittedly, he’d enjoyed Ren and Amber’s company. Neither filled his ears with unnecessary chatter, unless you counted when Amber tried to make a chirpy point. Her body was soft against his in that booth and, unlike other women he’d dated, she knew how to appreciate real food. Maybe he’d drop by her house later and give her some support to watch those infomercials she seemed so afraid of.
As Evan waited for the barista to make his drink, he listened unabashedly to Brock’s conversation.
“I know…”
“I’m sorry…”
“I didn’t.”
How pathetic. The guy needed to tell his wife he was coming home and they’d either work it out or end it all. Dragging it out was pointless and took up space in Evan’s Starbucks.
What was the wife saying that had Brock by the short hairs? Evan stopped behind Brock and leaned over until he was close enough to hear his conversation.
“You never help with the kids. I’m here all day alone. I can’t go shopping with Lauren or get anything done.”
“I’m sorry.” Brock realized Evan was there and shoved at him.
The distraction was enough for Evan to snag Brock’s Blackberry. “Mrs. Hamilton?” Evan backed out of Brock’s reach.
“Who’s this?” Brock’s wife sounded stuffy, as if she’d been crying.
“Evan Oliver.”
“What are you doing with my husband? I suppose you’re dragging him out to some bar with that woman.”
Evan tamped down his aggravation that Brock’s wife would refer to Amber as if she were a lesser being. “We’re just two guys hanging out at Starbucks having a cup of coffee.”
She snuffled.
Brock lunged for Evan, who sidestepped out of his reach, his hold on his coffee tenuous.
“Mrs. Hamilton, did you know your husband has been sleeping in his car?” There. If the woman loved her husband, she’d take him back.
“You’re a dead man, Oliver,” Brock seethed.
“I don’t think Brock feels right spending money you and the kids need on a hotel. Why don’t you put on something black and slinky and meet your husband for dinner?”
Brock wrested the phone away. “I’m back. Are you there?” He spun on Evan. “She’s gone.”
“I might have hung up on her.” So much for trying to be the Relationship Godfather. Evan ambled toward the door, keeping one eye on Brock, who didn’t look sane.
“If you’ve blown this for me – ”
“I couldn’t make your situation any worse.”
“Then why did you butt in?”
No way was Evan admitting, even to himself, that Brock being miserable bothered him. “Because I don’t want to share my Starbucks. Find some other place to crash.”
Brock followed Evan out to the parking lot.
“Your wife wants you back. Women don’t whine like that when they hate your guts,” Evan said, sliding into the Ferrari. “Find a decent place to stay before Jack finds out you’re homeless.”
“Like I’m going to take advice from you.”
“Suit yourself.” Evan drove away.
It wasn’t until Evan pulled into his driveway that he realized Brock had followed him home.
Chapter 28
“Two minutes early. I’m impressed, Miss Rule.” Lyle Lincoln acknowledged Amber with a dry glance over the top of his bifocals. His hair was cut fashionably short. Despite the glasses, he looked ten years younger.
“You wanted me to be prompt,” Amber said, nervously parking her purple Dooney & Burke tote in one of his boxy red Barcelona chairs and sitting in the other.
L.A.’s gossip king tapped something out on his keyboard, probably some derogatory note about how Amber was ripping off Dooley Foundation customers. “We’ll start when it’s time.”
“Every minute counts,” Amber parroted one of her father’s favorite phrases, crossing her legs and sending her foot bouncing.
Lyle hesitated, his beady little eyes assessing her. And then he laughed. “Seeing as how this is the second of our three sessions, yes.”
Lyle was so sure of himself and Amber so unsure, that she felt like fleeing. What could she possible say to help Lyle? Particularly when she had no idea what Lyle wanted out of his life coaching sessions. Personally, she’d want him to be more humble, but what did she know. This was beginning to feel a lot like playing basketball with Evan Oliver – a lot went on that she didn’t understand, probably because Evan wanted her kept in the dark to protect his soft, vulnerable center. Men didn’t like being seen as weak.
Amber’s foot stilled.
Life is all about bluffing.
Amber always bluffed when people came too close to hurting her. And Evan? He was sensitive about that last college game and his basketball skills. And let’s not forget his sexual longevity or lack thereof. So, what was Lyle prickly about?
“I’m under deadline, so if we could keep this brief…” Lyle drummed his fingers on the edge of his keyboard.
>
“Oh, yes. Your column.” Amber tried to remember when Lyle had been most sensitive at their last meeting. He’d said something like he never made mistakes. Uh-huh. “I never leave the house without reading it.”
“No one who is anyone feels differently.”
“It’s brilliant the way you include both Hollywood and L.A. celebs.” Gag. She was laying it on pretty thick now.
“The public is fascinated by celebrities and their foibles.”
Amber had never used the word foible outside of English class. “Do you ever get the details wrong?”
Lyle hesitated before he answered with an icy, “No.”
“Never? Not once?”
His gaze fell to the computer screen. “I wouldn’t last very long in the publishing field if I made mistakes.”
His name had been on a wilted flower on the Forgiveness picture, right next to her withered petals. “So you’ve never got the facts wrong in, say, a celebrity divorce? Outing someone on the gay list?”
Pale face seemingly paler, Lyle scowled at her. “No. No. And no.”
Amber held his gaze, barely holding back the L word. She bet Lyle wouldn’t respond well to being called out directly. Indirectness was another matter entirely. “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes,” she said quietly.
He crossed his skinny arms. “Not me.”
“It’s okay to say you’re sorry and move on.”
“Why would I?”
“Because it’s the decent thing to do.” Amber ignored his huff. “Because you feel better afterwards. Because you, with your spies everywhere, can’t always get it right.”
“Spies?” He laughed mirthlessly.
“I never see photos of you out on the town. How else did you find out – ” About Evan and me at Panache and Tingle? “About Kent Decklin breaking up with Mimi Sorbet?”
“I don’t employ spies or pay for information. If you surround yourself with a strong community, you’ll reach your goals and get to the tippy-top.”
Amber started to say something and then stopped, because tippy-top wasn’t a term you heard every day. But she’d heard it from two different men in one day.