Love, Chloe

by Alessandra Torre

  The dots stopped. Then restarted. I imagined him biting his lip, thinking over the response. When it finally came I sighed in relief.

  Probably not. I’ll let my girl work in peace.

  A good response. One that a trusting and loving husband would make. My girl. So freaking sweet. I locked my phone and tucked it underneath my legs.

  My girl.

  It bothered me, a pang of sadness hitting hard at the endearment. I must be lonelier than I realized. Single didn’t sit well with me, not in this big city, not in my empty apartment.

  I scrolled through the texts and deleted them all, including the video I had sent to him. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the communication … but still. Something about the whole thing felt tainted. The video. The lies. My girl.

  I confirmed the deletion and wondered how this would all implode, and when.

  31. Am I a Terrible Kisser?

  Shit. One of the lids was coming off. The lid was on one of the two cups of coffee between my elbow and my body, one decaf and one regular because I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember which one Nicole had requested. I also carried two plates, one of fruit and one of sushi, the queen’s breakfast of choice, a banana jostling close to one edge. Eyeing it, I rounded the corner of the props warehouse, hugging the edge in case anyone was coming in the opposite direction.

  Someone was. Someone in a white oxford and slacks, his head down, phone out. I tried to dart left, tried to call out a warning, and didn’t manage either before BLAM. Impact with the beautiful Joey Plazen.

  I’d never heard such a sexy curse in my life. He spoke Italian in some part of it, a rough accent coming into his voice as he stepped back, coffee going EVERYWHERE, a California roll sticking on his shoulder. I gasped, covering my mouth, which was convenient, because the next sound that spilled out of me was a laugh. A laugh. I had no earthly idea where it came from. Or why it came out. It was a disaster, coming out around my hand, and his head snapped up when he heard it, his eyes locking on mine with murderous intent. I shouldn’t have laughed. It wasn’t funny, and he was probably due on set, but coffee was dripping from his chin, and a piece of mango was sliding down his arm, and I was so horrified by the entire thing that a laugh was the only thing my body knew to produce. So I laughed. And then, to make matters worse, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t stop when he shook out his hands. When he flicked the California roll and the mango off his previously crisp shirt. I didn’t even stop when he stepped closer and pushed me back against the wall, his warm hand covering my mouth.

  “Stop laughing,” he gritted.

  I couldn’t. My body was shaking I was laughing so hard.

  I finally did stop. I stopped when he moved his hand and silenced me with his lips.

  My last kiss had been outside a club, in the snow, with an asshole. This kiss was with a different asshole, against a wall, on a movie set. Unlike the other asshole, this asshole … God, he knew how to kiss.

  I was laughing when his lips pressed into mine, a hard and insistent *shut the hell up* move that instantly worked, my laughter halting, his body pushing against mine. His coffee-soaked shirt was cold and wet against my Vince sweater, but I didn’t care. The hard press of his lips lifted then immediately came back down, this time softer and sweeter, my mouth opening, our kiss deepening. I gripped at the wall behind me, fought the urge to reach for his head, dig through that hair, and I almost moaned when I felt his hand wrap around my waist and pull me away from the wall and into his body. He tasted like coffee and sugar, and his fingers bit into my waist in the moment before his mouth ripped from mine. He let go and stepped back, leaving me panting against the wall, my glazed vision fighting to find its focus.

  “Huh.” He let out a puff of air and twisted his mouth. “I thought that would be better.”

  His expression was almost wistful in its confusion, his words without any sarcasm. My ego took a nosedive, and he shrugged, glancing down at his outfit.

  “Shit. Get me a change of clothes.” His words were dismissive, an order handed out with absolute certainty of being obeyed. He gave me a parting wink then strode off. God, he was an ass. An ass that made Vic look positively gentlemanly. I pushed off the wall and looked down at my cream sweater, now ruined. The coffee was a lost cause, and Nicole’s sushi … I looked at the few pieces still stuck to the plate and wondered if they were salvageable.

  Get me a change of clothes. I was, apparently, the only one with shaky legs and a raging libido. I thought that would be better. I wiped my hands on my jeans and pulled out my cell. Sent Hannah a text that the asshole she called a boss needed new clothes. I ignored the colorfully grouchy emoticons she sent back in response, too busy trying to clean up the mess. I thought that would be better. Ouch.

  First kisses could tell you a lot. Ours told me that his sex appeal wasn’t limited to his looks. Ours told me that any attraction I felt for Joey Plazen wasn’t returned.

  First kisses were often last kisses also.

  I used to think that I was hot. Nabbing one of New York’s most eligible bachelors did that to a girl’s ego. But then Vic cheated on me. And my track record ever since had sucked. Between the thousand-dollar asshole and Joey’s reaction to our kiss—paired with zero date invites in the last year—I was failing terribly as a single in New York.

  Nothing was going right.

  “Hey, Nicole’s girl.”

  The first time he’d spoken to me since our disastrous kiss, and that was how Joey Plazen summoned me. By command, one step above him slapping his knee and whistling at me like I was a dog.

  I ignored him and kept walking, a juice in one hand, new shooting schedule in the other. Two weeks wasn’t long enough to heal the sting of that snub.

  “Hey!” I zagged right and heard him curse as he jumped over a mass of cords and tried to catch up. I swallowed a smirk, speeding up a little. “Chloe.”

  I stopped, spinning around and raising my eyebrows, his arms coming out as he reached me. I took a casual sip of the juice and winced, too much ginger in the blend.

  “Where are you going?” He tucked both hands in the front pockets of his jeans.

  An unexpected question. I stared, taking me a minute to remember where I had been going. Oh, right. To pick up Nicole’s cardigan. “Wardrobe.” I managed the word and took another sip. Waited for him to say something—anything—and when he stayed silent, his eyes roaming over the concrete between us, I turned to leave.

  “Chloe.” My name was a puff on his lips, and I heard the scrape of his shoes when he lunged after me, his hand closing on my shoulder, a gentle pull that I ignored.

  “What do you want, Joey?” Because that’s what it was. He wanted something. If I’d learned anything from two months of being on set with Joey, it was that every smile was a bribe, every flirt was a favor, and our kiss against the wall … that was just entertainment. Benta had more properly defined it as him trying to put me in my place. It had certainly, if anything, put my ego in check and killed any fantasies of a future between us.

  “You know, for an assistant, you sure do walk around with a stick up your ass.”

  WOW. Whatever he was chasing me down for just moved a lot further out of his reach. I kept walking.

  “Chloe…” When he closed his hand on my shoulder a second time, it was harder, his fingers biting in and holding on, his pull forcing me to stop. I looked down at his hand.

  “Move your hand or I’m pouring this juice all over it.”

  He lifted his hand and held it up in surrender. “Chloe, please. Let’s grab lunch. I don’t have a scene ’til two.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t ask you to lunch?” He scowled, and I liked that. I understood grouchy Joey. It was the random spurts of friendliness and sexuality that unsettled me.

  “I can’t know your motives?” I smiled as sweetly as I could and he looked irritated. I guess he hated Fake Chloe as much as I hated Fake Joey. Ugh. Our names rhymed. H
ow had I never noticed that before?

  “I just want to talk. That’s it.”

  I examined his face warily. The conversation was getting weirder by the minute. I glanced at my watch. “Chat now. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Here?”

  I bit back a sarcastic comment about him needing privacy and eyed the crowded path. I nodded to our left, cut between two trailers and walked to a quiet spot behind a rack of lights. “Better?” I asked, my voice quieter.

  “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hesitant, then leaned closer in to me. “We need Nicole to cough up more cash.”

  It was so unexpected I laughed. I’d heard that rumor since the day I walked on set, snide comments following Nicole wherever she went. The general consensus among the crew was that she’d bought her spot on the cast, a rumor I hadn’t debunked. It distracted them from the truth: that Paulo was more interested in what was between her legs than what was filling her pockets.

  Joey glared. “I’m serious, Chloe. The film is way over budget. The studio is balking.”

  “So? Don’t most movies go over budget?”

  “Yeah, but the studio is already skittish, especially with Condom Barbie’s name attached. Paulo approached me about needing a cash infusion.”

  That surprised me. I didn’t know crap about movies but it seemed odd to ask the star to fund it after filming had begun. “Is that normal? A director approaching you to help fund the film?”

  “No. But Paulo and I are the ones who found this script and pitched it to the production company. I offered to step in with cash then but it wasn’t needed.”

  “So put in the cash now.”

  His eyes darkened. “I’m not paying for Nicole’s mistakes. The only reason we’re over budget is her. She’s taking three takes longer than anyone else, and has Paulo’s ear, requesting script changes every other day.”

  Something was off. I watched his toe stub at the ground, saw the flex of his jaw as he looked to the side. I’d lay down odds that Joey couldn’t step up with the funding, and it had nothing to do with Nicole and everything to do with a lack of cash. Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he wanted everyone to believe. Or as responsible with his success.

  I didn’t call him out. Instead, I asked how much was needed, flinching at the twenty million number he threw out. An amount he seemed intent on Nicole covering.

  “Will she do it?”

  I shrugged. “Why are you asking me? You see her nine hours a day, ask her.”

  He reached out and grabbed my hand, a move right out of his Endearing Gestures Toolbox. “You know her. What’s their financial situation like? Is that kind of additional investment feasible?”

  I studied him. Joey was actually worried, the tension in his grip indicating exactly how interested he was in my response. For all his bitching about Nicole tanking the film, he wanted to see it through. He wanted to see it funded. But not only that … he wanted to see it succeed. Maybe Big Bad Joey Plazen wasn’t the confident ass he portrayed. Maybe when cut, he bled insecurity just like the rest of us. He raised his eyebrows and stared at me, waiting.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said, tugging my hand back. There’d been a few hints here and there that money wasn’t as free-flowing as it might have once been. Which wasn’t to say the Brantleys were downsizing anytime soon. But Nicole was yacht-shopping last week and Clarke shut down that idea down really quick. “I don’t think it’s a given. A possibility, maybe.” I glanced at my watch. “I have to go.”

  He nodded and stepped back. “Thanks.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t help out more.”

  He flashed a smile, one almost convincing enough to look carefree. “No biggie. Someone will come forward, if she won’t.” He waved, turning away, and I watched him walk off, not buying his sudden ease.

  Twenty million. I smiled, heading to Wardrobe, the sum unthinkable to a girl who had just stocked her fridge with stolen McDonald’s condiment packets.

  33. Knock. Knock.

  C9. I stared at the number, innocently set into the door, and chewed on my nail. Glanced at my watch, which hadn’t changed. Still fifteen minutes past midnight.

  If only I hadn’t stopped by the bookstore and furiously scanned the tabloids…

  If only I hadn’t swung by Benta’s, who’d had boy drama to discuss…

  If only I hadn’t watched three freaking episodes of PLL with her…

  If only I had taken the subway instead of a cab…

  If only I hadn’t made the ultimate tourist mistake and left my keys in the cab…

  I was up the stairs to my building, reaching for the key before I realized what happened. I sprinted down the steps, waving my arms and screaming at the cab, which continued its merry path a block away. I muttered a line of obscenities, stomping my feet in the middle of the street, my keys still lying on the seat of the cab, my Fendi fluffy keychain lost forever.

  I trudged back up the steps and leaned on the front door, doing a half-hearted search on the taxi commission’s website. It took five minutes to find out that the only chance I had of getting my keys back was by filing a lost item report in person. Talk about archaic practices. As I closed the browser, one of my neighbors opened the lobby door, and I gratefully slipped in, one step closer to home.

  The elevator was halfway up before I realized I didn’t have a way to get into my apartment. The spare key I’d left for Benta and Cammie—stuck under my mat after the night they’d nearly gotten me evicted for being drunk and loud on my doorstep—I’d used it a week earlier when I couldn’t manage to find my house key in the depths of my purse. It was still sitting on my kitchen counter, patiently waiting to be returned to its rightful place under my mat.

  I’d run out of options. I stared at the door of C9. Carter’s apartment. At least I’d remembered the unit number, all of that obsessing coming in handy. I glanced at my watch one last time before reluctantly lifting my hand and knocking on his door.

  I woke him up. When he opened the door, I could see it in the rough mess of his hair, the scratch of his voice, but more noteworthy: his lack of clothing. Bare-chested, he braced muscular arms against the doorframe, his biceps popping, shoulders strong and wide, a six-pack screaming attention to the gorgeous cuts on either side of his hips. Bright yellow pajama pants hung low on his hips, the ties undone and I forgot about my lost keys, forgot all about my Netflix plans, forgot everything but a raw desire to drop to my knees and yank down those pants.

  I swallowed. “Hey Carter.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I left my keys in a cab.” I gestured toward the street for some unknown reason, my eyes continually tripping back to his abs. Damn.

  “You need a place to crash?” There was a smile in his tone and I pulled my eyes up to his face. God, he was pretty. Had some dark stubble going that made his eyes pop. And he was actually smiling. Maybe Benta and Cammie’s party in the hall had been forgiven.

  “Ah… no.” Maybe? I struggled to explain. ” I can’t get into my apartment. Do you have a spare?”

  He pushed off the doorframe and stepped back, running a rough hand over the back of his head and I could get a freaking foot massage by running my soles over the hard ripple of those abs. “I should. Come on in.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, meekly stepping inside and sneaking a look around. It was sparsely furnished, a leather sectional laid out before a large flat screen, a farmhouse-style table the only other piece of furniture in the room. “Your apartment is bigger than mine.”

  He laughed, walking over to the kitchen counter and digging around in a drawer. “You sound so surprised.”

  “Well.” I didn’t finish the sentence, standing awkwardly in the entranceway. My second glance saw the art on the walls. “Wow.” I stepped closer, the piece in the foyer area gorgeous, a hundred swirls of color centered around a woman’s face. “Is this…?” I touched it to test my ey
es, my hands brushing over the raised oil brush strokes. “Holy shit. This is a Presa Little.”

  He looked up from the drawer and met my eyes with a look of wary surprise. “Yeah. You know her stuff?”

  “Umm … yeah,” I said softly, turning back to the piece. “I’ve followed her for a while.” My parents had had a Presa Little in our Colorado home, purchased on one of our shopping trips to Paris. Mom used to spend the day shopping, and Dad and I would hit galleries, art something that we both loved. “How did … her stuff is wicked expensive.” I glanced at him and saw his face darken.

  “She was a friend of mine. It was a gift.”

  He stepped closer, coming to stand beside me, my hand still outstretched toward the bare canvas. A Presa Little original. A six-figure piece, easy. And from behind him, in the hall that probably led to his bedroom, another one, midnight blue swirls of ocean—

  I stopped thinking about the painting or my keys, because right then he pulled me around, closing the gap between us and pressing me gently to the wall, my hair against a painting that could buy me a future. “Are you sure you lost your keys,” he grumbled, “or did you wake me up for something else?”

  I put my hands where I’d wanted to for the last ten minutes, sliding them down the bumps of his abs and over the line of his hips, hooking my fingers underneath the waist of his pajama pants. “Both?” I whispered.

  There was a moment of silence, his eyes on mine. They were wary, as if he didn’t trust me. And hungry, as if he was fighting just to keep away. I stared up at him, my breath catching in my throat, and begged him for more with my gaze. He sighed, his eyes falling to my mouth, and I felt the moment he gave in, his head lowering, his lips pressing to mine.