by S. M. West
How does one turn down a movie star? A man who any woman in her right mind would kill to go out with?
“Well, as I’m sure you know, I’m from LA where I know the nightlife, and while I’ve worked and stayed in the city before…” His hand runs down his threadbare T-shirt, and he avoids my gaze.
Is he embarrassed to admit he doesn’t have anyone to hang out with? And why does that make me feel sorry for him?
“I..um…I don’t have plans tonight and don’t want to spend it alone.” His small voice tugs at my heart. Damn him.
“You don’t have plans? Don’t you have people to make plans for you?”
My question is a little snarkier than intended, and he grimaces, nodding. “Yeah, and I shouldn’t say I don’t have plans. I was invited to four different events, but I just can’t.” He rolls his neck and exhales. “I want to chill and not have to be on.”
“I can understand that, but I don’t think you’d have a good time.” My body shifts from one foot to the other, eager to leave. “My friend and I…we’re just going out for a drink. Maybe just one and then home. Nothing exciting.”
It’s pathetic how hard I’m trying to make my life sound like it’s a snoozefest.
“Perfect. I don’t want exciting.” He bounces on the balls of his feet and claps his hands like it’s all set. “Give me your phone and we’ll trade numbers. I can pick you up.”
“Ah, you don’t need to pick me up.” I hand him my phone. “We’ll meet you there.”
And how the hell did this happen? I’m now having drinks with one of the most desired men in the world. Harley is going to have a coronary.
“Cool. What time?” The energy coming off him is like a kid hopped-up on sugar, and his excitement helps to dull my regret.
“Say nine thirty-ish.” I open the door, a little dazed by the turn of events. “Tristan, my friend isn’t single. And I’m not interested. Got it?”
“Ouch.” He rubs at his chest. “Before you go, take this.”
His hand is outstretched, fingers curling as if holding an imaginary object, and I wrinkle my brow. “What?”
“The knife you stabbed into my heart.” His voice is sober, but his features are bright and breezy as is his laugh.
“M’kay.” I shake my head and step outside.
“See ya later, P,” he yells through the closed door.
An amused smile dances on my lips despite the stupid letter he insists on calling me instead of my name.
When I reach Eli’s trailer, he’s in conversation with Sonia Crowley. One hand curls around her elbow, and she peers up at him as if he’s the only person in the world. There isn’t much space between them.
My stomach drops, but I can’t look away. Awkwardly, I clear my throat and approach. Eli locks eyes with me, stepping away from Sonia and offering a faint smile. “Hi. Time for another session?”
I nod, and the dark-haired woman looks to me. “Hello, I’m Sonia. I don’t think we’ve been introduced, but I’ve seen you on set.” She extends a delicate hand, and we shake.
“Hi. I’m Pru Edwards, the foreign dialect coach.”
“Ah, yes. The fledgling.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, forgive me, I’m only echoing how I’ve heard Bryce talk about you. Both Eli and Tristan speak highly of you even if this is your first time, and you don’t know what you’re doing.” Her smile is flat in contrast to her dazzling dark eyes.
Was that a jab? I’m not sure, but my chest is feeling particularly sore right now. Or is she stating a fact? My lack of experience isn’t a secret.
“Oh.” I glance to Eli who looks uncomfortable. “I’ll wait inside.” I point to his trailer and move past them. “Nice to meet you, Sonia.”
Within minutes Eli enters. “Sorry about that. We were talking about an upcoming scene.”
“That’s fine.” I’m nonchalant, flipping through the script to where we left off. “Let’s jump in since it’s the end of the day.”
“Eager to get out of here, are you?”
“No. I just figured—”
“I was only teasing.” He smiles, slipping into the chair beside me and leaning closer to get a look at the page.
Inhaling the faint scent of his woodsy cologne, I’m finding it next to impossible to concentrate. My senses are hyperaware of him. After five or six pages of material, his hand settles on the page.
“Is something wrong?” I look to him and quickly away, not able to resist his intimate gaze.
“No. I thought we could talk for a bit.”
“Talk?” I lean back in the chair, putting some much-needed distance between us. “But we’ve got work to do.”
“I ran lines last night. I’m good with this scene.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip and I nod. “You’re nailing your lines. And the pronunciation is really good.”
“Thanks. You’re a good teacher.” He stretches out his long, lean legs. “So how or why did you become a dialect coach?”
“Um. I’m not.” Gah, I hadn’t planned on talking about my career, but how do I answer this without lying or clearly avoiding the topic? “Like I said, I’m in between jobs. I used to be COO for a technology company, and now I’m looking for something else.”
“Wow, that’s chief operating officer, right? Forgive me, I’m not all that up on corporate lingo.” His self-deprecating smile is endearing, and I can’t help but give him one of my own.
“Yes. I oversaw strategy, operations, and business development.”
“Why’d you leave?”
And here we go, right back where I don’t want to be. When he mentioned Whitney the other day, I quickly changed the topic. But I need to get it over with. There’s no point avoiding the cold, hard truth.
“I was fired.”
“Seriously?” There’s a glint of shock in his eyes and I nod. “I didn’t see that coming. I know you’d said something like that before, but I thought you were kidding. Now you have to tell me the whole story.” His tone is light, maybe even a little playful, but also considerate. “That’s if you can talk about it. I mean, I don’t want to dredge up something painful or—”
“No, it’s okay.” The need to reassure him drowns any trepidation.
And like a house of cards, I cave, telling him all the sad and sordid details of my termination, including Whitney and more on how I got this job.
Embarrassment should swamp me, but I hold my head high, empty of any emotion when talking about my past career.
“Wow, I wondered why you’d tensed when I mentioned Whitney. And Ross hasn’t told you?”
“No, and I badgered him when I was let go.” I scowl at the memory of the conversation—no, it was more like a shouting match. “And now I need some space. I’m still so angry, but I will talk to him again.”
I have to, no matter how much I’d prefer to get on with my life. It appears Whitney isn’t done with me.
“Hey, did you ever think Bryce’s comment about letting you go has something to do with his brother and nothing to do with you?”
“Yes.” I’m loathe to say it out loud and right now, without any solid proof, I sound like a woman scorned. “My guess is he’s heard a lot about me from his brother or his sister-in-law, most of it lies. He might be regretting his decision.”
“Maybe, but that’s not what I mean.”
“I’m not following.”
“What if Bryce doesn’t like the idea of needing his brother, and getting rid of you might be his way to save face. You know, his brother referred someone, but they were no good.”
“I’d never thought about it like that before. You could be on to something. Ross did make it sound like he was doing his brother a huge favor, and he took great pleasure in it.”
Although it doesn’t explain Whitney’s visit, as much as I’d like to believe it had nothing to do with me. The fact Eli heard my name is proof enough that she knows I’m working for Bryce and has more plans for me.
�
�What are you thinking?” He rakes a hand through his thick dark strands, and my fingers tingle at the memory of how silky his hair is to the touch. This man.
“Nothing in particular. Just trying to figure this out.”
“Well, if we go with the idea of brother rivalry or competition, then at least Bryce’s attitude would make more sense. Although…”
“What?”
“I shouldn’t say anything. I’m not a gossip.”
“Come on, you can’t say that and drop it. Spill the tea. I swear I won’t repeat it.” I lean forward, conspiratorially, and he laughs.
“Bryce had a thing with the last dialect coach, and the story goes that he cheated. That’s why she took off without a word.”
“Really? That would make him desperate for a replacement.” The scandal is age old and does explain a few things. “What I don’t get is, why didn’t Bryce just get another dialect coach? One that knows what they’re doing.”
“Ah, the other coach didn’t go quietly. She spread the word about him among her colleagues. Bryce is well-respected, and many would kill to work on his movies, but that kind of behavior isn’t well-regarded.” His forearms, firm and veined, rest on his thighs, and he stares at me through dark lashes.
“Shoot, now I feel shitty. I’m the weak link, and I’ve just let down every woman who’s ever been subjected to something like that.”
“What?”
“I’m working for Bryce.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t know, and…” He pauses, studying me intently, so much so heat creeps into my cheeks.
“What is it? Stop looking at me like that.”
“Pru, has he tried anything with you?”
“What? No.” I shake my head vehemently.
“You’d tell me if he did, right?”
It’s a strange thing to say. We hardly know each other and carnal knowledge aside, that doesn’t make him my confidant or protector. And yet the more I mull it over, the idea of turning to Eli and confiding in him doesn’t feel crazy.
“Nothing like that has happened. He’s been a bit of an asshole, but he hasn’t tried anything. I wouldn’t be here if he had.”
“Thank fuck.” Relief washes over his expression, and he straightens. “Okay, new topic.”
“What?” I glance to my phone. We’ve got less than five minutes left, and I can’t believe how quickly the time has flown.
“Tell me—” he starts, but we’re interrupted by his PA.
“Eli, time’s up.” Brian’s head is the only thing in the doorway. “Geoffrey’s assistant called, and he can talk to you now.”
This gets Eli’s attention, and he sits up straighter. “Great, thanks, Bri.” He swivels back to me. “Pru, I’ve got to make this call—”
“It’s cool. I have to go anyway.” I quickly gather my things. “Have a good weekend.”
“You too.” He barely looks up from the tablet Brian thrusts in front of him, and I let myself out.
Harley is beside herself to learn we’ll be a threesome tonight. Whoa, a threesome? Where the hell did that come from? Tristan and his incessant sexual innuendoes have infected my brain.
I meet her at my place, and we have dinner then get ready. As promised, several hours before it’s time to go, I text Tristan the address of the cocktail bar at Lincoln Center. It’s a quarter to ten when we step out of the cab, and my phone dings.
Tristan: Hey, P, it’s T
Duh, I know it’s him. He’s sent me way too many texts tonight. He really is lonely. And again, there’s that sympathetic pang in my chest.
Tristan: It’s going to be one more for tonight
No! Who the hell did he invite? Before I have the chance to demand answers, another text comes in.
Tristan: Eli’s joining us
I let out a shriek, and Harley scurries to my side. “What is it?”
My stomach somersaults, firing all my nerve endings, and suddenly, I regret my simple shift dress and sandals.
Why? I look fine. No, I look good. And if I’d known Eli was going to be here? What would I have worn? A bodycon dress? Lingerie? All of the above?
“Tell me.” She grips my forearm, sinking her fingernails into my flesh.
I let out a hiss and pull from her hold. “Eli’s here with Tristan.”
She wails like a crying teenage fan at a rock concert. “Oh my God!” Her hands fly to her crimson cheeks.
“Get a grip. He’s just a man.” I’m such a liar. Just a man doesn’t even come close to describing him, and as if reading my mind, she gets in my face.
“Just a man? He’s freaking Eli Lansing. My legs feel like spaghetti. I don’t know if I can walk.”
I laugh at how true her words are, I feel the same way, then shake it off, pulling myself together.
I grip her arm. “Babe. Listen to me. If you’re going to act like some lunatic fangirl then I’m not going in there.”
“No. No. I promise.” She presses her lips together and tries to look more serious. “I got this.”
We march into the bar, and a squeal skates past my best friend’s lips when she spots Tristan. She so doesn’t have this.
Kill me now.
10
Eli
Stripped to your barest
It’s Friday night and I’m alone. Both Crystal and Janet have been home since last weekend, but tonight they both have plans. Janet’s at her daughter’s, getting more time with her grandson, and my daughter got a last-minute invite for a sleepover.
I was supposed to see Felicity for date number two despite how bland the first one was. It was my lame attempt to force Pru from my mind, but I came to my senses—or stopped fooling myself—and canceled. More than that, I also put the brakes on seeing Felicity as I’m unsure if I want things to go anywhere.
And while exhausted from a long week, I didn’t want to be alone, so I asked Tristan to join me for a drink. Only to be sucker punched when he shared with me his plans for the evening. He was meeting Pru.
What the hell?
Was it a date?
And if so, what happened to keeping things professional? Or was that excuse only for me? Did I misjudge her? Does she want Tristan?
Curious and eager to see her again, outside of the studio, I didn’t bow out once he told me. Instead I was all too eager to tag along.
We’ve been at the bar for an hour now, securing a booth in the back of the room, obscured by the dim lighting. So far, no one has recognized us although a server did stare at us for longer than normal.
One drink in, I sit here, listening to the band play “Red Red Wine”—all they play are cover songs—while Tristan texts with Pru. He smiles like a loon and chuckles at her messages, giving me a play-by-play. She’s getting into the cab with her friend. They’re close and so on.
For fuck’s sake. I try not to let his infatuation or amusement get to me. Or is his interest in Pru genuine? I hope not.
I feign disinterest, and thankfully I’m a good actor because the dumb bastard is clueless. While nursing my beer, I wonder just how long they’ve been texting and talking, and maybe even seeing each other, outside of work.
“She’s here.” The six-foot-three idiot slides out of the booth and heads to the front of the lounge.
The place is more crowded than when we arrived. More eyeballs track his every move, and an uneasy prickle darts up my back. A few of the glances hold recognition, and it looks like our anonymity might not last much longer.
Despite the people milling about and the dim lighting, I spot Pru almost immediately. Her eyes find mine as quickly, and even as she tries not to stare, I hold her gaze while they stroll to our table.
She’s sexy as fuck in a knee-length, sky-blue dress that hugs her curves, strappy sandals, and her just past chin-length blonde hair. Beside her is a glowing brunette.
Her friend is cute but looks starstruck. Dammit. It’s as if she’s jacked up, each step a bounce, a sure sign she’s a fan. I’ve seen it far too often at concerts, sign
ings, and even a few TV show junkets.
I’m not bragging or egotistical enough to figure it’s me. People act like that around celebrities, and it sucks that tonight might not be as quiet or relaxing as I’d hoped. Not with Pru and Tristan and whatever the hell is going on there, plus the possibility of being recognized, and finally, her fangirl friend.
“Eli, you know Pru, and this is Harley.” He gestures to the brunette before slipping into the booth and dragging Pru by the hand to sit next to him.
Bastard.
My jaw hardens, teeth grinding, and I dip my chin. “Ladies.”
I manage to muster what I’m sure is a lackluster smile. Pru’s brows knit, and Harley nods, suddenly shy and avoiding my gaze.
Sliding farther into the booth, I make room for her friend, and she hesitates before getting in next to me. “Hi, Eli, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I murmur and bring the beer bottle to my lips.
“So, what’ll it be, ladies?” Tristan signals to a server, beaming from ear to ear.
What is up with him? It’s as if he’s crushing on Pru, and maybe he is. I get the attraction, but I had hoped I was wrong and they weren’t into each other. If I’d known what the night would entail, I wouldn’t be here. A hard pass.
At first, things are awkward or at least, I think so, but I’m in the minority as Tristan dominates the conversation, flirting shamelessly with both women. In turn, they laugh, smile, and talk with him.
No surprise, Harley is a huge admirer of both Tristan and me. I force a smile, unable to stop sulking although I’ve no reason to. Pru isn’t mine.
Three women approach the table, and it’s the beginning of the end. Tristan’s been spotted, and they want his autograph. He excuses himself, agreeing to a selfie and a signature, and I’m grateful he didn’t allow them to linger.
“I suppose that happens a lot to him.” Pru hooks a thumb in the direction of the star and his worshippers.
“Yeah, I’m sure it does.”
She does a double take at my dry tone. “Are you jealous?”