by Layla Hagen
“Okay.”
I value my privacy, which is why I didn’t rent out this apartment, not even to friends.
For the longest time, I had zero hesitation about letting people in my life. I’m a very sociable person; I like being surrounded by a crowd. The more, the merrier. Making friends has always come easy for me. It took me a long while to realize some people just hung around because I provided them with luxuries—free vacations, free everything. I was young when my family came into money, which had positives and negatives. I had everything I needed and wanted, but I also didn’t learn the value of caution or mistrust. It took many mishaps for me to realize some people only stuck around for what I gave them, and when that wasn’t enough, they showed their ugly side.
So now I’m more cautious, but Clara is one of the few people I feel comfortable around. I can be myself with her, just like with my family. She’s fun, smart, and no one who openly admits that what she wants most is a family can have a mean or traitorous bone in their body.
There’s that small detail of me being unable to stop touching her, especially since she’s so responsive. The pad of my thumb is still at the base of her neck. Her pulse is, if possible, even more frantic.
“Any general house rules?” she asks, her voice uneven.
“None that I can think of. Except...I usually go to sleep very late and then wake up late in the mornings.”
“Makes sense, since the bar and the restaurants open and close late.”
“Yeah. I’m a light sleeper in the morning, so if you sing in the shower—”
“I don’t.”
An image of Clara in the shower pops in my mind. Christ, what I wouldn’t give to see that, to join her. Not going there. Not going there.
Lowering my hand, I skim it down her arm. Her skin turns to goose bumps under my touch, and she sucks in a breath. Her reaction to me is intoxicating, makes it hard to keep my thoughts in line, even harder not to touch her more, see what other reactions I can provoke.
Jesus, this is escalating far too easily. We’ve spent time with each other before, so why is this spinning out of control so fast?
We’re saved by the bell—in this case, the sound of a message on my phone.
“The bar manager needs me,” I tell Clara, reading his message. “Have to go downstairs. When exactly do you have to move out of your apartment?”
“The end of this week.”
“Okay. You can keep this set of keys, I have another one.”
“Thanks.”
I lean in to kiss her cheek, and because I can’t help it, I linger with my lips on her skin a beat too long. She shudders lightly, her breath coming out almost on a moan. The things I’d do to this woman. I’d taste every inch of her skin, every—fuck me.
I step back right away.
“Come on, I’ll walk you to your car, almost-neighbor.”
As we leave the apartment, I have a eureka moment and a plausible explanation for the sudden shift in tension between us. Before we mostly saw each other at family events; we were rarely alone. As neighbors sharing a balcony, we will rarely not be alone. Turns out it’s a dangerous move to ask a woman you’re drawn to far too much to move next door.
CHAPTER THREE
Clara
“Clara, Quentin is asking for you.” Mona motions with her head in the direction of our lunch buffet. My boss, Quentin Meyer, is hovering in front of it, loading his plate.
“Thanks, Mona.”
She shudders almost imperceptibly, then heads to the buffet herself, keeping her distance from Quentin. Nearing his forties with a nasty smile and permanently wandering eyes, most of the women at the studio do their best to avoid him. But alas, he’s my boss, so I’m the one person who can’t do that. I make a point to never wear anything even remotely sexy at work.
“Hey, boss,” I say, loading a plate for myself. “Mona said you need me.”
“Yes, yes. How well do you know the Bennett family?”
I pause in the act of biting into my burger. Maybe it’s because Quentin watches me with his trademark nasty smile, but I don’t feel like volunteering the truth.
“Not well at all, why?”
We move toward a corner of the room because it’s getting crowded over at the buffet.
“You were at Alice Bennett’s wedding. Someone tagged you on Facebook.” He bites into his own burger, and my stomach plummets. I take a big bite, using the excuse of chewing so I don’t have to answer right away so I can form a plan. Damn Facebook. I thought I had my settings on private so only friends could see what I post or what I’m tagged in.
“Of course I went. Nate and I are good friends, but that’s all.”
Quentin grimaces as if he accidentally swallowed lemon juice. “Damn shame. Ran into one of the heads from Entertainment Central, Ryan Shepperd. Pitched him our show for Our Picks, but he’s not giving us the time of day.”
Our Picks is a show that spotlights and reviews other shows. It pulls in incredible numbers for such a segment. Truth be told, it’s pulling about ten times the numbers our flailing show is. If we’d be featured on it, our viewership would skyrocket.
We’re barely scraping by in the rankings, but with a lot of hard work the show will climb up the charts...eventually. It’s been on air for four months, and I’ve been here for two.
After Nate moved to London, I kept working on his show with the new executive producer, but then he left too, and the one who took his place wanted to bring in his assistant. I wanted to stay with the network because the pay is above what I’d get somewhere else. Quentin here just had his fifth assistant quit on him in two months, so they gave me the job.
“So anyway, Shepperd said one of his people saw you tagged on Facebook in the wedding. They’ve wanted a scandal about the Bennett family for years for their We See You segment. Said he’d trade me: Juicy story on that family for a feature of our show on Our Picks.”
My body goes cold.
We See You is nicknamed Gossip Central in the industry—a weekly evening show where they tear apart whoever is their subject, flaunting dirty laundry and scandals for the entire country to see. It pulls in even better numbers than Our Picks.
Over my dead body will the Bennett family ever be a subject on their show.
“Was hoping you’d know something about their skeletons. Have you heard anything juicy from Nate?”
He says Nate’s name with disdain, and I grit my teeth. I don’t know why he dislikes Nate—probably because he’s made a name for himself even though he’s younger than Quentin. And Nate never got ahead by selling anyone out.
“No,” I say calmly. “From what he says, they’re great people. No skeletons.”
As if I’d tell you if they had.
“Please, everyone has skeletons. The press is dying for some dirt. A scandal.”
Blake told me once that as time passed the press became more interested in their personal life rather than the company, and that they’re always fishing for scandals.
“You sure you can’t get closer to them?”
I don’t think you can get any closer than living next to one and attending all their family events, but I shake my head, my hackles rising—no one is going to mess with that family.
“I have many press leads.” I work as much positivity in my tone as I can muster. “We’ll climb in the rankings, you’ll see.”
Quentin pays no attention, instead eying the ass of a passing assistant. I bite into my burger to hide my groan. I loved, loved, loved working with Nate. He was a great boss and mentor. More than a mentor, he was almost like a brother, and he accepted my crazy. That’s always a bonus. Of course, lightning never strikes twice, so I wasn’t dreaming I’d get another boss like him.
But is it too much to ask for a decent boss? One who does his job and doesn’t look for shortcuts that involve selling people out? One who doesn’t make my skin crawl?
Part of me regrets taking out the mortgage because I’ll be stuck here for a long while
until I can find something better. But then I think about how great it’ll be to have my own place. That puts everything into perspective. When Quentin leaves, I take out my phone, pull up the Facebook app, and change my settings to private.
***
Blake
“Mr. Bennett, the earliest we can deliver is next Monday,” the vendor repeats for the fifth time. Her voice is just as friendly as it was the first time but just as unhelpful. If I were at the store, things would move much faster. I work my charm better in person than on the phone. “The bookshelf version you requested is a custom-made piece, so it’s not just about the delivery. We have to make it first, and we take great pride in our craftsmanship.”
Time to sweeten the offer. “I’ll pay double your rush fee if you deliver it on Friday.”
“We have no rush fee.”
Well, now that’s just bad business, but to each his own. I pace in front of Blue Moon, our flagship restaurant, growing impatient. The meeting with my location manager was supposed to start three minutes ago.
“Call it a thank-you fee if you want.”
“What’s the rush? Birthday present?”
“No. Someone moves in on Saturday, and she wants the bookcase. I want to surprise her by having it here already.”
“Oooh, a romantic gesture. Right. Hang on, let me see...Yes, I can shift another order until Monday and move yours into its slot. Then I will personally make sure it’s delivered on Friday.”
“Thank you. Appreciate it.”
“Look out for the confirmation e-mail and message with the new delivery date. Have a nice day, Mr. Bennett.”
“You too.”
Hanging up, I shake my head. Ten minutes of sweet-talking and bribing got me nothing, but the assumption that it’s a romantic gesture wins the game in five seconds flat? Maybe I should put more stock in romantic gestures, though I’ve never been one for them. I didn’t correct the assumption because I suspect that explaining it’s for a “friend” doesn’t have the same impact, even though it’s true. At least eighty percent true, anyway.
At the wedding, I tried not to focus on how beautiful she was in her red dress. Yesterday I tried not to notice how perfectly her skirt fit her, or imagine what’s underneath. I failed on both accounts. Truthfully, I’ve been failing at not noticing every detail about Clara for a long time. If there’s ever been a time to succeed, it’s now. Until Saturday, I’d better become a pro at it.
She’s a family friend, an adopted Bennett, and those are off-limits for good reasons. Clara is more off-limits than anyone else. She doesn’t have any family, damn it, and it’s clear how much she loves being close to mine. I’m not going to make a mess of that. When it comes to women, making a mess is my specialty. I will be the best neighbor and friend I can be, make sure she’s comfortable here.
Ross, my location manager, is waiting in the kitchen. It’s the down-time between lunch and dinner, but we’re still half-full, so the chefs and sous-chefs are buzzing around.
I co-own this place, two more restaurants, and the bar with Alice. Since she moved to London when Nate was made the executive producer of a famous TV show there, I’m in charge of overseeing day-to-day operations, and she focuses heavily on the business side that doesn’t require her presence—mostly marketing and strategic planning. I say mostly because she still keeps a close eye on operations here at Blue Moon since it’s our flagship location. She promised that she’d take a break while on her honeymoon. She kept her promise for all of two days.
“The meeting will be short,” I tell him. “As you know, Alice is on her honeymoon. We already discussed that she’ll be off the grid until she’s back in London, but a mishap occurred today. Apparently, she exchanged fifteen e-mails with you. I want you to set an auto-responder to your e-mail for any messages coming from her address, saying,
“You are currently on your honeymoon. All your emails will be forwarded to Blake Bennett, and you will only receive an answer once you are back from your honeymoon.
Kind regards,
Your Faithful Team Who Insists You Need Time Off”
Ross looks somewhere between skeptical and terrified. For God’s sake, has he no sense of humor?
“In a nutshell, don’t answer any of Alice’s e-mails, and under no circumstances will you send her any. I’ll handle everything.”
“What about the weekly report?” he asks in a timid voice. Yeah, Alice promised me she wouldn’t request said report because she knows herself and will start firing off twenty e-mails the second she finishes reading it. I’m just saving my sister from herself with these measures.
“Don’t send it to her.”
“But what if—”
Right, the laid-back way isn’t going to work today. Luckily, I’m not only excellent at laying the charm thick in person, but also displaying authority. “No ifs. Under no circumstances will you bother my sister. I’ll handle any complaints from her. Understood?”
Ross nods quickly.
“Excellent. This meeting is over unless you have other open points.”
***
After a few minutes of working through minor issues, I head inside the restaurant, where I find my brother Christopher at one of the tables. He’s the chief operations officer at Bennett Enterprises. Smart like a whip, I like to pick his brain about ways to make our own structures more efficient.
“You brought Chloe. What a surprise!”
Chloe is his wife’s much younger sister. Victoria’s parents died in an accident a few years ago, and she raised her teenage sister Sienna as well as the much younger Lucas and Chloe. Without her stepping up to the plate, they could have ended up in group homes, like Clara.
“Victoria couldn’t make it to pick her up today, so I did. Brought her by for a treat. We just arrived.”
“Do you want your usual, Chloe?”
She nods decisively, and I ask a waiter to bring her chocolate cookies.
“School better?” I ask, dropping in the chair next to her.
“Lessons are okay, but a boy put a grasshopper in my backpack today.”
“And she wants revenge,” Christopher explains.
“If you need any tips, I’m the one to ask. Growing up, I was the master—”
“Master of disaster,” Christopher cuts in. “You want to be sneaky and get away with it, I’m your contact person. This one’s creative but always gets caught.” He throws his thumb in my direction.
“Says the one who once had his twin brother kiss his girl on a scheme he masterminded.”
Christopher cocks a brow. “That happened one time when I was sixteen, and only because the logistics were too complex.”
“What’s logitis mean?” Chloe asks with a lovely frown.
I ruffle her hair. “A fancy way to say details.”
“I like details better.”
“So do I. But some adults like to use big words to cover up their messes.”
My brother narrows his eyes. I love giving him shit, especially when he provokes me.
“I am going to wash my hands before I get my cookies,” Chloe exclaims. She rushes off to the restroom, and I point my forefinger at Christopher.
“Everyone knows you and Max were the successful prankster duo. Daniel and I were a lousy competition, and I have no problem giving you credit where credit is due. But don’t make me lose face with the kids. It’s a matter of principle.”
Christopher grins. “Duly noted. Now let’s talk business.”
“Yeah. I appreciate you taking time for this. Let’s mastermind together.”
They are constantly improving operations, introducing better reporting systems and whatnot at Bennett Enterprises. Of course, the company is a mammoth compared to what Alice and I are doing, but we can learn a lot from them.
We’re deep in debate whether it makes sense for Alice and me to implement one of their more complex pieces of software, and Chloe’s already on the second serving of cookies, when my phone pings with a notification. It’s
from the bookshelf company, confirming delivery on Friday. I can’t wait to see Clara’s reaction.
CHAPTER FOUR
Clara
Next Saturday, on the morning of my move, I wake up with an infectious energy.
I double-check every corner of the apartment, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Everything I own is packed in ten large boxes, not including the furniture, which is lined up against the wall. It’s all from IKEA, so it’s easy to disassemble and then reassemble in the new apartment. The couch will be a little more challenging to move. It’s modular, and I separated each section, but it’s still rather large and cumbersome to get through doors.
At ten o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on my door. I scramble to answer in a flurry.
“Morning, almost-neighbor,” Blake says.
“Come in.”
He insisted on helping me move, and I enjoy his company too much to turn down the offer. Now, surveying him from head to foot as he enters the apartment, I wonder if it was a bad idea.
He’s wearing jeans and a burgundy polo shirt that reveals his muscle-laced arms. The memory of those arms keeping me tight against him after my almost-fall is still too fresh on my mind.
“Let’s start. Here are my prized possessions.” I open my arms, pointing with one to the stack of furniture against the wall and with the other to the boxes.
“That’s all you got?”
“Yep. Told you I didn’t have much. I also have a skateboard we can use to put the boxes on, and even the furniture. That way, we only have to balance the load, not carry it. So don’t worry, you won’t break your back.”
“Darling, it would take a lot more to break my back.”
I don’t know if it’s the “darling” or the “a lot” that has me breaking out in a sweat, but I barely swallow the urge to ask A lot of what?
“Okay, let’s start.”
It takes all of four trips to get my boxes downstairs. However, it takes quite a few more to get my furniture out.
We load the furniture in the moving van Blake brought, the boxes in my car, and drive separately. An infectious energy fills the space, and I sing out loud to the music blaring from the radio and clap my hands to the rhythm while I’m waiting at a red light. I know I’m being ridiculous, but I don‘t care. I’m enjoying this too much. My life is too damn good not to be celebrated every step of the way.