Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  My muscles tighten, even though I knew this might be coming. That future picture. The one so vividly painted. “I get it,” I say, but my heartbeat pounds loud in my ears. “But just think it’s just as good of a picture because it’s what I want. And I’d be happy in it.”

  His smile is warm. “I know that. Whatever you choose, you know I’ll be happy for you, too.”

  I nod, and I do believe that.

  He doesn’t press about Oscar as we talk more. He hikes out of the wine cellar and ends up on the private dock, his boat rocking with glittering water in Naples Canal.

  Seeing my childhood house makes me miss Long Beach.

  After I finish the calls, Oscar comes back about ten minutes later. I catch him up and leave out the part where my dad hates his career choice.

  We eat New York cheesesteaks which Oscar said aren’t like Philly’s. And then we end up in his bed together. We both crash, falling into hard sleep with our legs and arms tangled.

  I’m not sure I would’ve been able to fall asleep that well without him. The weight of his limbs, the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart—it’s music quelling my fears.

  I wake before him.

  And I skulk down the loft’s stairs to the kitchen. I left my phone plugged in on the bar counter, and my head whirls at all the missed texts.

  I read them while I make breakfast. Warming a frying pan, I untwist a bag of pandesal and cut a soft roll in half. I brought the bread in my backpack for Oscar to try. Did not think I’d be toasting pandesal while my life is imploding.

  Jesus, shit, these emails.

  The other exec producers on We Are Calloway are asking me about my relationship with a bodyguard, and whether that will affect the integrity of the docuseries.

  It’s fine.

  It’s fine.

  I can charm my way through this one. I click into texts. Ali said her and Ambrose have my back if the other execs ask questions.

  Ambrose texted, welcome to the fam.

  My lips rise, and while I place the bread on the pan, I click on a group chat thread with Jane, Maximoff, and Sulli.

  We love you & support you 100%!! If we can do anything to curb the bad press, let us know. – Jane

  Here for u. Whatever u need. Call us and we’ll be there – Moffy

  So sorry this is fucking happening to you. Swim & donuts one day you’re free? – Sulli

  I reread those ones.

  For years, I’ve been there for Moffy and Jane when they needed a friend or a helping hand in a crisis, more recently Sulli too. They understand the heat of the spotlight and punch-to-the-gut rumors. I’ve been with them during too many, and really, I’ve never been in a position where I needed them just as severely.

  I do now, I realize.

  Feeling lighter, I text back: I might need to chat. I’ll call you when I’m free. Thanks xo.

  And out of habit, I open social media notifications, tweets sent to me. Pressure returns, pulse ramping.

  You’re a homewrecker

  Why couldn’t you leave Charlie and Oscar alone

  Oslie was perfect until you

  What’s wrong with you?

  Fuck you, Jack Highland, you no name loser

  You’re irrelevant for a reason. Go away

  “What’s burning?” Oscar races down the loft stairs.

  “Shit,” I curse, spinning around to the blackened pandesal on the frying pan. I shut the burner, and Oscar wafts the smoke with a towel. I shake my frazzled head. “Sorry, I have more.” I grab the bread bag.

  Oscar isn’t blinking. He stares at the bread, then to me.

  “It’s Filipino bread.”

  “You were making me toast?” He says it like I got down on a knee.

  I smile. “Yeah, it’s likely the only thing I cook well.” I chuck the burnt bun in the trash. “Usually.”

  He nods slowly and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. Orange halos shine on the wall as the sun begins to rise. “Can I help?”

  “I got it. You paid for dinner last night.” I cut another piece of pandesal. “Akara texted me.”

  Oscar grabs protein powder and a bottle. “Me too. He said, congrats. Good choice in bros. He knew you were a frat bro, didn’t he?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. He’s met some of my frat brothers.”

  Oscar shakes his water bottle with mix. “Where was I?”

  “Working or flirting with me.” I eye his washboard abs, and our arms begin to slide around each other’s cut waists when a loud noise emits from my phone.

  “Can I look?” Oscar asks me.

  “Have at it.”

  He checks the notifications. His glare goes from a low simmer to angry boil, but he tries to rationalize the future. “I’m not with Charlie. It’s a fucking lie. They can’t believe it for long. I’m just a bodyguard—I’m not even that famous.”

  I plate the hot pandesal. “It’s so much easier creating perception than to change it, Os. When people believe a lie, they will cling to it with all their fucking might. You know why?” I turn to him, wiping my hands on my sweatpants. “Because if they admit it was a lie, it means they were wrong.” I laugh bitterly. “People don’t want to be wrong.”

  My phone lets out another angry buzz in his hand and he powers it off and slides it across the counter. “Yeah, well, they’re all fucking WRONG!” He yells at the phone.

  I just start laughing.

  His lips lift. “Stop,” he tells me. “Because I really need to scream at these motherfuckers, and I can’t do it on the job.”

  “No, I needed that.” I wave him on. “You look hot when you’re angry and trying to defend me.”

  His lips hoist. “I’m always hot, Highland.” He walks over and puts his hands on my cheeks. “Being with me is complicated.”

  My pulse ricochets every which way. “Do not shut the window—”

  “I’m not,” he forces

  “You sure?”

  “For sure,” Oscar says strongly. “Just giving you the opportunity to crawl back out of my open window.” He swallows harder, choked at the thought. “You can still back out. This is day one. You’re not in that deep.”

  I laugh like he has no idea. “Yeah I am.” My feelings…can’t walk away from those. And he’s the safe place right now. He must see this answer in my gaze that sinks into him.

  Something heady passes between us, and Oscar presses a kiss against my lips, one that brings our bodies so much closer. My nerve-endings prick—and then we’re cut off by a new noise.

  His phone buzzes, and when he peeks at the caller ID, his concern jacks up. Switching on speaker-phone, the first thing I hear is a fire alarm and the muffled sound of Charlie’s voice.

  23

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  “I can’t hear you, Charlie!” I yell at my cell. He hangs up. Jack and I don’t even put shirts on before we’re down the hall in a flash.

  Gold 2166 number on the door, I bang hard. Just what we need this morning. Surliness is a look that I wear pretty fucking well from time to time.

  Catastrophes are commonplace among the Cobalts, but I wasn’t looking forward to one so soon after a media shit storm rained down on Jack.

  And he made me toast.

  Alright, the guy burned the toast first, but damn if that didn’t get to me more. Jack isn’t a flawless person, and I had this idea of the perfect guy who’d be obsessed with the Phillies, cook a perfect breakfast, and never attend a frat in his life.

  Who I thought I’d end up with has been swept aside to leave a more beautiful reality of the man I’m falling for.

  And now that we’re officially dating, I’m dying to give my all to Jack. For the fucking crap he’s getting online, he deserves my attention, effort, and protection. It feels like Day 1 together, the start of something more serious, and look at me now, leaving the guy behind.

  Not entirely true, Oliveira.

  Highland is right next to me. Jack knocks on the door too, his shoulders straightened with the sa
me urgency and concern. He loves these families. He has a little brother. He understands.

  Thoughts zip out fast as Charlie swings the door open. Blocking me from entering, he slides out and shuts the door behind his back. “I have it handled,” he says. “But we have a problem.”

  “You have that handled?” I wave towards his apartment. “What’s with the fire alarm?”

  “There’s smoke,” he says like it’s obvious.

  No duh, Sherlock. I want to draw a big red circle around a glaring fact: WE JUST HAD A TOWNHOUSE BURN DOWN.

  Smoke = fire = let me the fuck in. I’m not about to slip past this.

  “Charlie, please let me in.” Typically, he’ll bar me from helping with the aftermath of debauchery in his place.

  “You’re not coming inside.”

  “Why?” Jack asks, resting a hand on the doorframe above Charlie’s head. His athletic body flexes with the stance. Jack Highland, everyone. Doesn’t matter if we’re in a flirt-ationship, non-friendship, or actual relationship—he’s a distraction with a giant D.

  I tear my eyes off him.

  Charlie is looking right at me “Oscar knows why.”

  “I get it,” I say, not missing a beat. “You don’t want me to clean your messes. You think this isn’t a part of my security duties—”

  “It’s not. You shouldn’t have to sweep up glass—”

  “There’s glass?” Jack frowns.

  I’m so close to barging in like this destructive American god is my baby bro.

  “Minimal glass,” Charlie emphasizes. “Not as much as before.”

  As before.

  Wasn’t allowed in for that one.

  Jack reasons, “What if we just check it out and see if we can help? If we can’t, you won’t even know we’ve been here.” His tactic: trying to gain permission inside by staying friendly.

  Like hell that’ll work with my client, but I commend Highland for the effort.

  “No,” Charlie says like an endnote.

  “Look, we’re here, Charlie,” I say more forcefully. “No one else is but me and Jack.” And we care. “So please let us in. Would you really rather deal with a fucking apartment fire on your own?”

  He hesitates one more second.

  “I’m offering, bro. Take it.”

  With a sigh, he pushes the door wider. “Be my guest.”

  Jack and I share a cautious look before we follow him inside. Vaulted ceilings, dark woods, leather, and industrial lighting—the apartment is a lot like my studio down the hall.

  Just bigger.

  A luxury bachelor pad that must’ve been on fire.

  Smoke sputters from a couch, the armrest singed, and a single gust plumes towards the fire alarm. Knives are stuck in the walls, and someone played darts with a Van Gogh, the painting tilted and torn. Shards of glass litter the floorboards under the broken frame.

  Pewter goblets scatter the kitchen counter, red liquid dried on leather barstools, the aftermath of some party last night I’m sure.

  A party.

  The single word slowly simmers my blood. What’s actually in my job description: vet all guests in a house party.

  It’d be nice to even know about the party. But I wasn’t even given that. No one told me. Charlie had a temp on his detail yesterday, so that info should’ve been passed from his temp guard to me.

  Didn’t happen.

  Better yet, though, Eliot, Tom, and Beckett’s bodyguards could’ve called me up, texted, slid a motherfucking note under my door to alert me that there was a party here.

  I’m literally down the hall from Epsilon’s apartment where the Wreath brothers and O’Malley live. So the further I stride into Charlie’s place, the angrier I start getting, but then I catch Jack’s dazzling eyes in a quick glance and his lip quirks.

  I begin to grin back.

  Can’t believe I’m fucking grinning right now. He has the power to vanquish my surly ass mood. And Jack Highland isn’t fazed by the mischief of the Cobalt Empire.

  Even as we walk into the aftermath. Tom Cobalt is perched on a shirtless six-foot-four Eliot Cobalt’s shoulders and unscrews the fire alarm from the ceiling.

  “Oscar,” Eliot says with a nod. “Did Charlie tell you?”

  I’m on guard, my eyes pinging to the windows. To the doors to their bedrooms. Entrances, exits.

  “I was about to.” Charlie rubs his temple and cinches his eyes closed as the fire alarm continues to wail. “For the love of God, shut the thing off.”

  The noise dies.

  “Got it,” Tom says.

  Charlie looks to me. “My brothers threw a party last night and didn’t think to tell their guests to stay out of my fucking room.” He shoots Eliot a glare.

  “I did tell them,” Eliot rebuts, helping Tom off his shoulders. “Your door was locked, Charlie. How was I supposed to know he could pick locks?”

  “I don’t know,” Charlie says dryly. “Because people lie, Eliot. You could’ve let your bodyguards into the party to keep an eye on the guests.”

  That idea—I like. “Did your temp know there was a party?” I ask Charlie.

  “No. He dropped me off here and left before it started.”

  I shake my head. “You didn’t think to text me about it?”

  His yellow-greens pierce me. “I did actually think about it, but you had your hands full last night.” He glances at Jack. “Congratulations. You were trending for a solid hour there. Homewrecker Highland.” His sardonic tone is noted. He skims a hand through his hair, messing the strands. “I hate people.”

  “They could be calling me a lot worse, you know,” Jack says. “Homewrecker Highland has a ring to it.” His smile dims and weakens. It tanks my pulse. He’s either trying to keep positive for himself or for Charlie.

  I reach out and clasp his hand in mine. His carriage lifts at the touch, and while we lace our fingers, I say, “Yeah, it has a shrill ring. I’m gonna put a mute on that one.”

  Jack smiles more. “Come on, it’s catchy. Homewr—”

  I cup my hand over his mouth. “Muted, meu raio de sol.” I love my dramatic-ass nickname that is too damn accurate for Jack.

  He laughs against my palm, and the air lightens when we return back to the remnants of the party.

  “How many people were here?” I ask, watching as Jack lets go of my hand to check his phone. He mouths, Jesse.

  I nod, and he leaves to take his brother’s call in the hallway.

  “Four people,” Tom answers, collapsing on the singed couch. “Barely even a party.”

  Charlie snorts. “Four is the most Beckett and I would let you invite.”

  I stroll around the place, inspecting nooks and crannies where a smart “guest” would’ve planted hidden cameras. “Where is Beckett?”

  “He stayed at our parent’s place,” Tom explains.

  “Because he knew he’d wake to this.” Charlie lights a cigarette. “And this isn’t even the problem.” He looks back to me. “Luna’s fanfic was swiped.”

  I roll to a halt by the bookcase. “What?”

  “It was stolen, robbed, pilfered,” he clarifies.

  Thank you, not.

  “I know what swiped means.”

  Charlie skips over that. “I need to retrieve it, but I don’t have the last name of the guy who stole the manuscript.”

  This is a major fucking problem.

  “Ian or Vance should know,” I rebut. Tom and Eliot’s bodyguards aren’t completely incompetent, and even though they’re Epsilon, I’ve worked with them long enough that they’ll supply me a name.

  Something’s still not adding up. I look to Charlie. “If you weren’t home last night, where were you?”

  “I was on the roof.”

  Of course he was. Because why not?

  Eliot starts buttoning up a black button-down. “We’re coming with you.”

  “No you aren’t,” Charlie says, cigarette smoke billowing from his lips with the words.

  “Luna’s
our best friend, if something of hers was stolen, we’re going to help retrieve it.” Eliot tucks his shirt into black slacks. “It’s our duty.”

  I really need my radio.

  “No,” Charlie tells him. “You both have done enough. You’re staying here and cleaning this fucking place so that Beckett doesn’t lose his shit. And I will go find the fanfic with Oscar and Jack. Understood?”

  Tom and Eliot exchange a look, before Tom says, “As you were.”

  Eliot nods. “We’ll concede. This time.”

  Charlie rolls his eyes, then snuffs out his cigarette on the singed couch.

  I’m already heading to the door. Leading the way.

  Radio attached, comms on, gun holstered, and the thieving bastard’s name in my possession, I leave the Hell’s Kitchen apartment building without socking the Wreath brothers in the face.

  Call me mature. An adult.

  Still can’t believe they iced me out of the party, but at least they gave me the thief’s home address. Saved me time tracing it myself.

  I drive a security SUV. Charlie is gazing out the window in the backseat, and Jack is messing with the air conditioner in the passenger seat. It’s a sauna in here.

  I switch lanes, trying to shake off a paparazzi van on my ass. Glancing at Jack, I realize how strange it is to see him without a camera. He’s here for me. For Charlie.

  Not for Born into Fame.

  Traipsing around New York for a stolen manuscript isn’t his job, but I can’t tell him to go home. I like Highland too much in my company, even more when clouds start shielding his sunshine. Because I just want to cheer him up somehow. Make him feel better. Take his mind off the negativity, and I can’t do that if we’re split apart.

  Jack shuts off the A/C. “It must be broken. It’s only blowing heat.”