by Lindsey Hart
“It’s my new line. I want to make sure it takes off. I wanted the best, and I was going to pay what it took to get him. Anyway, I care about this. It’s the first time I’ve done something for myself in a really long time.” I hate how my voice is pleading. I slowly turn from Cassie’s worried disappointment to Aria’s frantic, worried disappointment.
“We just wanted you to be happy,” Cassie whispers from behind me. She sounds sad. I hate that she sounds sad.
“You haven’t been happy in forever,” Aria confirms, but her voice is soft. Her face has changed too. She doesn’t look disappointed anymore. She does still look worried, but the hard edges are gone. “I’m sorry if you thought I took it too far. I just—I wanted the old you back. The you that didn’t take shit. The you that you were before you had to step into your mom’s gross, old shoes. You never wanted this, but you’ve done this for years. You’ve done all the things you thought you should do, not what you wanted at all. You dated the same kind of guys. Guys who were safe. Guys you thought you should.”
“That’s not—”
“It is true,” Aria says urgently, but her voice is gentle. She wants me to see it; to finally acknowledge it. “You didn’t have to give up your dreams for this. Your mom’s approval shouldn’t mean anything to you because you’re never going to get it. Because she’s a selfish, horrible, crappy, evil, malicious, maniacal, mean, evil—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” I have to laugh, just a little.
“She’s a bitch,” Cassie offers in summation. “We’ve watched you give all these parts of yourself away over the years. To this company. To men who weren’t worth it. We were just trying to help you be happy again. I’m sorry too. For making everything worse.”
I blow out a long sigh. These are my friends. My best friends. The sisters I always wanted and finally got. I know they wanted what was best for me. I know they were only trying to help. They would never want to hurt me. It’s not news to me that I’m not exactly happy. They’re right. I have made all the safe choices. At least with men. I dated men who I knew weren’t right, so I didn’t have to risk getting hurt. I didn’t mean to do it, but that’s exactly what happened. And I did hope, in the very blackest pit of my heart, that my mom might finally be proud of me.
“You didn’t,” I say because I can’t stand there and not say anything. “You seriously didn’t make anything worst. Aiden is the best at what he does. I did want to be a journalist. I did give up on my dreams to do this. No one forced me. You guys are right. And now—now that I’m—here… I want this. I want this clothing line to be a success. It’s something I’m doing. For me. For women out there everywhere. For guys too. For everyone who felt like they were never perfect enough or never the right size or never the right anything. For real people. You guys wanted the old me? I’m back. I’m back, and this is going to prove it. I just don’t have room for anything else right now. I want Aiden, but I want him modeling this line, putting his name behind it, and nothing else. It’s already a huge risk, and I don’t need any more distractions.”
“But Aiden isn’t real looking,” Cassie points out, ever practical. “He’s way too perfect to be real. He looks like he spends all day every day in the gym.”
He also eats pizza like it’s going out of style, but she has a point. A point I hadn’t considered. “Uhhh…” I’m completely at a loss for words. Why the hell didn’t I consider that?
“Oh, come on. Aiden’s real,” Aria points out. “I’m real. Cassie is real. You’re real. We’re all real. That’s the thing. That’s the point of your new line. They’re made for everyone. Affordable, but well made. Good looking, but still practical. Gorgeous clothes that aren’t fast-fashion; that won’t just be worn once and thrown away. They’re clothes that make people feel good about who they are, exactly as they are. Right. Now. You’ve only just started trying to get your models assembled. You haven’t even gone into production yet. Don’t worry. There’s time.”
“Not that much time. God, why didn’t I consider this? I guess it’s because all of my mom’s designs have been in production for so long that it’s a well-oiled machine. I’ve never even had to really think about starting something else, how long it would take to get everything made for the show…”
“You can still make it for the show. You haven’t even set a date. You can get a few things made, just for Aiden to model. Then, if he wants to ship back to LA before the show, let him. You can make things just for the show. One of a kind. You can go into producing it later. But I think they should be limited numbers anyway. It would lend to the uniqueness of the idea. The whole one of a kind thing, just like the people wearing the clothes.” Aria stops and gives me an actual thumbs-up sign at the end, just to try and reassure me.
“Do you want a job?” I ask her, in all seriousness. “Because my marketing department is sorely lacking, and your ideas are good. Really good.”
“I would, but unfortunately, I already have a line of old, boring hotels that are going to be coming my way one day. I have to save all my brilliance for that, because god, is it ever going to need it.”
“She’ll help you,” Cassie assures me with a wink. “Just like I will. We both will.”
Aria nods. She takes my jaw in her hand again, more gently this time. “Now. Don’t move. We don’t have a lot of time, and for some unknown reason, since you refuse to use actual professional people, this is the best it’s going to get. Let Cassie finish your hair, and let me go back to trying not to stab your eye out.”
“Okay,” I laugh, admitting defeat. “Why the heck would I go anywhere or use a professional? You guys are the best. You know me best. I wouldn’t want to not risk losing an eye or getting my ear burned off. What would be the fun in that?”
“There wouldn’t be any,” Cassie admits as she goes back to winding my hair around the crazy hot wand she has. I’m surprised the thing doesn’t burn my hair straight off, but Cassie is quite skilled with it. I know I’m in good hands.
“As long as you’re not ruling fun out, don’t rule out secret trysts,” Aria says to no one in particular. “Illicit meetings can be the most exciting. Now that you don’t have a deal with Aiden, it’s game on.”
“No, it is not game on,” I correct, blinking against the wand. Finally, Aria finishes. I know she’s going to get her game on. Contouring the shit out of me, that is. I’m terrible with makeup, but Aria—she’s amazing. I’ve never not looked and felt incredible when she was done with me.
“It’s so game on.”
“No! Seriously. It’s not going to happen.”
“You’re in the mood for doing something for yourself. Try doing one more thing.”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
Aria picks up a sponge in one hand and a brush in the other while Cassie keeps working on my hair. “So says you now. Just don’t rule out the possibility of changing your mind. There isn’t anything wrong with having a good time.”
“Except it would be mixing business with pleasure.”
“Not if you make it a point not to have too much pleasure. I think there’s a line. A nice, strong, bold, passable line…”
I roll my eyes. Cassie is silent behind me, but I can just about hear her eye roll. Aria switches the brush handle to her mouth and grabs all the crap she’s going to contour with. Good lord, I’m hopeless with this stuff. I don’t even know what any of it is called. You know what else I’m hopeless with? Lines. Definitely lines. There is one. A nice, strong, bold, solid line. Aiden is on one side. I’m on the other. And that’s where we’re going to stay.
Besides, I’m not even his type. I would never be his type. His type is blonde and six feet, stacked, gorgeous, flawless. Even if we were still fake dating, it would be just that. Fake.
So yeah. That line is not going to budge. Not. One. Inch. No matter how badly my ovaries and the terrible naughty bits that burn whenever I think of him might secretly wish otherwise. They’re not in control. I’m in control. My
brain is in control. Business and pleasure don’t mix. Period.
CHAPTER 12
Aiden
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that going to fancy dinners in a two-thousand-dollar suit is going to be a good time. Honestly, I’d rather kick back with a box of shitty pizza—missing basil, barbeque sauce and all—in my mom’s basement—our old basement, where I grew up, the one that was sketchy and kind of damp and not even finished, binge-watching some garbage TV show in my underwear—which I, of course, wouldn’t have changed for days—than be here right now.
The thing is exactly as I expected it to be. Pretentious. Fake. I don’t think I’ve seen a genuine expression or exchange the entire time I’ve been here. Which so far amounts to two and a half hours. Sigh. The things we do to keep our damn jobs. I’m well aware I have a good job. That it’s done some seriously amazing things for me over the course of my life, and for my mom too. I’m not a whiner. I’m just saying that sitting through two hours of fake interactions, vastly overpriced dainties that don’t even pass for real food, and enough wasted ass finery to finance a hundred families for the rest of their lives, isn’t exactly pleasant.
At least Rin’s speech was genuine. I could tell she truly meant it when she thanked everyone for being part of the company and for all their hard work, blah, blah, blah. She is the only bright spot in the entire evening.
Literally.
Because I haven’t seen a single person here who can hold a candle to Rin’s magnificent beauty. She’s like an inferno amidst a bunch of tiny, flickering flames. Her hair is down, loose in a waterfall of dark ringlets. Her makeup is simple and tasteful but highlights every single bit of her gorgeous features. Full lips. Incredible eyes with the thickest lashes. High, proud cheekbones. Her dress—well. Let’s just say when I first spotted her wearing a simple black gown, cut daringly low in the back, but with a high neckline in the front, I think I literally swallowed my tongue. When I fished it out of my airway so I could breathe again and take another look, I was just as amazed. And just as pissed that anyone would ever tell her that she was less than perfect. She’s incredible, her womanly form silhouetted to perfection. She’s elegant and classy, something I can say with certainty that no one else here is.
I’ve tried to find her all night, to get her alone for just a few minutes, because, for some incredibly stupid and unfathomable reason, I can’t help myself. I need to talk to her. To hear her voice. I need to tell her the truth, which is that she’s stunning. The most gorgeous woman in the room by a long shot. She needs to hear me say it as badly as the words are burning to come out.
It’s been a week. A damn week. A week which I’ve spent doing absolutely nothing other than wandering the city aimlessly, trying unsuccessfully to work out my frustrations by hitting the gym, and wishing I was still fake dating Rin. Just so I could see her again. I’ve lost sleep—in the granny bed with the pink linens and the soft cotton sheets that really do smell like baby powder like they were sprinkled lovingly with the stuff before my arrival—thinking about Rin.
Which is not normal. I can’t remember a single other time I’ve ever lost sleep over anything, really. Definitely never over a woman. Unless you count—no. Never mind. I’ve never really lost sleep for that either. I might not go for the dating deal or want to enter the marriage game anytime soon, but I’m also not one of those one-night stands, take a girl home from the bar, kind of guys. Probably because my nuts shrivel up every single time I thought about what my mom would say to me if she found out I was doing stuff like that, but mostly because I also hate bars and clubs. It’s just more of the fake shit, and in my line of work, dealing with that all day, every day, I don’t need to add to it.
Now that the speeches are done, and dinner is out of the way, people are milling about. I finally spot Rin standing near a table of fancy plated desserts. She’s flanked by two women, who laugh about something with her, but then they wander off. I’m about to power-walk across the room so I can finally be within a few feet of her—okay, confession time here, I want to do something creepy like lean in and inhale her perfume or see if I can smell her shampoo or just get close enough to feel the heat of her body radiating near me—when someone else blocks my way.
He’s tall. Clad in a classic black suit, white shirt ensemble. Expensive. He exudes money and confidence. Blonde. Square jaw. The real all-American type of douche. I instantly hate him for the way he smiles at Rin, and the shy, flustered, almost reluctant smile she returns.
Because there’s a good chance that I’m going to be nominated for the Asshat Of The Year Award, and also because there’s something raging in my chest, and I’m sure it’s turning my eyes into a bright green hue. I edge closer. And a little closer. Closer still. Watching the bastard talk with Rin is like taking a steel-toed boot straight to my nuts, which honestly haven’t been the same since Rin called the whole fake dating thing off before it even started.
I edge closer, because yeah, I’m that douchey, at least tonight. I want to hear what my competition—because I immediately and irrationally consider him to fall into that category—is saying. Slithering. That’s what I’m doing. Like a creepy, slimy snake. Either way, I edge closer. Closer. Closer still. I cut through throngs of people, blocking out everything from their sugary smiles to their syrupy conversations as I get closer. Finally, when I’m within earshot, I angle my back and pick up a plate of chocolate cake from the dessert table. The thing is huge, at least three times the size of anything that was on the dinner menu that evening.
I hate chocolate. I know I’m probably an anomaly or that some people out there would like to clone my genes or do science experiments on me, but I’ve never liked the stuff. Instead of eating any of it, I just ply it with the dainty little fork they so thoughtfully included with every plate.
I catch the last words Mr. Tall, Not Dark, and Prickish is saying. “…if it’s from your new line, I don’t think it’s a good fit. Too boxy.”
Rin nods like she values what he’s saying, but I can see the fine lines at the corners of her lips go white as she clenches her jaw. She releases it a second later and forces a smile. “It’s not. So you don’t have to worry.”
“Are you sure this new project you’re doing is wise? I mean, you’ve built a name for yourself, or rather, your mother has, doing one thing. How do you know you’ll be successful or…” his eyes sweep over Rin’s body, and his sneer, even though his body is angled away from me, is pretty much instantly degrading. “How do you even know there will be a demand for nice things? People who could actually wear them, they don’t want designer labels. They’re frumpy. Dumpy. There’s a reason they look like they do.”
I grip the fork so hard that the edges of the dainty little bastard dig painfully into my fingers.
“Have you consulted your mother? Told her about your idea?”
“No, Brad, I haven’t.” Rin’s voice is strained.
My spine instantly snaps to attention. I swear I’m standing half a foot taller. Brad. The bastard. Brad, the asshole. Brad, the guy I’d like to nut punch. Brad. Yeah. This is Brad. The Brad who told Rin she was too ugly to ever find another guy if she dumped his gold-digging ass.
“I’m sure she’d have something to say about you degrading her company like this. Everyone thinks so. Everyone who knows about it that is. They’re disgusted with the idea. This isn’t what the company stands for. Do you want to be laughed at, Rin? Because last time I checked, you were given this. You were entrusted to it by your mom. She’d have something to say about how you’re throwing her image to the ground and grinding it into the dirt. Did you even think this over, or was it one of the half-cocked schemes your flighty friends came up with? Let me guess. You were woefully stating how your mom never saw you as she should, and Aria convinced you this was the best way to get revenge. I’m sure once she gets wind of it, she’ll come back and vote it down.”
“She can’t vote it down,” Rin says with a remarkable amount of composure. Somehow, she’s
still holding her head high, but every single muscle in her body has gone tense. “It’s not up for vote. The line is already well underway. Making clothes for real people who actually want to wear them isn’t a crime.”
“Real people? That’s what you call it?” Brad sneers. His lips actually turn up, and his eyes rake over Rin like he’s staring at a giant steaming pile of poo, and not a perfectly genuine, amazing, good-hearted woman with more kindness in one cell of her little finger than this asshole will ever be able to muster in his entire lifetime.
I think if there’s anyone whose mommy didn’t love him, it’s this prick on a stick right here. He must have been bullied as a kid or have some real deep insecurities to stand there and act like such a fucking asshole. An unwiped asshole. A poopy, turd filled, crusty asshole.
I’ve had just about as much as I can handle, and before Crusty Asshole Brad can utter another word to degrade Rin and shit all over her dreams, I saunter over, perfectly casual. I don’t slow down until I just about reach them. By then, Brad’s attention turns to me since I’m clearly bearing right for him. He turns and inhales sharply—probably ready to tell me that my agent sucks and he can represent me instead—when I accidentally on purpose trip on absolutely nothing at all. That air, man. It will get you every single time.
I go sprawling clumsily, hurtling towards Brad. I make it look like a good show too. Once upon a time, I liked being in school plays. When I was young, I thought I could be an actor. Just because I thought wrong doesn’t mean I’ve lost my touch.
The windmilling, wild, and out of control version of my six-foot-three frame goes careening right into Brad. And somehow…oops. Clumsy me. That giant piece of untouched chocolate cake ends up right in Brad’s face, which, in my humble opinion, is actually a vast improvement.
I stumble back, gaping at a flustered, sputtering Brad like I’m actually sorry. “Shit,” I exhale slowly. The bark of laughter I want to desperately let out remains trapped safely in my throat. I grip the sleeve of Brad’s overpriced suit jacket with one hand to steady him. “I don’t know what I tripped over. I’m sorry. Here…” I reach out with my other hand like I’m trying to be helpful. Brad is still too stunned to know how to actually react. “Let me get that for you.” I use my middle finger, the finger, to wipe a path of cake and icing off the center of Brad’s face. He’s starting to breathe like a dragon, so when I pop my finger into my mouth, I make it fast, releasing him at the same time. “Damn. That’s not half bad. It’s a shame it went to waste.”