Smart Girl (5 page)

I shake my head in total disregard for his answer and grasp the new conversation topic with both hands.

“First of all, that’s not even historically accurate. No ship captain kept a wench on staff to lure new sailors.”

The grin breaks into a real smile.

“Are you sure?”

I cross my legs in a huff.

“Of course I’m sure. Do you know how many love stories I’ve read that take place on the high seas?”

He rests his chin in his hand with a bemused expression.

“Oh, hundreds, I imagine.”

“Exactly. So I know what I’m talking about.”

“I’m thrilled at least one of us does. Pirates, was it?”

I scowl.

“It was
your
allusion, and you know it was about sailors! But that’s not the point.”

“There was a point? How exciting.”

“We were talking about your success.”

“I believe we were talking about maritime wenches.”

I can’t help my smile.

“Incidentally, that would make an incredible band name.”

He smiles back.

Our conversations always become this fast-paced banter. He’s witty and funny, and that makes for the best partner to verbally spar with. He’s also an expert at leading us away from any conversation in which we discuss something deeper than the weather. I came here with an interview in mind, because discussing work seemed at least a bit more substantial than trading pleasantries. I won’t let him wave the discussion away.

An idea occurs to me. I grab my phone and pull up a page on
Wikipedia
before responding.

“Liam Ashton,” I read off the screen with the same tone he used when reading my bio weeks ago. “Graduated from USC. Started in the mailroom at CAA. After being promoted to an assistant, he transferred to Barker-Ash as an account coordinator.”

He shrugs. “So maybe I thought being an agent might be an excellent way to meet beautiful actresses. Or ultimately I was a slacker, and I found it easier to transfer to the family business, where I wouldn’t really be held accountable. Much less demanding.”

What is his deal? Why is he insisting on being so flippant?

“Right. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that your father worked in that exact same mailroom right out of college. A terrible job that hundreds of people apply for but only a handful actually get.” The fingers he’s been drumming restlessly on the desk stop moving. “And starting as the lowest peon at one of the most cutthroat agencies in the world is the perfect job for a slacker. And that transfer wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Barker-Ash doesn’t hire for entry-level positions? Anyone who applies here has to have experience, even if your last name is written on the wall. And the eight venues you’ve launched and made profitable—that was all just a result of your charm? Dude. You work endlessly. You’re professional and smart and great at your job—”

His eyes narrow. This is getting way too close to a real conversation.

“Did you learn all that on Google as well?”

I shake my head. “I don’t need Google. I know you already.”

We stare at each other, brown eyes clashing against blue gray. That feeling that’s always there between us grows and intensifies until I think I might vibrate out of my skin. His mouth looks sharp and angry. I don’t know when my eyes drifted there, but I imagine for the thousandth time what it would feel like to kiss that tension away. His harsh tone shatters the moment.

“This isn’t going to happen.”

My eyes fly back up to his. There’s total conviction written onto every one of his features. I can’t believe he said it. I can’t believe he acknowledged there was anything
to happen
. I should take a minute to revel in the fact that he’s admitting to anything, but I’m too focused on what he said, and all I can think about is why. Why can’t this happen?

I don’t realize that I’ve asked the question until he responds.

“You want the truth?”

My surprise at his sudden willingness to be honest doesn’t make me hesitate long.

“Always.”

He considers me, and whatever he sees in my face must be enough of a reassurance, because after nearly a year of dancing around it, the truth is exactly what he gives me.

“You’re gorgeous, Miko.” The little smile he delivers that line with is so sweet I feel like we’re millimeters apart instead of sitting across a desk from each other. “Do you think I don’t notice how gorgeous you are? You’re also young and naive—five years and a lifetime away from where I am. You’re a family friend and, as of a couple of weeks ago, a business associate. Do you think I don’t see the way you look at me?” He leans across the desk and points at my tie. “Do you think I’m not imagining at least eight different ways I could use this tie on you? Do you think I don’t know that forcing my imagination is why you wore it in the first place?”

There’s no moisture in my mouth. Literally none. The entire thing is a dry desert choking off all words and giving heat stroke to any clever response.

“You’ve always been kind to me,” he says meaningfully. “You’re also beautiful and so wonderfully weird.” He grins slowly. “And I’m curious to know what that combination is like in a more intimate setting. But I don’t do relationships. It might sound cliché or trite, but that doesn’t make it any less true. My professional life is difficult and demanding, so I keep my personal life easy and laid back. Anything with you would be far too complicated, and complicated doesn’t interest me at all.”

I think I blink at him—I can’t be sure. As if summoned, Stella taps on the door and enters to remind him of his next meeting. He stands and I jump up too, suddenly unsure of where to put my hands or how to gracefully lift my bag up off the ground. I must knock it into three separate things on its short four-foot vertical climb from the floor to my shoulder.

“We’ll have to review the layout another time,” he tells me, sounding for all the world like we haven’t discussed anything more interesting than an RFP.

“Yep,” I tell him on my way out the door.

Once I make it down the hallway and into the relative safety of an empty elevator, I sigh despondently. Gods, I really have to get a better departing line.

The melancholy about my lack of witty comeback doesn’t last long, though, because my head fills with everything he said. The whole way back to my office, I go over the monologue he just gave.

How did my interview questions take us so off track? And was it off track if we actually talked about what’s going on between us? And what about his speech? It was kind of a prick move. I mean really, if you think about it, he basically just told me he was interested but not interested
enough
. He can date half the town, but
I’m
too complicated? And I’m naive and young and apparently transparent, since he
did
notice not only me but also all my less-than-stellar wiles.

I wipe my hair back out of my face. I should be pissed, or annoyed at the very least. My head bounces in agreement with my thoughts. Then, just as quickly, I’m shaking it at the notion, because who am I kidding? I’m the opposite of pissed. Someone else might be upset or put off, but my heart keeps latching onto all the other words he used: gorgeous, beautiful, kind,
wonderfully weird
. And now I know something I didn’t before. It’s not that Liam doesn’t like me back; it’s just that he’s not convinced we’d be good together.

My hair falls in my eyes, likely pulled there by the wild energy I’m putting off. Yes, he is kind of a jerk, but
jerky hero falls in love with sweet heroine
is one of my favorite tropes!

Chapter
FOUR

“It didn’t work at all like I thought it would,” I grunt as I push the small faux–French Regency sofa back at an angle. Moving furniture is a precarious mission when you’re wearing a stylish cocktail dress, but event planners are supposed to blend in, which means we have to look similar to the party guests. We might do the work of teamsters, but we’re dressed like the hostess of a high-end steak house. Stylish but conservative, with sensible flats and enough body spray to cover up the eighteen layers of sweat we’ve accumulated over the course of this day.

Landon shoves a club chair forward two feet to align it with the ornate vibrant-blue rug we just moved.

“How so?” she calls over the heavy bass beat wafting through the walls from the reception next door.

It’s the fifth time we’ve changed the layout of the lounge area for this wedding’s after-party. We have half an hour before the guests will wander into this ballroom from the one next door—it’s the kind of event transition that’s only possible if you’re hosting a party at a five-star hotel. That segue from reception to after-party is the last and final stage of a wedding that cost more than half a million dollars. They’ll come in here sweaty from dancing and looking to soak up the top-shelf liquor with the midnight snacks we brought in just for that purpose. The new lounge setup looks great, just like it did in the four iterations before this one. Changing things around is totally unnecessary, but we’ve already been on-site for fourteen hours, and we’ve found that the remaining time flies by much faster if you keep yourself occupied. I swap the throw pillows in one lounge area with those from another.

“Because not only did we not grow any closer, but I actually somehow managed to piss him off by asking totally innocuous questions.”

“Are you sure your questions were innocuous?”

“Yes.” I add one more side table to my arrangement and then plop myself down on the closest flat surface. “He doesn’t like talking about his success, apparently. That question took us on a random and thoroughly agitated tangent.”

I bounce on the cushions as she plops down beside me.

“Wait, isn’t the success question the very first one in that scene?”

I gesture emphatically since this is my point exactly.

“So you managed to throw him off right out the gate?”

“Yes!” I pull a bag of Skittles out of my pocket and pour some into her hand before she can even ask. It’s a known fact that calories don’t count on event days, since we’re so busy setting up that we basically consume only coffee and random snacks. Today my food pyramid is made up of a latte, some Corn Nuts, and the other half of this bag of rainbow-flavored candy. With all the furniture moving, I could eat an extra-value meal and still be in a calorie deficit for the day.

“Throwing him off would be fine if that was my intention, but I was honestly just trying to make conversation. How am I supposed to get to know him better if I have no idea what his reaction is going to be to anything I say?”

“Girl, that is every new relationship ever! I once got so mad at Brody I didn’t speak to him for the whole afternoon.”

I grasp my imaginary pearls in feigned shock.

“Not a whole afternoon!”

She bumps me with her shoulder and giggles.

“Shut up. I was really upset.”

I roll my eyes.

“And what did he do to make you so mad?”

Her heavy sigh makes a blonde curl bounce around her face.

“He said that Britney wasn’t a real singer.”

Discretion is the better part of valor. I keep my mouth shut.

Landon, on the other hand, gets more upset with each word.

“He said she was a pop star who imploded under the pressure of fame and a lot of other rude things about her songs. Can you even believe that? He never once took into consideration how hard 2007 was on her or how terrible the grow-out on that buzz cut must have been. Also, the
Blackout
album was incredible—one of her best ever! Not a real singer? Please!”

I bite a lime-green Skittle in half to stall for time.

“And so you didn’t talk to him . . . because of Britney Spears?”

She nods.

“It seems ridiculous to you too, I’m sure, but we all have stuff that sets us off that other people won’t ever understand. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it won’t sting when it’s brought up. It’s like how upset you get when an author turns what should be a trilogy into an unending series.”

I swallow the candy in my mouth before it’s completely chewed, so I’m choking when I try to explain my vehemence for this topic.

“Because she’s toying with characters
we love
in order to sell more books! Just land the plane and give them their HEA,” I cry in exasperation. “It’s not fair to any of us to keep manipulating our emotions!”

Across the room Cas slips through the door and points at her wristwatch in a silent question. Landon holds up ten fingers, a sign that our brief respite has come to an end. We struggle to our feet to get ready for the crowd.

“See, this is my point. Very few people would understand getting so ticked off about an author’s artistic choices—”

I snort.
Artistic choices
is a generous description, and she knows it.

“Just like very few people would understand why what you said got under his skin.”

I nod slowly in agreement.

“So then what do you suggest I do next?”

She considers it for a moment.

“Well, a conversation didn’t work. So maybe an option with less dialogue and more action?”

Landon reaches for her headset and radios our tech team to open the doors. Like some kind of magic, the air wall splits in two, creating an entrance for the guests. Almost immediately people start to trickle through wearing tuxedos and dresses rumpled from hours of dancing and the arduous job of lifting Cristal to their lips throughout the night. Regardless of their couture ensembles, they make a beeline for the stations of street food we have set up around the room. No matter how much money they have in the bank, people are helpless against greasy food when they’re fighting a buzz. I’d kill for something from the Kogi truck right now, but we never eat in front of guests. Fingers crossed they’ll have some left by the time we wrap up.

“Something with action, you think?” I ask as Casidee joins us.

“What has action?” Casidee is already scanning the crowd, looking for possible problems. Even event assistants learn early on the possible implications of a dance-floor brawl.

Landon quickly turns to face me.

“Not like Lara Croft kind of action. Just an activity of some kind.”

“Oh man,” Casidee groans when she realizes what we’re talking about. “Please tell me you’re not considering Lara Croft! Beyond the obvious reasoning, that makes zero sense as a means of starting a relationship.”

I scowl at her. “What do you mean ‘beyond the obvious’?”

Casidee’s gaze goes to Landon and then back to me again, apparently urging her to deliver this news.

Landon grins. “Girl, you know your legs aren’t long enough to pull off those shorts with combat boots.”

Casidee nods in agreement, and I shoot them both disgruntled looks.

“A, you’re both rude, and two,
Tomb Raider
is not on my list and you know it.”

Landon shakes her head slowly as they both start to walk away to greet the guests.

“Yeah, well, I also know that you keep adding to that list every few days, and your definition of a love story is getting more and more nebulous,” she says.

I swipe my hair out of my face.

“There is nothing nebulous about the Professor and Mary Ann. Theirs is an unending love!”

Their laughter is so loud that it actually manages to make its way back to me over the sound of the enthusiastic jazz band in the corner.

As far as the interview went, I had a great idea, but I didn’t plan for what would happen once I was actually in his office beyond asking him questions and occasionally biting my lip. That
always
works in the books, so I have no idea why it doesn’t yield any actual results in real life. I should have had a stronger plan in place. I should have known I was never going to get real results with something so simple.

Landon has now mentioned that I should try something with action. She’s also told me to try a bit more subtlety. The latter isn’t really in my wheelhouse. What’s the point of trying any of the things on my list if I’m just going to tiptoe around him? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the last year?

I nod at my own wisdom and drop a Sprite bottle into my shoulder bag. Liam asked me to meet him at the restaurant again to go over the plans that I didn’t get to show him the other day. I will start off this interaction like I did the last one. I’ll make conversation and see if I can get us away from our usual line of chatter. But worst-case scenario? I’m drinking what’s in that bottle.

On the drive over to West Hollywood, I already feel nauseous. Just researching ipecac syrup is enough to make anyone retch, and my gag reflex is already pretty bad. First of all, they don’t even sell it anymore—at least that’s what the snooty pharmacist told me when I asked. So I did more research and found some homeopathic stuff you can buy over the counter. The Internet also had some recipes to create your own, but the thought of mixing egg yolks and boiled okra together made me want to puke just reading about it. No way I could actually get something like that in my mouth.

The whole thing is a little crazy—I know. But it has to be done. It worked in
Sense and Sensibility
, and who am I to argue with Jane Austen? In that book Marianne gets sick and Colonel Brandon has to take care of her. I am almost certain that if I were to get sick, Liam would step up in the same way and we’d have a prolonged period of time alone, which would have to lead somewhere, right? I figure I don’t even need to be too bad off either. The recommended dosage (at least according to the Internet) is two tablespoons. If I have one small sip from the bottle in my purse—which is equal parts Sprite and syrup—it should be enough to make me believably ill without inflicting permanent damage.

I park my car and hurry up the tree-lined street to the restaurant, wearing my favorite white jeans with holes in each knee. My black booties match my black T-shirt and the black tuxedo jacket that always makes me feel pulled together in a way that says
professional, controlled, hip
. When I slip in through the propped-open door, Liam is already inside on a phone call wearing a charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than opening your own Subway franchise. An empty folding table is next to him in the center of the room, which I assume is the location for me to lay out the plans. As I walk over, he smiles at me before turning away to finish his chat.

I pull the large printed plans from my shoulder bag and lay them out on top of the dusty tabletop. He must have pulled this table out of a back room or something; the whole thing is filthy. I use a tape measure I brought with me to hold down one corner and my makeup bag to hold down the other side. I try my cell phone on the third corner to keep it all from curling in on itself, but it isn’t heavy enough. I should have thought to bring some kind of weight or something. As Liam ends his call, I pull the Sprite bottle out to hold down the last edge of the plans.

We look down at the large paper together.

“What do you think?” I ask expectantly.

“It’s the cover page with your company logo.”

What a spoilsport.

“I know, but it’s still pretty,” I grumble. I move all my little weights back to turn the page and then lay them all out again.

This page is a perfect color rendering of the image I see in my head. The bowstring-truss ceiling with whitewashed wood, the exposed brick walls, the bar I love so much. It looks totally perfect.

“This looks fantastic.”

His smile is like sunshine.

It takes me a minute to realize his mouth is still moving and I’m missing the words.

“I’m sorry?”

“The elevations, can I see them?”

I jump to move the weights back again and turn to the page we need. A large plume of dust flies up with the massive pages and then settles again. Liam feigns annoyance.

“I’m sorry, my liege, but you’re the one with the decrepit table. I’m just trying to do your bidding.”

He ignores my tone and looks down to inspect the plans. His eyes scan them and then look out across the room.

“You’re imagining the shelving goes up that high?” His brow furrows. “That seems a little extreme.”

“Not at all.” I move around the table and walk to the far wall to point it out. “If the bar is as high up as I’m thinking, then this shelving makes sense. You need the—”

“Yech! What is this stuff?”

I whirl around in surprise at Liam’s screech and then race across the room in a blind panic. He’s staring at my Sprite bottle in disgust, and I’m not sure how to react or why he has it or why the cap is off. I do the only thing I can think of: I slap it out of his hand like it’s on fire. He jumps backwards, away from the flying bottle and the subsequent puddle at our feet.