Chapter 11: : Chapter 11

In hindsight, provoking Kris might not have been the best idea. She could hold a grudge.

“Don’t tell me you’re still pissed,” Nate said as he trailed her through the Carreras’ vast foyer. “It’s been—” He paused, calculating the time. “Three days!”

Okay, so it hadn’t been that long since he gave her the female version of blue balls, but Kris’s cold shoulder treatment turned out to be surprisingly effective at filling him with regret. She hadn’t talked to him since Saturday night except for a text this morning telling him to come over after work, since Gloria was going to be home for a Skype meeting with her wedding planner.

Kris slid open the glass door leading to the backyard, where the perfectly landscaped grounds boasted everything from clay tennis courts to an Olympic-size swimming pool to gardens worthy of a royal villa.

“Gloria likes to come out here in the evening to gossip with her friends,” she said, ignoring Nate’s statement. “So this is where we’ll be.” She headed toward the giant cabana by the pool, where an older woman with a gray-streaked bun was setting out glasses of lemonade. “Thank you, Risa.”

“Of course.” The woman inclined her head and smiled at Nate before disappearing into the house.

He sank into the deep green cushions and sighed. Fine. Kris was still pissed at him, and so was his cock for interrupting its fun. Nate’s right hand had been wholly unsatisfactory all weekend, and he seriously regretted his oh-so-bright idea to leave Kris wanting the other night.

Men were, indeed, idiots.

“Tonight’s the night,” Kris said, crossing her legs.

Nate choked on a mouthful of lemonade. “Wha—”

“Make your move on Gloria. It’s already mid-July.” Kris grimaced. “I saw the bridesmaids’ dresses this morning—and, before you ask, yes, my dad forced me to be a bridesmaid. The dresses are monstrosities that should be burned before they breed and multiply. There is no way in hell I am wearing one this November, so let’s get this shit done.”

Right. She was talking about Gloria. He’d thought—

Nate shook his head. “Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“It’s been weeks.” Kris arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were good.”

“I am good,” he growled. He could’ve gotten Gloria into a compromising position a while ago, but he found himself strangely reluctant to pull the trigger.

Once he finished the job and Kris got her pictures, that was it. No reason for them to see each other anymore, except for her visits to the cafe.

The thought didn’t sit well with him. At all.

But Kris was right—the clock was ticking, and if Nate wanted the rest of the contract money, he’d have to man up. No more pussyfooting around. His family’s financial security meant more—should mean more—than a girl he barely knew. Kris didn’t even live in L.A., for God’s sake. She was leaving at the end of the summer.

He released a long, low sigh. “Okay. Tonight. You got it.”

“Good.” Kris didn’t look all too pleased either. Then again, she never looked pleased, except for when she was writhing and moaning beneath his mouth—

Aaaaannnnd, cut. Nate didn’t need to spring a boner before work.

He cleared his throat. “Listen, about the other night—”

“How’s your dad?” she interrupted. “Is he out of the hospital yet?”

He paused, recalibrating in light of the abrupt subject change. “Yeah. He’s…fine. Doing well, all things considered.”

The hospital had released Michael Sunday evening. He’d tried to talk to Nate a few times since he returned home, but Nate had had to run off to work or pick up Skylar each time. He already knew what his father was going to say: I’m sorry, won’t do it again, blah blah blah. Then days or a week later, if they were lucky, Michael would reunite with his friends Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo and the cycle started all over again.

Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.

“And Sky? How is she?”

“Good, now that our dad is up and moving again. She’s like Teflon.”

Thank freakin’ God. While Sky had her typical teenage melodramatic moments, she was overall a good kid and way too mature for her age. Nate wasn’t sure if he would’ve been able to handle a moody, misbehaving teenager on top of everything else in his life.

“You’re still not going to tell me how you guys met, huh?” Nate finished his lemonade and set the glass on the table.

Kris shrugged. “Like I said, ask—”

“My sister. Yeah, yeah.” Part of him was suspicious over all the secrecy—if it’d been an innocent meeting, why was Kris so close-lipped about it? But he doubted Kris was dealing drugs to his baby sis or involved in anything dangerous. That would be out of character for both of them. Maybe they met at a nightclub? Skylar was underage, but fake IDs abounded in L.A.

That wouldn’t be the end of the world, though Nate blanched at the thought of his sister drinking and partying it up with the Hollywood crowd. He trusted her; he didn’t trust the motherfuckers in this town.

He made a mental note to grill Skylar about it the next time he saw her.

Kris reached over and grabbed his hand, a soft, sweet expression taking over her face. “Are you sure you won’t be able to make it? Think of how romantic a weekend getaway would be.”

What?

Confusion flitted through Nate at her sudden about-face and nonsensical words…until he smelled the heavy, flowery scent drifting on the breeze.

Gloria was here.

Without turning his head, Nate smiled and squeezed Kris’s hand. “I wish I could, babe, but I have to work. I’ll make it up to you after you get back, I promise.”

He had no clue what she had cooked up, but based on her lie, she was leaving him wide open to schedule a “tryst” with Gloria this weekend without him having to make up an excuse about why he wasn’t with Kris.

Smart.

“Where are you goin’, darlin’?” Gloria’s syrupy drawl invaded the cabana and stuck to Nate’s skin like a thick, gooey film.

Nate supposed some guys went for that sweet Southern sexpot thing, but Gloria overdid it to the point of cringe.

“I was goin’ to have you try on your bridesmaid dress.” The redhead came into view, wearing a white crochet halter top and tiny shorts. “I think magenta is just your color.”

“Of course you do,” Kris said, equally sweet. “Your taste always did run toward the questionable end of the spectrum. As much as I would love to try on my dress—which showcases your aptitude for style so well—I’m afraid I’ve already booked a spa weekend in Ojai.”

“Really?” Gloria pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. “Which spa?”

“Seven Oaks,” Kris replied without missing a beat.

The other woman’s eyes narrowed. “Seven Oaks is booked out for the next year.”

Kris smiled. “The Carrera name opens a lot of doors. But you wouldn’t know that, so don’t feel too bad.”

Her dig at Gloria’s engaged-but-still-not-Mrs.-Carrera-yet status hit its mark. The redhead’s cheeks flushed, and her body vibrated with anger.

“Oops.” Kris glanced at her phone. “Friend emergency calling—or texting, in this case. Seems like one of my sorority sisters is having major boy problems. I’m going to call her before she does anything crazy. She’s a bit melodramatic.” She stood and kissed Nate on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

She left without another glance at Gloria, who took Kris’s seat and eyed Nate the way one would eye a prime slab of meat at the butcher’s.

“So,” she purred. “Did I hear wrong, or will you not be accompanyin’ our dear Kris to Ojai this weekend?”

Nate slouched against the cushions and draped his arms over the back of the couch in a way that he knew exuded casual confidence, sex appeal, and a nonchalant detachment that drove women crazy.

“You heard right.” His drawl matched hers. “I have work, and spas aren’t my thing.”

Gloria leaned forward, all but giving him an all-access view of her generous cleavage.

“What is your thing?” The sexual innuendo dripped like honey.

Objectively, Gloria was banging. The red hair, green eyes, and insane body all added up to one firecracker hot package. Nate should’ve been all over it, but his current tastes were stuck in the petite, dark-haired, sharp-tongued category, and he was as attracted to Gloria as he was toward the half-empty pitcher of lemonade on the table.

Maybe less, because that lemonade was amazing.

Still, he had a job to do, and he was going to do it damn well.

“How can I choose one?” Nate hitched a shoulder up. “The Lakers, Ferraris, Die Hard…redheads.”

Not his most subtle moment, but screw subtle. The clock was ticking.

Besides, judging by the smile on Gloria’s face and the gleam in her eyes, it worked.

“Kris isn’t a redhead,” she murmured.

“Kris is great.” A purposeful, perfectly timed pause. “But no, she’s not.”

A stab of guilt pierced Nate’s stomach at the flirty banter. He and Kris weren’t dating for real, but it still felt like a betrayal.

“And she’s out of town this week…” Gloria allowed the suggestion to linger, unspoken, in the air.

“Yes, she is.” Nate allowed his eyes to go heavy-lidded. “I’ll need a way to pass the time. Any suggestions?”

Slimy. As. Fuck. But a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do, especially when he was paid to do it.

Gloria examined him in silence, like she was debating whether to take this next step. She’d flirted shamelessly with Nate in the past few weeks and had even offered him a BJ once—which he got out of thanks to a perfectly timed interruption by Kris—but this was the first time he’d reciprocated in such an obvious manner.

Come on, Nate thought. You know you want to. Just say it…

Based on what Kris told him, Gloria hadn’t seen her fiancé—Kris’s father—in months. Assuming she wasn’t already banging someone on the side, she had to be crawling out of her skin with sexual frustration. Women who looked like her were used to getting some on a regular basis, and self-pleasure only went so far, as Nate knew firsthand (pun not intended).

Besides, Kris’s dad had to be, what, in his forties? Fifties? Probably not stud material, unless he was George Clooney 2.0. Nate no longer had any qualms about shutting their engagement down either, since it was clear Gloria “loved” her soon-to-be husband the way she loved her fancy car. I.e., it was a useful status symbol that kept her comfortable and brought her places she wouldn’t have been able to reach otherwise (in Kris’s father’s case, it was social and financial rather than a physical destination). No heartfelt, for-better-or-worse shit. Otherwise, Gloria wouldn’t be on the verge of fucking her future stepdaughter’s fake-but-she-didn’t-know-that boyfriend.

To prod her along, Nate stretched his arms over his head, his shirt lifting to reveal a flash of his tanned, tight six-pack.

Gloria’s eyes dropped to take in the view—and stayed there.

“I hear the restaurant at the Del Mar hotel is good,” she said. “I was plannin’ to make dinner reservations there myself…but I don’t mind bringin’ a plus one if you’re up for it.”

“Count me in,” Nate said easily. “Nothing gets me going like a good feast.”

The redhead smirked at his double entendre. “Good to know. There won’t be any Ferraris there…” Her voice dropped to a low purr. “But I’m sure we can find something else for you to ride.”

Nate’s grin widened.

Gotcha.

“KRIS, dear, can you file this for me?” Bobbi Rayden breezed into the office, polished and sophisticated in a sleek white suit and bun. A large black Chanel bag hung on one bony shoulder, and she carried a folder in one hand and a large Starbucks coffee in the other.

Grande, iced, sugar-free vanilla latte with soy milk, natch. She ordered the same thing every day.

Bobbi tossed the folder on Kris’s desk, and a few press clippings slid out.

Kris pressed her lips together and forced herself not to lose her shit. Bobbi was a family friend and had done her father a favor by granting Kris a coveted summer assistant position, but Kris did not appreciate being treated like a paper jockey.

Assisting a famous Hollywood publicist sounded exciting, but her day-to-day was a whole lot of media monitoring and epic boredom. Scouring the internet for YouTube drama videos and snarky blog posts of Bobbi’s worst-behaving clients was not her idea of a good time. Who cared about pop star train wreck Riley K.’s latest boyfriend? Kris had met Riley—the girl was as interesting as dish soap, and her slacker boyfriends were worse.

“Sure,” Kris said through gritted teeth.

Bobbi’s phone rang—no doubt another crisis, like one of her clients taking a swing at the paparazzi—and she was off and running without a second glance in Kris’s direction.

Kris took the press clippings into the copy room and started the tedious task of scanning each article before she organized them in Bobbi’s extensive digital collection.

The whir of the machine filled the air. Kris tapped her fingers on the table, bored beyond belief. She’d much rather plan MentHer’s summer gala than sit in an overly air-conditioned office, pretending she gave a shit about coddling celebrities.

Kris had nothing against celebrities—she just didn’t want to work for them. She was Kris Carrera, for Chrissakes. When she turned twenty-three, she was going to inherit a trust fund that would make most of these stars’ net worths look like pennies.

She slipped another press clipping onto the glass. Two more hours until she could leave and work on the MentHer gala. She enjoyed event planning, and she liked the mentees a helluva lot more than she liked the newest teen idol.

Kris’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.

: NateWhat are you doing tonight?

Her heart flipped. It was so sudden and unexpected she actually stumbled and nearly twisted her ankle in her Louboutins.

What the hell?

She hoped she wasn’t having a heart attack. She was too young and beautiful to die.

Kris stared at Nate’s message. No more flips, but the stupid organ in her chest pounded like she’d just finished a marathon.

She liked it better when she was pissed at him, like she’d been…wow, had that only been four days ago? The Ferris wheel, the hospital, their kiss, it all felt like a lifetime ago. And yet, her skin flushed and her blood pounded at the memories of his lips and hands on her like they were making out right now on top of the copier.

Get it together.

Kris sucked in a deep breath and, after a minute of deliberation, typed a terse reply.

Kris: Party planning.

Nate: Victory party?

She assumed he meant victory over Gloria. She couldn’t believe he’d closed a hotel date with the Stepmonster. Well, she could, but she’d been planning it for so long it seemed surreal.

It had gone a long way toward dousing her anger over his dick move on Saturday.

Kris: No…but I like the way you think.

Kris mentally added “Plan victory celebration” to her to-do list.

Nate: Any chance you’re free for another victory party tonight?

Nate: I got a new role. For Oscar Bravo’s latest movie. It’s a small part, but it’s with Oscar freaking Bravo. Figured that’s worthy of dinner.

A grin spread across Kris’s face as pride fizzled in her chest. When was the last time she’d been this excited over someone else’s accomplishments? Probably never.

Kris: Are you asking me on a date?

Nate: Do you want it to be a date?

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and Kris’s heart did another flip. She’d always imagined she would die in her bed, dressed in her most glamorous Oscar de la Renta gown and smelling of Chanel perfume. Now, she was sure she was going to die in this tiny beige room, surrounded by reams of printer paper and finicky office equipment.

She had no other explanation for why her heart was acting up.

But until death claimed her, Kris had to respond to Nate’s question.

Did she want to go on a date with him? Logic said she shouldn’t. She’d hired him to seduce her father’s fiancée, and they were from two different worlds. Mars and Venus. Saturn and Jupiter. Mercury and Pluto (she didn’t care what anyone said—Pluto was a planet).

Kris: I can spare a few hours.

Kris: Since you’re starring opposite Oscar freaking Bravo and all.

Question evaded. It was the coward’s way out, but she’d never claimed to be a brave hero.

There was a long pause, longer than the one Kris had taken to answer, before Nate replied.

Nate: “Starring” might be an overstatement, but I’ll take it. Meet me at Marina del Rey, 7pm?

Kris: Sounds good.

She stared at the screen for a while longer before pocketing her phone. Her stomach was all twisted up in knots. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was nervous.

It’s not a date. It’s a celebratory dinner.

“Kris!” Bobbi’s voice cut across the office and scratched against the walls like nails on chalkboard. “Are you finished with the filing? I want to see all press mentions of Riley K. in the past twenty-four hours. ASAP.”

Shit. Kris had forgotten about the press clippings.

“Almost done!” She injected her voice with enough sugar to give everyone in a fifty-foot radius cavities. Kris picked out the Riley K. articles and scanned them first, cursing Bobbi, her father, and Gloria under her breath.

She should’ve chosen a more exciting summer job—like scraping gum off the sidewalk. At least then, she could’ve worked on her tan.

Kris glanced at the clock. An hour and a half until the end of the workday. A lot of other assistants stayed late, but she wasn’t trying to climb up the company ranks or impress Bobbi. She had zero compunction about leaving at five p.m. sharp.

It was bullshit anyway, this whole “stay after hours to prove your commitment” work ethic. If management wanted people to stay later, they should adjust salaries and working hours accordingly. Don’t even get Kris started on the free internships, though thankfully, she’d never had to take one. Like hello, people should be paid for their work? Not to mention, they had lives outside of the office.

If anyone tried to shaft her out of her dues, she’d shove a Jimmy Choo up their stingy ass.

Kris fed the last article into the scanner.

Ninety minutes.

The only thing that got her through the rest of the day was the prospect of dinner with Nate.