Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren

chapter thirteen

evie

“Evie, you’re going to break this machine,” Daryl laments, putting her hand on my quad to slow down my leg extensions. “What is with you?”

I offer up a breathless: “Carter.”

Standing from the machine, I grab my water and take a few deep drinks. Sweat pours off me, and everything burns. I am a beast this morning, but it feels amazing. I realize it’s either kill myself here at the gym, or go to work and punch someone in the solar plexus.

I should probably be mortified about getting up and walking out of our meeting yesterday, but screw him and his perfect forearms and cute crooked smile and diva brother.

I’m so tired of wanting to shove him into the wall and then shove my hand down his pants.

I am so over all of it.

“Not to poke the bear,” she says, “because I can see you’re just a little on edge today, but to be clear: we don’t like Carter anymore, right?”

“No, we do not like Carter anymore.” I use a towel to wipe the sweat from my forehead. “And I’d appreciate if you could remember that next time you’re supposed to be my wing-woman. You told me to be a badass and then melted as soon as he turned on the charm. Remember when you wanted to get back at Brant and I went to your cousin’s wedding as your lesbian fiancée? I kissed you—with tongue. That was me being Team Daryl.”

She laughs. “I’m sorry, you’re right. But to be fair, you really should have given me an adorkable warning, because . . . well, shit, Evie,” she says. “He’s completely fuckable.”

“Not helping!”

“I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but look how much he riles you up. I knew you were bossy, but who knew you had such a power-play fetish?”

“A what?” I stumble after her over to the free weights.

“You heard me.”

“Do I even want to know?” Amelia asks, racking her weights and looking between us.

I shake my head, watching as she moves to the squat frame.

Daryl leans against the metal bar, watching me. “Evie’s in denial, trying to convince herself that she hates Carter.”

“Ohhhh. I like Carter,” Amelia bends her back, lowering for a dead lift. Coming back up, she says, “He came in to sign some tax forms. I didn’t think the rest of the HR women were going to let him leave, and that’s saying something. That one is a charmer.”

“You realize he’s my nemesis, right?” I say.

When she finishes her reps, Amelia guides me into position for my squats, with the bar against my shoulders and behind my neck. “Your ‘nemesis.’ You are so cute.”

“Are you poisoned by his charm, too?”

She smiles at me. “Shut up and squat.” She startles as if she’s just remembered something. “Oh! You will never believe who Brad just signed.”

I stop, locking the bar into place and meeting her eyes in the mirror. “If you say Gabe Vestes I’m going to scream.”

“That’s right. The same Gabe you mentioned having lunch with Brad right before the merge went public. I don’t know exactly who’s doing what, but something tells me Brad has his hands in a couple cookie jars.”

“I knew something was off about that. Brad got caught calling him a no-talent hack when I was still at Alterman; it didn’t make sense that they’d suddenly decided to mend their fences.” I step away from the squat frame and turn to face them both. “Likely Brad knew about the merger beforehand—and if he knew which of the CTM agents were getting the boot, he’d know to swoop in and make friends with Gabe again.”

“Just another shady move,” Amelia says.

“Why do you think he took Kylie off retreat planning?” Daryl asks, sitting on the bench next to us.

Amelia considers this. “Maybe he’s keeping her busy in other ways.” She grins at us. “Maybe they’re having an affair.”

I shiver, repulsed. “I’d like to think Kylie has a little more sense than that.”

See, Carter? I don’t think the absolute worst of her after all.

“And better taste.” Amelia looks at her watch. “I have a payroll meeting I can’t be late for.”

A smart woman would leave a workout like the one I’ve just had and go get something healthy for breakfast. An egg-white omelet, maybe. Or something whole grain. A smoothie.

Apparently, I am not a smart woman. I go straight to Sidecar Doughnuts and order three butter-and-salts and a giant latte. But I am smart enough to leave two of the doughnuts on my desk, bringing only one to the team breakfast meeting scheduled for eight a.m. in the conference room.

Coffee: check. Sugar and carbs: check.

Adjusted attitude: in progress.

My stomach—and attitude—plummet when I walk in and find Carter already there. I was really hoping I’d have at least a few minutes more to rally. He glances up, does a slight double take, and attempts a smile that looks a lot like a sneer before looking back down at his phone.

After yesterday, I don’t even know how to handle myself in a room alone with him. My heart is pounding, my lady parts on high alert, and my free hand gets all tight-fisty and punchy at my side. Confusing as hell. Plus, I’m suddenly very aware of the doughnut I’m holding, and the fact that Carter is having nothing but sparkling water for a breakfast meeting. Water. I hate him.

He’s flanked by two empty chairs, but I ignore them, pointedly taking a seat on the other side of the table. Battle lines drawn.

I can hear the buzzing hum of the overhead lights. Carter’s pen makes an exaggerated scritch-scritch sound in a notebook as he pulls his attention away from his phone long enough to seemingly jot down a flurry of ideas. I’d bet solid money he’s really just scribbling down the alphabet or a manifesto about all the ways he plans to be underhanded in the coming months.

The room fills as the rest of the department slowly filters in. Breakfast meetings are the worst; no human alive is in a hurry to spend an hour first thing in the morning with Brad.

We all look toward the door at the sound of our boss’s booming voice and see Kylie jogging in her four-inch stiletto heels to keep up behind him. With barely a glance at me, Brad looks down at my doughnut and wordlessly swipes it directly from the tabletop into the trash can just beside my feet.

I hear a strangled gasp come out of my mouth. “Wh-wh—?”

“Come on, Evie,” Brad says as he pulls out his chair. He looks up and catches my horrified expression. “What? Are you depressed? Trust me, you don’t need that.”

I have no idea what to say to this. A storm seems to build in my chest and I can feel my face turning red. “Except that was my breakfast.”

He doesn’t answer, just sits down and quietly tells Kylie to get the laptop set up. I think I hear Rose mumble something about a son of a bitch, but otherwise there’s only stunned silence from the rest of the table around me.

“We’re having some food brought in,” Kylie squeaks. “So . . . you’ll get something then. Like fruit and organic bars and stuff.”

I don’t want fruit or an organic bar—I want the motherfucking doughnut I brought in.

No, what I really want is to lift my coffee and toss it at Brad, right in Mr. Congeniality’s face.

But I can’t do that, either.

Looking down to regroup, I see that two buttons on my top are open, revealing my pink bra beneath. I gasp, quickly fastening them closed again.

I know this hasn’t recently happened. I know that it’s been like this since I first walked into the room because I realize in hindsight that I felt the draft on my chest for the last few minutes. Carter is right here, across from me; we were the only two people in the room. It explains his double take and sneaky little smile, and it also explains why I’m going to kill him later.

My pulse is a booming drum in my ear. I stare at the side of Carter’s face so hard I hope his cheekbones begin to ache under the force of it.

As the woman from catering comes in pushing a cart laden with fruit and fat-free, taste-free bran muffins, I think of my delicious doughnut and wonder what everyone would do if I just reached into the trash can, brushed it off, and went to town. I’m so hungry I’m tempted to try. Instead, I abandon hope of sugar and delicious carbs since, by the looks of it, we’re all about to be subjected to Brad’s fifty-year-old-man breakfast. Great.

Of course, everyone is too polite to go get anything to eat until Brad does first. And he seems to be in no immediate hurry.

My stomach gnaws at itself like a starving wolf . . . so, fuck it.

I stand and walk to the food, bypassing the muffin-bricks to pile a bunch of berries on a small paper plate. When I return to the table, Brad is eyeing me like I’ve just broken a cardinal rule. Rose’s smirk is aimed at her hands folded on the table. Rose and I don’t always have the same sense of humor, but I know that if we make eye contact right now, she will lose her shit.

“Let’s get started.” Brad taps a few papers in front of him and leans back in his chair, glancing at Rose. “How did it go with Tom on Monday?”

“Good,” she tells him. “Paramount contract’s signed. Everything’s moving along.”

He nods, pleased. “Carter, what’s going on for the Vanity Fair shoot?”

Carter slides his eyes to me. “All set.”

“Who’s doing the photography again?”

Hesitating, Carter pretends to need to look at his notes before he says, “Ah, it’s Jonah. Jonah Aaron.”

“No relation?” Brad asks distractedly. Assuming.

“Relation. Brother.”

Brad looks up and considers Carter frankly for a few seconds. “The photographer is your brother?”

And this is it—this is when Carter will finally get what’s coming to him. I didn’t overreact. This entire situation is bullshit. And the best part is that I won’t need to do a thing because Brad will do it for me.

Doughnut incident forgiven, I settle into my seat, wishing I had some popcorn instead of berries for the show.

Carter’s face slowly blooms red. “That’s right. My younger brother. I assure you he’s fully qualified.”

Brad’s expression remains unreadable and I think I can hear Carter sweating. I could kiss Brad for this. Come to think of it, I think I missed Bosses’ Day. I make a mental note to send Brad a card.

“You might have even seen some of his work in Rolling Stone,” Carter continues. “I can get you a list of references if you’d like.”

Silence. You could hear a pin drop and I gleefully swing my eyes to Brad, waiting for the explosion. Here it comes . . . any minute now . . .

But it doesn’t. Instead, a smile worthy of the Grinch slowly spreads across Brad’s face, until I can see every one of his perfectly capped teeth.

“Now that is what I’ve been talking about!” he says, and slaps a hand on the table.

Son of a bitch.

“Carter rallying the troops and giving us an inside edge.” Brad all but leaps across the table to give Carter a bro-pal high five. “I’ll tell you something, I am not surprised. Everyone watch this guy,” he says, pointing around the table. “This is how you get shit done.”

I sink down in my chair, furious. We already had a photographer, so I’m not sure what, specifically, Brad thinks has gotten “done.” Carter shouldn’t have made the switch without asking me, and he knows it. That Brad is now giving him a verbal hand job is infuriating. It sets Carter apart in a way Brad never has before at these meetings. There is an unspoken pecking order in agenting, defined primarily by who brings in the most publicity and money—and this year, that is likely to be me.

But there are other factors, too. Such as: having a penis. Apparently that’s a big one.

There’s some awkward shuffling around the table—either people don’t like being told to emulate the newest newbie around town, or they agree with me that hiring your brother for a cover shoot is a screaming mile past Sketchy Town—but I make a point of not looking up, refusing to make eye contact. Taking a calming breath, I lift my coffee to my lips, truly enjoying it as I imagine it scalding Carter’s lap instead of my tongue. I glance down when my phone buzzes with a text.

Can you make sure to follow up with Seamus about the start time next week?

I blink, staring at the screen. Brad has moved on from his gushing over Carter, and now Ashton’s voice is a nasal lull in the background.

Did you send this to the wrong person?

Is this Evelyn Abbey?

Why would I forget to follow up with my own client?

I was just making sure.

Just contact Jess with the list of information you need.

Beside me, he snorts out a dickish little laugh and shakes his head, sliding his phone onto the tabletop.

Livid, I type one more thought.

You could have given me a heads up that my shirt was unbuttoned.

Your shirt was unbuttoned?

You’re sitting right across from me.

It would be impossible for you to not have noticed.

Well, I didn’t ;-)

Holy shit. Did Carter just type the bird-flip of smiley faces? Did Carter just give me the smiley-finger?

My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear what Ashton is saying. I’m sure I look like a mouth-breathing wrestler, but my thoughts won’t budge away from how much I despise Carter this very second.

I’m not entirely sure what this feeling is, because I’ve never had it before . . . but I think it’s unmitigated rage.

I think my brain has just declared war on Carter Aaron.

•  •  •

In my office, I descend upon my other two doughnuts with a kind of desperate, two-handed, open-mouthed vigor. Coffee and berries long gone, these doughnuts are my entire life now.

But because the universe is a cat, and I am but a fuzzy ball of string, Carter walks in right when I take down half of one doughnut in a single bite.

“Hey, Evil,” he says, eyes on his phone. “Jonah needs to start at eleven next Friday. Does that work?” He looks up and startles at the sight of my face, both cheeks bulging with food. “I’ll . . . give you a second to answer.”

And then he just stands there, watching me chew behind my hand, his eyebrows raised in amusement. When the chewing takes me longer than either of us would have liked, he adds, “You must have been starving” with a mocking half smile.

Swallowing, I say, “You may have noticed Brad knocking my breakfast into the trash.”

He eyes the sugar crumbs littering the bag on my desk. “Good thing you had spares.”

I make a point of walking to my door and dramatically motioning to where Jess is sitting in front of her computer, next to the other assistants.

Carter follows me and looks out. “Yeah?”

“That is my assistant, Jess. Talk to her about scheduling.”

He peeks out again, offering Jess a wave and an adorable smile. “How’s your mom’s cat doing?” he calls out.

Her face lights up. “Good! First couple nights were rough, but the stitches come out next week. Thanks for asking!” Her eyes swing to me, and she looks like a deer caught in headlights. You have got to be kidding.

“So can we?” he says.

I turn my head to see him looking down at me. He is entirely too close. I’ll never be able to get any real leverage kicking him in the balls at this angle. Straightening, I take a step back. “Can we what?”

“Can we start shooting at eleven instead of noon next week?” He says it slowly, as if the problem is me and my comprehension, and not the fact that he’s a plotting weasel. “Jonah has ‘a thing’ at three.”

I should be difficult and insist he go through Jess with this, but apparently the Team Evie ship has sailed. “God, you’re a pain in the ass. Let me check my calendar.” I move to sit down behind my desk, saying pointedly, “I sure appreciate being involved in the coordination.”

He sighs. “It wasn’t like that, Evie.”

“It wasn’t?” I turn on my computer, typing in my password with shaking hands. I hope he doesn’t notice; the last thing I want is for Carter to see how much this gets to me.

He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Look, if Brad had an issue with Jonah doing the shoot, then okay, we could discuss how to adjust the plan. But he didn’t.”

Carter clearly knows as well as I do that Brad approved of this for reasons completely unfathomable to either of us. Even a nearsighted dog in the room would know that what Carter did was outright nepotism. “Are you using Brad Kingman as your litmus test for honorable behavior?”

“I just want to have a job,” he says. “My mistake was in not getting an okay from you up front, I get that. Can we move on?”

Staring at him in the answering quiet, I finally say, “Do I really have a choice?”

I must have made my point, because for the first time since I’ve known Carter, he doesn’t have a comeback.

“Next week . . . Friday?” I ask, back to business. Carter nods. “Eleven should work. I told Seamus to get there at eight thirty for makeup anyway to make sure he gets there on time.”

Carter’s eyes go wide. “That was pretty smart.”

“Try not to look so surprised.”

This makes him laugh, but he doesn’t bother to correct me.

Just as Carter is about to turn and leave, Rose ducks into my office, closing the door behind her.

“Do you want me to go, or . . . ?” Carter asks her.

“You’re fine. You can stay, I want both of your opinions.”

Oh, great. Here comes the gossip.

I glance up at Carter, unsure as to whether he’s been subjected to her yet. He’s got his blank face on, which means he probably already knows exactly how indiscreet Rose can be. I constantly fear that any legitimate work conversation with her will devolve into gossip and name-dropping. It’s not that I am necessarily against gossip and name-dropping, but it has to be done in the right way, with the right people. Discreet people, for Christ’s sake, who do it only with the right combination of irony and credibility.

But instead of slowly building an intriguing story of flirting, or client drama, or sexual harassment, Rose drops an incredibly personal grievance right in the middle of my office: “Ashton’s bonus was about seven thousand dollars bigger than mine.”

My eyes widen.

Carter takes a small step back, as if he’s trying to blend into the background.

“How do you know that?” I ask. We talk about money all day with clients, but rarely do we share our own income with colleagues. And, I’m guessing, it’s for precisely this reason. Nothing is ever as clear and fair as we expect it to be.

“We were talking yesterday about our projected year-end totals, you know, with the merge? Everyone’s head seems to be on the chopping block. So we went back to our desks, and our bonus statements were there. I guess because we were already talking money, he was comfortable enough to tell me what he got.”

“Were his signings and bookings bigger than—” I begin, but she cuts me off, shaking her head.

“The same,” she says. “We were almost dead even.” She looks over to Carter. “Bullshit, right?”

“Unacceptable,” I say. “You need to ask Brad. Or go straight to Accounting and have them check the numbers.”

Rose gasps. “I can’t do that!”

“Then you’re out seven grand.” I shrug.

“This sucks!” she growls.

“Talk to Brad,” Carter gently urges. Naive Carter. As if Brad doesn’t already know.

She looks up at him, miserable. “He won’t care.”

I lift my hands in front of me, exasperated. “Honestly, Rose, if you’re only going to complain here—where I have no power to help you at all—the money must not be the reason you’re in this job.”

She looks down to the floor, nodding for a few seconds. “I know. I know, it’s just so frustrating.”

“I get it, sweets, but you’ve got to be your own advocate. No one else is going to be that for you.”

With a small smile of thanks, she turns and leaves.

Carter steps away from the wall. “Wow, Evie. That was a bit of tough love.”

I look up at his face, at the wide green eyes behind his glasses, his clean-shaven jaw and mussy hair. It’s a good thing he’s so pretty, because the attitude is not making any friends today. “You could have added anything you wanted to.”

He considers this for a few seconds and then shrugs. “Is she sure that’s really the case? I’ve never had any sort of pay disparity.” He seems to realize what he’s just said. “I mean, obviously. I know that sort of thing happens, but . . .” He winces, backpedaling. “That sucks for her. Hopefully she’ll get it fixed.”

He can’t be serious.

“This isn’t some rare case of a mathematical error in finance, Carter. This sort of thing happens every day. It’s happened to me.”

“Really? It’s just, you seem so in command all the time, I have a hard time imagining anyone taking something that’s yours.”

He moves another step closer, leaning back against my desk, facing me. It’s so close, it’s almost like we’re friendly, or flirting, but obviously we aren’t.

“It happens in this business all the time,” I say quietly. “You just don’t see it. It doesn’t affect you.”

“It should.”

I nod. “I agree.”

“So what do you think we should do?”

I don’t miss the way he looks at my lips for a tiny beat, and it suddenly feels like we’re not talking about pay disparity anymore.

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

But I definitely feel like making out with Carter right now would help lead us in the right direction.

His eyes seem to roam all over my face, and then lower; he leans in . . .

For the span of two . . . three . . . four frantic heartbeats, I think he’s going to kiss me.

“Your shirt seems intent on staying open today,” he whispers, nodding.

Startled, I follow his eyes, and sure enough my top two buttons have popped open again, leaving a good deal of cleavage perfectly visible to both of us.

“Oh.” I look up at him, feeling my cheeks heat.

I start to smile at him, but instead of leaning closer to kiss me like I still think he’s going to, he leans back, offering an unreadable expression before he turns and leaves my office.