Dating You / Hating You by Christina Lauren
chapter nineteen
evie
Monday-morning meetings are going to be an issue.
Carter is sitting across from me, bent head-to-head with Aimee over a spreadsheet. I’m only now taking the time to notice that his hair has gotten a little shaggy in front, but he’s kept it short on the sides and . . . well, I’m quite enjoying it. Today he’s wearing a light blue shirt, and I don’t know if it’s intentional, but the top two buttons are undone, showing a nice hint of his pecs. Unfortunately, now I can’t really blame him for the Evie Blouse Disaster of Late October, because there is no way I am telling him that I can see chest-below-collarbone for fear that he would remove it from my view. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and he’s doing that fascinating trick where he flips a pen over the back of his hand.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He made me come with those fingers.
Back and forth.
My chest twists a little as I realize how hard I’m swooning, and how far that will take me. Because who knows what is going on between us? We sure haven’t talked about what happened Friday.
After Jonah found us, we left the mixing room in silence. We walked down the hall and found that our presence was completely useless anyway: Jonah and the crew had the shoot under control, and we wrapped right on time.
After only a brief shared look of bewilderment, Carter went to his car, I went to mine, and we left separately. He didn’t call, I didn’t call, and we haven’t made eye contact again. But, thankfully, we haven’t melted back down into petty sabotage, either.
Oh, no.
I’m softening toward him again, which can mean only one thing: my defenses are down. It would probably be wise for me to make a list of all the ways he offends me on a personal and professional level.
1. He’s too overtly sexy for the workplace.
2. He clearly can’t button his shirts. Deleted b/c hypocritical.
3. He
I look up and stare blankly at the fingers flipping the pen back and forth across his hand.
I’ll compile the rest of the list later.
I’m also—and I loathe saying it because I despise the cliché of two girls pitted against each other for the boy—slightly annoyed by Kylie. She’s sitting at the end of the table near Brad’s perch, waiting like all of us for the boss man to appear, but she isn’t even trying to be subtle about staring at Carter. She may or may not be having an affair with Brad, but she definitely wants to bang Carter. I am zero percent on board with this plan, because just before I light his tight pants on fire, I’d like to actually have sex with him.
Maybe that’d get him out of my system.
“How was the Vanity Fair shoot?” Brad asks, strolling into the room, and both Carter and I jump.
“Great!” we exclaim in unison.
Brad narrows his eyes at us, and Carter grins. “It went off without a hitch.”
I nod. “No bumps.”
“Or grinds,” Carter adds, and stifles a grin.
I stare at the table, trying to strangle down my laugh. The giddy thrill of having Carter acknowledge what we did on Friday makes me want to jump on the table and start channeling Missy Elliott.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brad sit up. “Yeah?”
“They got all the shots they needed,” Carter says. “Everyone left happy.”
“On the whole, I was very satisfied,” I add.
Carter coughs, and the room falls into a heavy silence.
Brad’s steely gaze narrows and he glances back and forth between me and Carter, who are very pointedly not looking at each other. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing,” we say in unison again.
“I don’t want to know any more,” Brad says, turning to Ashton.
Everyone is awkwardly shifting in their seats, looking at each other in silent What do you know about this? communication. No one cares about the photo shoot; there’s drama all the time at those things, but it’s rarely between the agents. Now they’re pigs sniffing for truffles. Our colleagues are either dying of curiosity or convinced they know something, but no one is oblivious. Not in this business.
I glance over at Kylie and catch her sullen pout directed at Carter. He seems to catch it at the same time, doing a tiny double take before busying himself with something on his phone.
But I don’t miss the way he peeks up at me, eyes shining.
“Ashton,” Brad says, “have you heard back from Joe Tierney over at Paramount?”
“He moved to DreamWorks last week,” I say absently, tearing my attention from Carter.
Everyone goes silent.
It’s an unspoken rule that any correcting of the boss is done way more subtly than that. Brad is top dog here. Brad is the first to know everything. That’s the rule, did I forget about that?
“No. I don’t think so,” Brad says, pulling his glasses lower so he can peer at me over the rims. “He’s there until March.”
I wince, shaking my head, inwardly telling myself to shut the hell up. The last thing I need to give Brad is another reason to dislike me.
“He left early. Wiggled out of his contract.” I try to lighten this with a little smile, but Brad just stares blankly at me for several silent seconds.
“Getting out of a contract. What an interesting idea.” The room is as silent as a grave. “Thanks for the clarification,” he says, slow-blinking back down to his notes and writing it down.
My good mood vanishes. What have I just done?
• • •
Despite the flirtation of the Monday meeting, for the rest of the week Carter and I really do put our heads down and bust our asses. It’s the end of the year, when we’re all scrambling to wrap up the last few contracts before Hollywood essentially shuts down for a month around Christmas. It seems as though every time I’m in the office, Carter is at an off-site. We don’t even pass each other in the halls or parking deck.
To be honest, it’s better this way. Having that random tension-release hookup on Friday doesn’t really change anything, as Brad so aptly reminded me on Monday. Looking back, I missed the beginning of the shoot while I was getting pleasured by Carter, and lost some of my professional traction by being punny with him in front of the entire Features department. Not to mention this little game we’ve been playing. Thank God we both pulled our heads out of our asses before someone lost a client, or worse.
I’ve never put a guy before my career, although the impact of that decision sometimes needles my thoughts: if you always put career first, you will only have your career to put first. Unfortunately, in this case, it really is a choice of the job or the guy.
By Friday afternoon, everyone is in the rising phase of cocktail hour. Every November Brad hosts a tree-lighting party at his house; this year’s party is tonight, which adds extra oomph to the office drinking. The atmosphere outside my door is cheerful if not yet booming. I can feel everyone’s giddiness, the relief of being able to let their proverbial hair down. Unfortunately, I have about seven calls to return and three contracts to pore through before I can call it a day and join the pre-party.
With my door closed, I tap the space bar to wake up my computer and try not to groan out loud at the seventy-five new emails since I last checked, only an hour ago.
A quiet knock lands on my door, and Carter pokes his head in.
My heart takes off running, and a heavy ache builds beneath my ribs, and just maybe between my legs, too. I missed him this week more than I wanted to admit.
“We’re all out here, hanging . . .” he says, tilting his head back a little and then giving me a tentative smile.
I’d rather have him sit down and just . . . hang with me.
“Come in,” I say, and he steps inside, nudging my door mostly closed behind him.
He looks around my office for a few quiet seconds. “How are you?”
“Good.” I feel like he can probably see my heart punching me from the inside. “How are you?”
Carter nods. “I’m good. Are you going to come out and join us?”
“I was out with a client most of the afternoon and have a few things I need to do before I can call it a day.”
“Do you want me to bring you a beer?”
As if to remind me what I’d be facing out there, Brad’s voice booms down the hall, causing me to grimace. The last thing I want to do is be with Mr. Team Token when I’m already stressed and buried under a to-do list the size of California.
“I’m good,” I say. “But thanks.”
Carter sighs, glancing over to the door. “Okay.” His jaw is tight, and even his frustrated profile looks amazing.
Wait. Why is he frustrated?
“ ‘Okay’?” I repeat, mimicking his tone. “What’s wrong?”
He looks back at me, and his expression softens a little. “Everyone else is out there. And you’re in here.”
“I’m working,” I say gently. It’s surprising in an awesome way that he wants me out there, but he seems more irritated than sweet about it. “I’m swamped.”
This seems to frustrate him even more. “We’re all swamped. But maybe if you joined in these things, you wouldn’t feel like such an outsider. I’m trying to help you, Evie. Jesus.”
I try to focus on my monitor and feel a crushing bleakness in my chest when I hear him slip out of my office back into the revelry.
I’m tempted to follow, engage with honest anger for once, but am immediately choked by my own voice in my head, telling me to hold strong to that desire to be myself in this business. As soon as I give an inch, I’ll lose a mile.
• • •
Brad’s driveway is a quarter mile long and lined with tiny glittering lights. I’ve been here before. One year, his wife—an executive at Warner Bros.—threw a wrap party for a film starring one of my clients. That night, amid the champagne and hors d’oeuvres and live music, I watched Brad slip away with my actor’s girlfriend.
Brad caught my eye as they wound up the staircase just off the downstairs guest bathroom and knew he was busted. I guess that’s one of a hundred pieces of dirt I’ve got on him, though I never said anything to anyone.
Rule one: get neither invested nor involved in actors’ or bosses’ private lives.
The tires of my Prius crunch down the gravel, and I pull up in front, handing my keys off to the valet and thanking him with a smile.
Memories of parties and betrayals and the simple madness of personal relationships in this town all filter through my thoughts as I walk to the front doors, making the situation with Carter seem somehow so insignificant. We had the workplace equivalent of a couple of pillow fights and then tucked away our bratty sides and made out in a closet. Even when I do drama, I do it so tamely.
I think what worries me the most about it is that there’s no sign of resolution anywhere. We’re both on tenterhooks, with the clock ticking down to the end of our contracts. And while I know I’d be devastated if I lost this position, it’s not as though I would be particularly happy if Carter lost, either. I might want to watch him suffer, but I don’t want him to be miserable.
Because you like him, my brain teases in a sneering whisper. Really, really like him.
My brain is such an asshole.
Brad’s wife, Maxine, greets me just inside the foyer, taking my coat and telling me where to find the alcohol and—with decidedly less emphasis—the food. I never try to meticulously time my arrival at these events, but glancing around I realize I’m one of the last to show up.
Looking for my lifelines, I immediately search for Amelia, who sometimes attends these gatherings. There are only about fifty people here, but the buzz of conversation makes it sound far larger. As usual, Maxine has arranged for live music, appetizers, and flutes of champagne on trays circulated by waitstaff. The main living area is expansive and faces a backyard with a view of the Hollywood Hills. Three sets of French doors are thrown open to the night, but heaters are placed just outside, keeping the mild chill at bay.
It’s gorgeous, it really is, and at times like this I’m overwhelmed with how lucky I am to be able to dip in and out of the lavish aspects of this world. It is a world of privilege and excess, and whenever I register how easy we all have it, it makes me realize how petty I am to ever complain about a few asshole personalities. By and large the people in this room are good. This is a cutthroat business, but few of us are as terrible as our actions would lead one to believe. Insecurity and competition make us all monsters.
I should know.
There’s no Amelia in sight, but I spot Carter with Brad across the room, near the open doors. Knowing he grew up in New York, I wonder what it’s like for him here, in November, where we shiver when it dips below sixty-five and wear fur coats out to dinner. I also wonder what it’s like to be celebrating with an almost entirely new team this year. The reorganization has been slow, but the first transition was deft, and the majority of the cuts were from CTM’s side of the table.
He’s changed into a sapphire-blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and exposing those forearms I alternately want to lick and amputate.
I hate to think that there is some fated connection there, but I can’t deny that when he looks up and sees me walking toward him it makes my stomach flutter a little.
His expression betrays his happiness to see me, and then immediately pinches inward and he returns to the conversation with Brad. It hadn’t even occurred to me to come over and interrupt Carter’s one-on-one time with the boss . . . because I wasn’t coming over there for Brad. I was coming for Carter. Of course, he has no way of knowing that.
But the hesitation in his face makes me hesitate, taking a detour toward the tray of wine headed in my direction. Swiping a glass, I say hello to a few colleagues and stand admiring the towering Christmas tree on the far end of the room.
Each ornament is gold, but there are enormous balls and tiny balls; horses, sleighs, and snowflakes. The tree seems to shimmer beneath the warm light of the room.
I can still hear Brad’s voice, which is low but carries in an odd, booming way. “So, you think you’re up for it?”
“Vegas and golfing?” Carter says. “I’m up for it any day of the week.”
“Good man. With you on board, I think we’ve got the whole team.”
A boys’ golf trip to Vegas?
I roll my eyes and turn to make my way over there. Things are strained enough as it is, and I know I should tread lightly, but I can’t let this one slide.
“Hey, guys!” I say.
“Evie!” Brad crows, leaning in to kiss my cheek in a way he would never dare do at the office.
Carter doesn’t kiss my cheek, but he does offer a half smile. “Hey, Evie.”
I smile at him, then turn to Brad. “Just overheard you—a department trip to Vegas? How cool!”
My game face is always on. I wish it weren’t the case, but I can never, ever let my guard down. Of course Brad hasn’t mentioned Vegas to me, and I would bet a large chunk of my salary that he hasn’t mentioned it to Rose or Aimee, or any of the other female agents. The only vaginas they want on their trip are the ones two inches from their faces at the strip clubs.
“Right,” Brad says, deflating just slightly but hiding it pretty well. He’s good at the game, too, after all. “You coming?”
“When is it, again?” I smile at him, letting him save face and act like he’s mentioned this to me.
“First week in March.”
He shifts on his feet. No doubt he assumed that the female agents, who weren’t invited to—or interested in—hungover golfing in Las Vegas, would be fine without an invitation. An added bonus? We’d be here to put out any emergency weekend fires. Those of us who are left, anyway . . . and I’m up for renewal in February.
Carter is March. Interesting.
“Should work for me.” I smile over at Carter, whose expression tells me he’s putting two and two together about the non-invites for the ladies.
I want to hug him for working to be more aware of Brad’s sexist shit, but also give him a patronizing head pat and a singsong Of course Brad didn’t invite any of “his girls,” poodle.
“Great!” Brad says, and flags down a passing waiter to bring him a scotch, neat. “You know, I meant to ask you the other day, but I have a friend who does a local podcast. Yeah, Here Today. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, he’s doing a series on career road bumps and I was mentioning to him that you might be great as a guest.”
Carter outwardly flinches. Embarrassment flashes across my skin and I’m hoping I can keep the blood from flooding my face by sheer will alone.
I force a tight smile. “I’m intrigued.”
“Great, great,” he says, reaching for the drink set in front of him. “I’ll connect you two. You get knocked down but always manage to get yourself back up. That’s what I like, sport. Good talking to you, Carter.”
And with that, he pats us each on the shoulder in turn and moves on to the next conversation.
Carter’s expression shines with irritation. He’s doing that thing that makes me insane—the quiet studying, with those honest green eyes—and it feels so dangerous to be standing here with him, in this setting, which is somehow both work and social, and a little Us Against Them.
I can’t resist him when he’s like this. He looks gorgeous. His lips are slightly wet from his beer, eyes relaxing into that knowing glint, like he can read every thought I have and he finds each one amusing.
I wish I could be more like him, and I realize with a slug to my gut that that’s what a lot of this is for me. I’ve always been good at my job, but Carter has an easiness about him that I’ll never be able to emulate. He’s simply . . . comfortable in his body, in his mind. I have to work so hard for every client, every deal, every second maintaining my level head. It’s satisfying that I can make him insane sometimes, but it’s short-lived.
Still . . . I seem to get to him, too, in a way that I haven’t seen anyone else do.
I pull my lip between my teeth, thinking on this possibility that maybe Carter is a little hung up on me, too.
“You look like you’re cycling through a lot of things right now,” he says.
“Like what?”
He shrugs and steps a little closer. “Like whether you should kiss me or punch me.”
The bald honesty of this makes my chest squeeze so tight, I have a moment of breathlessness. “It’s a daily struggle.”
This seems to delight him. “Really? I was kidding. Friday aside, I figured you were mostly up for the punching.”
“It is heavily favored.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I struggle similarly.” He pauses, taking a sip of his beer. “Alas, kissing is usually favored.”
I swallow, working to contain my outward reaction to this. My shoulders go up in this external tiny squeal and I lift my drink to my lips to mask it as a shiver from the chill.
“Should we talk about that?” he asks quietly.
I’m opening my mouth to tell him yes, absolutely, but not here when a floppy arm comes around me. I startle, and Rose appears at my side, bringing with her a heavy whiff of tequila.
“Evie!”
“Hey, Rose.” I smile as she presses a wet kiss to my cheek.
Aimee comes up behind her, and I get the distinct impression she’s been keeping an eye on Rose’s booze intake. “Hey, guys,” she says.
Rose leans in closer. “You’re amaaazing.” The word is drawn out into several syllables and brings out the lime smell just on the edge of the tequila.
I laugh at this, working to gently step out of her embrace. “Aww, thanks.”
“No, I mean it. You’re my girl hero.”
I look up at Carter’s face and bite back a laugh at the surprised amusement there. For once he doesn’t seem annoyed to hear someone compliment me.
“Just your girl hero?” Carter asks, laughing.
“My hero he-ro . . .”
“Rose has had a really good party,” Aimee says with a smile and a nod. “Rose, honey? Are you ready to head out yet? I can drop you on my way.”
Rose waves her off and looks at Carter, giving him a very long, very drunken once-over. “Hey, Carter.”
He laughs, cheeks a little pink. “Hey, Rose.”
He slips one hand in his pocket and gazes back at my face. Something inside me pulls tight, a string being tied around my midsection, at the way his attention to me is a quiet statement about where his thoughts are . . . and who he’s here for.
I get caught in that look, snagged by it.
“Evie,” Rose stage-whispers into my ear, and I shiver from the wet condensation of her breath on my neck. “Any chance we’ll get to be Eskimo sisters on this one?”
This question comes like a bucket of ice poured over my head, and I step away, fully out of her arm now, shaking my head. “I’m not sure that has anything to do with me.”
I look up at Carter but can’t tell whether he’s heard. I want to take Rose’s drink away, lead her to a couch where she can sit down and get some air, maybe sober up.
Turning, I collide directly with Brad’s chest.
“I see Rose has her fifth margarita,” he says with a laugh caught somewhere between reprimand and pride.
“Fourth,” Rose says, and then adds, “But these are strong.”
Without preamble, Brad lifts his chin to her, asking, “You gonna pick up the pace this quarter, Rosie?”
I feel my face heat at the patronizing Rosie and the work-performance question thrown so sharply down into the small circle of us standing here.
Rose flushes, too, and says, “Oh, yeah, Q3 was just an outlier for me.” She looks away, glancing out the back doors, and sips her drink as we all drown in awkward silence.
“Well, not so much of an outlier,” Brad says, bringing her back into it. “The rest of the team is crushing deals left and right. Ashton signed three majors this month. Carter got Jett Payne a recurring spot on a Netflix show and a starring role in a Ridley Scott movie. Evie here has Sarah Hill in this year’s biggest teen craze. I think you’re gonna need to figure out where you fit into the puzzle.”
“If I do,” Rose says, and never before have I wanted to escape a conversation more than this one. “Sometimes I look at someone like Evie and wonder if I’m cut out for this. I mean, I love it, okay? But . . .”
Carter and I meet eyes and quickly look away. This is painful for both of us. I want to tell Rose to stop. I want to tell her she’s gone too far, this is a conversation for closed doors, with me or someone else who’s sympathetic—not here. Seven days of the week—even on holidays—Brad is out to win. He’s not going to worry about appearances and say something to ease her mind. He’s a predator, and if you show him a trail of blood he will hunt you down until he’s eating your entrails.
Graphic but true.
“Just depends,” Brad says with menacing quiet, “whether you’re more comfortable being a failure or a quitter.”
I down my wine, knowing I’ll regret drinking it so fast but also unable to stop myself because I need to do something other than stand here, listening to Brad give this poor, nice person her very negative year-end review in the middle of a party.
Snagging another glass from a passing tray, I turn and walk toward the Christmas tree, intent on admiring it and getting the hell away from the echo of that conversation.
But I can feel Carter on my heels, and he stops just behind me, staying quiet while we each take a few breaths.
“Wow,” he says quietly, and I nod.
A few more seconds pass before he whispers, “Evie?”
“Yeah?”
“What are Eskimo sisters?”
The anticipatory horror on his face when I turn is like a hammer to a pane of glass for the tension in my chest, and I burst out laughing. “Two women who have slept with the same man.”
If possible, the horror intensifies. “And this man would be . . . me?”
“I presume so, but I know I didn’t become a sister.”
His face straightens. “Only because of circumstances.”
“I assume whenever two people don’t sleep together, one way or another it’s because of circumstances.”
“Right,” he says, easy again now, with the smile and the eyes and the collarbones. “But those circumstances are entirely different from the ones surrounding why I didn’t sleep with Rose.”
I glance back over to where Rose is still in a tense conversation with Brad, having been abandoned by the rest of us. I want to joke some more, keep it light here with Carter, but it’s nearly impossible when the weight of the job seems to follow us everywhere. I’ve never been let go. I’m not even sure how to deal with that.
“You okay?”
I nod, numb. “Sometimes I just can’t believe I do this for a living.”
His brows pull together. “You don’t love it?”
Instinct makes me tread carefully. Why is it that the one person I want to confide in the most is the one who could use it against me so easily? “I do love it. I love making these things happen, and connecting people. I love the clients and the art they make. It’s the politics I hate. The team behind the curtain is starting to feel . . . terrible. I don’t want to become that.”
His hand is warm when it comes up and cups my shoulder. The touch feels like the most intimate thing he could do right now—beyond even kissing me—because it makes me remember. I remember his mouth there. I remember that Carter likes my shoulders. I remember how his eyes seemed to ignite when he saw them bare, in the dress, that first date, and again on Friday.
It doesn’t feel like an innocent touch, it feels like a message.
“You aren’t like that, Evie.”
But when I look up at his face, he smiles a little, and it carries a shadow of regret.
I know we’re thinking the same thing: But I’ve been like that with you.
