by Virna DePaul
Naturally, I chose my career.
Add the fact that Caleb is a total playboy manwhore? One who works with models every single day? Yeah, I have no illusions that what happened yesterday was a one-time deal. I’m not going to cry over it, even if I feel like my heart’s breaking, realizing that I’ll probably never see him again.
“So, that went really well, I think.” Tanya looks up at me.
I really don’t want to talk to my assistant and friend right now. “I guess so,” I say quietly.
“Even though you and Johnny just about murdered each other.”
“He’s an annoying man.”
“And yummy besides.”
“Tanya, you’re not helping.”
Tanya smirks, and I have to stop myself from strangling her. She’s way too perceptive. Did everyone else here notice the tension between Caleb and me? God, I hope not.
“You said you two met on the plane ride here,” she says casually. “But by ‘meet,’ did you really mean, ‘we enjoyed the Mile High Club together?’”
I whirl on her. “Tanya!” Now I’m blushing, which makes my guilt all the more apparent.
She hoots. “You didn’t! Heather Flint, spill the deets right this second!”
Luckily, there are people still finishing and packing up, and Rebecca Harris takes me aside for a chat. I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption than I am right then.
Rebecca gives me some logistics about seeing the finished project and how I can be in contact with Bella in the meantime. I appreciate what she’s saying, but Caleb uses this moment to walk up to the pair of us.
“Rebecca, Catherine was looking for you,” Caleb says, only looking at me. “She had some question that I had no idea how to answer.”
Rebecca raises an eyebrow, but she leaves us alone for the time being.
Caleb holds out a hand. “I wanted to call a truce,” he says. “I think we ended up making a good show of it, no?”
I take his hand, although part of me wants to fling it away in disgust. “If you call arguing the entire time a good show, then yes, I agree.”
“If you didn’t irritate me so much, I’d think you were hilarious. Anyone ever tell you you should go into comedy?”
“No, you would be the first.”
His eyes narrow, but to my astonishment, he presents a portfolio to me—my portfolio of new designs, I realize with a start.
“You know, I was looking around for a pen, when I came across this. I thought, ‘would Heather Flint leave her designs out in the open like this?’ Come to find out, she would, and she did.”
I try to grab the portfolio, but he raises it above his head. I want to slap him, I’m so angry.
“Give those back. Those are private.” I try to grab them, but the stupid man is too tall.
He laughs. “Keep that up, sweetheart, because I’m enjoying the view way too much.”
I flush, realizing he’s watching my breasts bounce as I jump. Breathing hard, I glare at him. “Give. Me. The. Portfolio.”
“I will…but for a price.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to admit that the photos were more than good. They were amazing. And I was right.”
I grit my teeth. Would it be a terrible idea to knee him in the groin right now? I consider it, but as if sensing my desire for violence, Caleb lowers the portfolio and steps back just slightly.
I try to grab the portfolio again. I fail. He grins.
“Fine,” I say in a low voice. “You were right. The photos are good. Now, can I have my designs back?”
He considers, then he finally hands over the portfolio. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I hope you fall into a manhole,” I say scathingly.
He just laughs.
I flip through the designs, afraid he’s snagged one for some reason, but they’re all there. I let out a sigh of relief. These are designs I haven’t shown anyone yet. They’re works in progress, and I must admit, I’m extremely proud of them so far.
Caleb looks down at the drawings. “If it makes you feel better,” he says, “these designs are pretty impressive.”
I glance up, surprised. Did he just compliment me? “They are?”
“Very. Especially this one.” He pages to a gown in the back of the portfolio. “This one caught my eye the most. It’s ethereal yet…imposing.”
My heart’s pounding, but for a very different reason now. “That’s what I was going for. I wanted to try something different from my usual designs, but it’s difficult not to stray too far away from what you already know works. But I’ve always loved gowns like this…” I trail off, suddenly embarrassed. Does Caleb really care about my design?
But he’s watching me intently, and once again I’m struck by not only how handsome he is, but how intelligent he is, too. He knows art, and he understands what I’m talking about. Bo never understood my love of fashion and design, and he’d dismiss it as frivolous. But Caleb, he gets it. He sees it as something important. My heart swells at the realization.
What would it be like to have a man in my life who gets this part of me so intrinsically?
Caleb opens his mouth to say something, but I hear Catherine call out to him, “Caleb, we’re heading out.”
“I’ll be right there.” He gazes at me, and I’m torn between wanting to ask him to stay and wanting to never see him again. He looks similarly torn. Finally, he brushes a finger across my cheek and smirks. “See you later, sweetheart. Try not to get too high in the instep without me.”
I bat his hand away, and my irritation with him comes back in full force. “Go to hell, Caleb Johnson. I hope I never have to see you again.”
He just smirks. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep.” He blows me a kiss and walks out, cocky as ever.
I’m standing there, my fists clenched and my face on fire, when Tanya returns. She gives me a onceover, but when she’s about to ask me what happened for the third time, I hold up a hand.
“Not now, Tanya.”
I hear my assistant mutter, “I wasn’t going to,” as I stalk to the backroom.
10
Caleb
“Good news. I booked you with another client out here in LA, so I’ve changed your flight,” my agent, Owen Kiss, tells me at the crack of dawn. I’ve been with Kiss Talent Agency for over five years now, and Owen is one of the best agents in the business. He and his brothers, Declan and Hunter, are celebrities in their own right, representing everything from football stars to rock royalty to regular creative types like myself. “Oh, and I reserved you the rental house off Sunset since it’s cheaper than a hotel. Talk to you later.”
I hang up and collapse back onto the bed. I was going to fly back to New York today, although there was definitely a huge part of me that didn’t want to.
I guess my hope came true, didn’t it?
I sigh, in desperate need of coffee. My body is still on East Coast time, and although it’s only 6:00 AM here, my body is convinced it’s time to get going. I decide to get coffee on the way to my meeting, checking out of the hotel since I’ll be going to the rental house my agent got me in the evening.
The sun is bright, and I squint as I head outside. I’m so used to the tall skyscrapers of New York that being in LA feels kind of weird. Then again, it’s always warm and almost always sunny here, so I can’t complain. And Californians are way more chill than New Yorkers. They even smile sometimes. The first time I came here, I couldn’t believe it.
I have meetings all day, but despite my efforts, I can’t stop thinking about a certain designer—one who drives me crazy and makes me hard just thinking about her.
Heather Talina Flint, the most annoying, gorgeous, pain in the ass woman I’ve ever met. Was it just two days ago that we slept together? I’ve never been on my best behavior and have had my string of lovers, but I can’t remember the last time I had sex in a public place like a dressing room. I generally prefer beds. But being near Heather,
hearing her voice, seeing her blush and watching her get annoyed with me? I couldn’t stop myself. And the sex had been hotter than I’d ever experienced in my life.
I scowl, even though I’m currently at lunch with a client. Said client asks me if my salad is all right. I shake my head, forcing myself to smile.
I can’t let Heather Flint get under my skin like this. We’re over. Hell, we hadn’t even gone anywhere to begin with. We had a fling, it was hot, I took photos of her designs, and that was it. If I do see her again, it’ll be in a completely professional capacity.
A couple of days later, I have the proofs of the photos from Heather’s shoot, and I have to say, they’re easily my best work to date. I send off the photos to Heather, Rebecca and others at Bella, pretty much expecting everyone’s response to match my own. Who could find fault with art like that? Once again, I’m grateful I stuck to my guns and refused to let Heather run the show entirely. We would’ve ended up with lackluster photos, ones that no one would remember after glancing at them when flipping through Bella.
It’s almost evening, although the sun won’t be going down for a few hours yet. Sitting in my rental house off of Sunset Boulevard, I go out to the balcony, taking in the lights of LA. It’s still warm, and it smells like the sea. The wind’s picked up, and I watch as the palm trees sway in the distance.
That’s when I hear my doorbell ring. I frown, going downstairs to answer it. I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight.
Opening the door, I’m about to tell whoever it is that I’m not interested in what they’re selling, when I realize it’s not a salesperson: it’s Fiona Taylor, fashion designer extraordinaire.
Oh, and one of many women I’ve slept with over the years.
Fiona is of average height, stick-thin, with bleached blond hair that curls about her shoulders. She’s wearing her usual bright red lipstick and her outfit is impeccable. She embraces me, smelling of orchids. A yip sounds from her bag.
“Johnny, I’m so glad to see you.” She comes inside without so much as an invitation, which is to be expected. Fiona doesn’t wait for anyone to invite her. She just does as she pleases. Her bag yips again, and she coos at what can only be a very tiny dog inside of it.
“Fiona, what are you doing here?” I sigh inwardly. Fiona is beautiful, and cultured, and brilliant—and a giant pain in the ass. She’s also demanding and this side of crazy, and after sleeping with her once, I realized she wasn’t worth the drama she brought along with her wherever she goes.
“I heard you were staying in LA doing a shoot for Bella, so I thought I’d drop by. Owen wouldn’t tell me where you were staying, but I remembered Kiss Talent used this place a while back before I moved on.”
Right. She meant before Owen fired her ass because she’d been so difficult to work with.
She reaches up to kiss my cheek. “You should’ve told me you were going to be here, you naughty boy.” Unzipping her bag, she lets out a Chihuahua, who barks at me and growls at my ankles. “Oh, Bertie, bad boy! No barking!”
The dog only barks louder. I wince at the high-pitched sound.
“Would you like a drink? I have wine.” I go to the kitchen, knowing she’ll follow.
“Do you have anything more low calorie? I’m trying to watch my waistline.” She pouts, pushing out her plump lower lip that’s had its fair share of injections. “Alcohol is full of useless calories, you know.”
I pour myself a glass of red wine. “I don’t think I’d ever say that alcohol is useless.”
She titters a laugh. Bertie the dog runs around at our feet before lifting its leg on the corner of the kitchen island. Thankfully, Fiona grabs the dog before it can pee all over the place. “What a naughty dog!” She laughs while Bertie growls again when I get too close.
“Why are you here, Fiona?” I know that unless I ask her outright, she’s going to act like she was just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by. Which is bull, because I know very well that she has a mansion in Malibu nowhere near Sunset.
She makes a sad face. “Have I ever told you that you have the worst manners, Johnny?”
“I’m from New York,” I say wryly.
“That doesn’t mean you can ask me questions like that. Like I want something from you!” She leans toward me, trailing a finger down my chest. “Can’t a girl just stop by to see an old friend?”
I catch that trailing hand, because it’s going southward at an alarming rate. I fell into bed with Fiona once, but I’m not going to do it again. I prefer to keep my cock far away from sharks.
“We both know you never just stop by to see anyone. Either you’re here for something or you’re bored. Or both.” I drink my wine. “So which is it?”
Bertie barks, and Fiona sets him down at her feet. “I just thought that since you were in town—and you know you’re never in LA, darling—that I could use some…inspiration. We both could.” She smiles that smile that has seduced any number of men, including myself. Thankfully, I’m now immune to it.
That doesn't stop Fiona, though. She moves closer to me, pressing up against me so I can feel her breasts and every curve of her body. If I just moved my hands a few inches, I could grab her ass. She does, I must admit, have an amazing ass.
But Fiona’s ass doesn’t hold a candle to another ass—and body, and smile, and woman—who I can’t stop thinking about. Heather’s smile flashes in my mind, and suddenly, Fiona’s perfume and presence is cloying. Obnoxious. I don’t want to listen to her, don’t want to hear her breathy voice and feel her nails scratch at my chest like some sex-starved kitten.
“Oh, Fiona,” I say, “we both know what your kind of inspiration means.” I take her hands off of my chest and step away. “And that’s not the kind of inspiration I’m interested in.”
Her eyes flash. The sex kitten disappears, and in its place is a woman who always gets what she wants, and God help anyone who tries to stand in her way.
“What happened to the Johnny I used to know? The one who’d charm and flirt with me?” She pouts. “I miss that Johnny.”
“That Johnny realized that there’s more to life than sleeping with anything that moves.”
She frowns, knowing that I’m talking about her. She doesn’t step away from me, but she doesn’t try to ensnare me again, either. Instead, she picks up Bertie and strokes his tiny, triangular head.
“I heard you were in town working with Rebecca. How did it go?” She looks at me underneath her lashes, like I’m supposed to think she isn’t fishing for information.
But I also know that Fiona won’t leave until she gets something, so I sigh and reply, “I finished up a shoot last week. Have you heard of Talina Designs & Boutique?”
“It sounds familiar.”
“Bella tapped them for a spread, and I was the lucky guy who got to take the photos.” Sarcasm rang clear in my tone, although I hadn’t meant it to.
Fiona raises an expertly plucked eyebrow. “Have a little trouble with the designer?” She clucks her tongue. “That’s also not like you. Why, how many designers have you wrapped around your finger in no time at all?” She flutters her lashes at me. “Me included.”
“And yet I remember that you pretty much refused to let me be your photographer ever again.” I raise an eyebrow at her. The last time I worked with Fiona, she got so upset over some small changes that I made that she basically threw a fit that lasted an entire month. She left me so many voicemails that she filled up my mailbox, telling me that I would never work in fashion ever again if I crossed her a second time.
After she had calmed down we had a reasonable conversation, but that was when I knew Fiona Taylor wasn’t a woman I wanted to get involved with again.
“You made me mad. Besides, that’s water under the bridge.” She waves a hand. “Tell me about this designer. Is she pretty?”
I think of Heather, of how beautiful she is, and I swallow. I can’t let on that Heather and I have been involved in some way. Fiona will use that to her advantage somehow.
I pick up my wineglass and take a sip, finishing the glass. “Her name’s Heather Flint. She’s pretty new on the scene.”
“And her designs?”
“They’re fine.” I deliberately downplay how impressed I was with Heather’s work, not wanting to prick Fiona’s interest. “But she’s also stubborn as hell, and we almost tore into each other at the shoot.”
“Interesting.” Fiona keeps stroking Bertie, who has since stopped growling but looks at me with his beady dark eyes. “I’ll have to look out for this Heather woman. If she’s caught Rebecca’s attention, then she must be talented.”
I bite back my instinctive reply—that Fiona should stay far away from Heather—but that would just make Heather a sure-fire target.
“Well, look at the time.” Fiona gathers her bag and places Bertie inside it. “I must get going, but it’s been so lovely to see you, Johnny.” She kisses my cheek. “Best of luck with everything.”
She sees herself out, which is fine with me.
Right now, my brain only has room for one designer—and she’s definitely not Fiona Taylor.
11
Heather
When I see the email from Caleb, my heart pounds with anticipation. I tell myself it’s not because it’s from him, but because it has the photos from the shoot attached. Although I saw the initial shots, these are more official.
I begin looking at the photos, one by one. Since a week has passed since the shoot, my mind has forgotten the specifics of the photos I’d gotten to look at. As I look at each one, I’m torn between two emotions: awe at Caleb’s talent and irritation that they’re even more avant garde than I’d expected.
They’ve now been edited so that they look almost nothing like I’d imagined in the first place. I’m gritting my teeth as I go through every single photo, my ire rising with each one. Why had I let Caleb take the reins like that? These are my designs, not his! By the time I’m finished looking, I’m so angry that I have to take a deep breath. I can’t call Rebecca and lose my temper.
