My Charming Rival

by Lauren Blakely

  * * *

  William

  * * *

  We rode separately to the theater. It was only a few miles away, and we both knew the back roads, so she followed me as we sped away from traffic and to the Silver Screen Cinema. Once we arrived at the theater, I was no longer thinking of my slipup at the salon over Lolanna, nor was I thinking about James’s very soon directive. I was thinking about taking a girl I was interested in out on a date.

  I paid for the tickets, held open the door, snagged the popcorn, and then sat down next to her in a mostly-empty theater after she picked two seats by the side. As the lights dimmed, she dipped her fingers into the air-popped popcorn tub.

  She flashed me her smile, and her dark blue eyes seemed to twinkle. “I only said yes because of the popcorn,” she said, but I knew she was teasing—I knew it especially because she leaned in closer to me, brushed her lips across my cheek, and breathed softly, “Thank you for the popcorn.”

  “Feel free to say yes again because of the popcorn, then,” I whispered, feeling like I was buzzed on her.

  “Yes,” she said as the opening credits began.

  12

  William

  * * *

  Somewhere around the big crawl-under-a-truck-to-escape chase scene, I reached for her hand. She didn’t resist. She let me slide my fingers through hers like I’d done at the nail salon. Slowly, then more quickly, our fingers were laced together and she squeezed my hand. My mind was a haze, swirling with nearness to her, even from this kind of contact, which was the simplest, most basic kind. Hand in hand, fingers entwined. But then, there’s something to holding a girl’s hand, to the way she responds, to the suggestion of how bodies might come together. Because holding hands can be the prelude to so much more.

  While I might have asked her to the movies to ferret out more details about her job, any ulterior motives had been banished well before the curtain fell. They were so far in the rearview mirror now, as we touched, that I could no longer see them. She brushed her shoulder against mine, and when she shifted closer, the sexy honey scent of her hair drifted into my senses. All I had to do would be to inch closer and press my lips against the sweet skin of her absolutely kissable neck.

  Truth be told, that was all I wanted to do.

  Screw the movie, screw the job, screw everything else but continuing what we’d started. I bent my head closer to her, speaking softly near her ear. “Jess, were you going to kiss me again in the nail salon?”

  “Maybe,” she whispered. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

  “If I do, you’ll miss the scene when he rides across the desert on a white horse.”

  “That’s my favorite scene.”

  “Then you don’t want to miss it.”

  “No. I don’t want to miss it. So make it worth my while,” she said, her tone an invitation.

  She didn’t look away. Her blue eyes were wilder than usual as I brushed her hair off her neck, savoring every second of her response to the anticipation, from the way her breath visibly caught to the delicious moment when her lips parted the tiniest bit, her body making it clear what she wanted.

  The same thing I did. To be closer.

  I started slowly, dusting my lips against hers, the barest whisper of a kiss. It was the first sip of champagne, a promise of what’s to come, a hint of sweet intoxication.

  She made the sexiest little sound, a tiny murmur as I pressed my lips to hers once more.

  I moved in for another kiss, sweeping my tongue against the curve of her lower lip, kissing away her gasp. Then we went deeper, tongues meeting, swirling, tasting. The heat inside me rose as the kiss evolved, turning into a long, slow, deep wet kiss. My favorite kind. I could kiss her all day, all night, I could kiss her all over, and I desperately wanted to. Because the way she responded, tugging me close and spearing my hair with her fingers as she practically grabbed my skull, sent my blood racing.

  All her hard edges melted when we kissed. The barbs, the snark, the teasing disappeared. We were not the same people who doubted each other; all our cards were on the table as we touched.

  After several hungry minutes having each other’s mouths for an early dinner, she dropped a hand to my arm. She ran her palm along my bicep, then my forearm, as if she were tracing me. Her touch sent a bolt of pure lust through my body, and I wished we were anywhere but here. The theater might be mostly empty, but it wasn’t private, and I wanted to do so many private things to her. Touch her breasts. Slide a hand under her shirt. Unbutton her jeans. Feel her.

  I settled for traveling to her neck, layering soft kisses on a path up to her ear. I nibbled on her earlobe and whispered, “Worth your while?”

  “So worth it,” she said, her voice some kind of combination of purr and moan.

  I’d take that combo. Hell, I’d take it again. I returned to her lips that were like a magnet for mine. Jess intrigued me, fascinated me, and turned me on. She was a model of restraint most of the time, but the second we connected physically, all bets were off. Because then we were only chemistry, atoms and electrons smashing into each other, seeking each other out. Her mouth was sweet, sinful and demanding at the same time because she kissed me back so passionately and with so much untamed heat that my mind—or maybe it was my body—leapfrogged ten steps ahead to the movie ending, taking her back to my place, and exploring the rest of her trim, slim, lush figure.

  But when the credits rolled, she untangled herself from me, smoothed her hair, ran her hands down her shirt, and thanked me for the movie.

  “I have to go study.”

  Minutes later, she was driving off on her scooter into the Los Angeles night.

  She was fucking masterful at walking away, and leaving me far too turned on.

  13

  Jess

  * * *

  Ice in the freezer.

  Water in the faucet.

  A big fat plastic bowl somewhere in the cabinet under the stove.

  With my teeth gritted and my jaw clenched, I mixed the three ingredients, then dunked my head in the ice water.

  Surprise, surprise. It was freezing, and I nearly yelped under water.

  But stoicism ruled me now that I was home. I needed to clear my head, and I needed to clear it fast.

  Ten seconds.

  I’d failed at my mission. I’d gotten nothing but hot and bothered at the movies. I’d gained nada when it came to understanding the man that J.P. was pitting against me. Instead, I’d let my lust-fueled body do all the talking and let him kiss me through my favorite scene.

  Twenty seconds. My teeth would start chattering soon.

  Fine, I’d seen the movie eighteen times already and I could watch the final minutes on YouTube if I wanted. But still, being near sexy, charming, fun, and flirty William had a way of turning my brain to mush.

  A big blob of useless, formless mush. If I kept going, I’d fall back into so many bad habits. I couldn’t chance it.

  Thirty seconds. I had frozen him out.

  I flipped my wet, cold head out of the water and took a deep breath. There. My hair was soaked, my face was wet, but my sanity had been restored.

  Time to focus. I brushed the wet strands off my face, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and opened my books on the table. I finished my last biology assignment, studied for my French class, and reviewed chemistry formulas for fun. Satisfied with my schoolwork, I spent the next thirty minutes researching bridesmaid shops in Manhattan Beach. I found two and read all the online reviews, as well as magazine write-ups of the shops, but neither one felt like the kind of place Veronica Belle would rely on for her bridesmaids’ sartorial needs. I called up a map of the fanciest shopping section in the area and zoomed in on the stores, hunting for a boutique that might not scream bridal store but might, in fact, be precisely the type of place where a star, her girlfriends, and her younger sister would go for a final fitting. I located two possibilities and opened another tab to research them more when my phone alerted me to a text message from An
aka.

  Future Oscar-Winning Screenwriter: Stop the presses. Ceremony’s not in Malibu AT ALL. That was a decoy!

  Excitement rattled through my veins. I wrote back in seconds.

  Well???? Where is it? I am on my knees praying, you know.

  Her reply was swift.

  Future Oscar-Winning Screenwriter: At a ranch in Ojai owned by a famous Oscar winner!

  “And the answer is Chelsea Knox,” I said out loud, pretending to slam a game show buzzer with my victorious answer.

  I grinned, big and wide and pleased because we’d cracked the code. Veronica Belle and Bradley Bowman were quite clever indeed to have planted the fake nugget about a Malibu beach wedding. They wouldn’t be the first Hollywood couple to sow the decoy seeds, but it was a time-honored trick for a reason. It worked. Paparazzi and the public would be hunting for a whiff of them off the cliffs in Malibu when they’d actually be walking down the backyard aisle of the twenty-acre ranch owned by Veronica’s close friend Chelsea Knox, a poster child for the vegan movement and the winner of an Academy Award a few years back for her portrayal of a paraplegic governor in State Business, a film she’d also directed. Chelsea Knox used her Ojai Ranch home as a haven for rescued llamas, ostriches, and pot-bellied pigs. She called it Knox Ranch.

  I replied to Anaka: Have I told you lately that I love you?

  Future Oscar-Winning Screenwriter: Tell me again.

  I wrote back. So much that I have a photo of Lolanna Winnifred getting a pedicure.

  Future Oscar-Winning Screenwriter: Cannot wait to see it when I walk through the door in 30 min.

  With the gem of the wedding location tucked safely in my head, bridesmaid research was even more rewarding. I returned to the open tabs and mapped the distance between the two most likely dress shops. Fortunately, they were only three blocks apart, so I stood a good chance of being able to stake out both at the same time tomorrow from a yogurt store across from the two boutiques. Maybe I’d even get lucky and not only snare a shot of the bridesmaids—that would likely score me a cool one thousand dollars—but also learn a little more about the Ojai Ranch wedding plans.

  Because that’s where matters grew complicated. Quite simply, Knox Ranch was a fortress.

  Chelsea had bought the seven-bedroom, five-bath property with a ten-stall stable and a kidney-shaped pool three years ago. The address of the ranch home was a matter of public record, so technically, I could hop on my scooter and ride past the ranch’s front gates right now. The problem was the graveled driveway itself was one mile long, and the entire property was fenced in with steel gating designed to look like weathered wood.

  Anyone could ogle the front gates. Hardly anyone could get past them.

  Finding my way in would take more digging. But with the bridesmaid plan of photographic attack in place for tomorrow, I clicked over to my email. Scanning my inbox quickly, I spotted a note from my brother and opened it first. He’d sent me a dog meme, as we often did for each other, this one featuring a picture of a husky staring into the camera asking What do you call a dog magician?

  Then I read Bryan’s words: Wait for it, Jess. Wait for it.

  He made me scroll down further and further still in the email for the punch line. A photo of the same dog, as if he were laughing, with the punchline: A labracadabrador.

  Snickering out loud, I read the rest of Bryan’s note.

  * * *

  It’s totally cheesy. But admit it—you laughed, right?

  Anyway, how’s everything? I can’t wait for your graduation. Kat and I are excited to see you with your mortar board in June. Top of the class, I’m sure. Did you hear Mom is sending cute twin names to us? I replied to her latest with my suggestion—Spock and Kirk for boys. It’s possible she might not be speaking to me.

  Love ya,

  B

  * * *

  I tapped out a reply: As always, I am thrilled that you have succumbed to the joy of silly meme humor. Perhaps next time you really want to freak out Mom, suggest Abercrombie & Fitch for boys and Laverne & Shirley for girls. I’ll let you know if I can hear her screams of mortification from my apartment.

  Love ya, too,

  J

  * * *

  I answered a few more emails, including one from Jillian in which she’d confirmed the time for the shoot on Friday then added a “warning”: But do not whatsoever let on that I was checking out Jones. OK? It would be totally forbidden if anything were to happen, and besides nothing is happening!

  I replied: I’m a vault. You know I’m a vault. Also, a forbidden romance sounds delicious.

  * * *

  As I contemplated such romantic entanglements, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and for a brief moment I hoped it was William, but then I remembered he was listed as HBG.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Jess Leighton.” The caller was confident, young, and accent-free. Bummer.

  “This is Jess.”

  “I’m Keats Wharton. I just recently started up a photo agency and I am suitably impressed with your work.”

  “Suitably impressed. Not a bad adverb to throw around. But how do you know my work, Keats?” I didn’t try to hide and I’d been solicited for freelance gigs before, but I liked to know how the purveyors of said freelance work found me.

  “It’s my job to know who the best shooters in town are, and you’ve gotten some impressive shots. Those pictures of Nick Ballast when he turned a bit portly were epic.” There it was again—the series that had earned me nearly half of the money in my medical school fund. Even so, the totality of the balance wouldn’t even cover one semester. “I also appreciated your series on Shelley Mari wearing tight shirts and yoga pants a day after her baby bump rumor. You were the first to debunk the possibility that she was pregnant,” he said, referring to a picture I’d snagged of the bluesy singer heading to The Getty while wearing the slinkiest of slinky outfits a few weeks ago.

  “I enjoy a good photographic debunking as much as the next person,” I said, and then waited for Keats to get down to details, though I was delighted that he was familiar with my oeuvre beyond my best known work.

  “I have a special assignment for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it over the phone. I’d rather get together in person and give you the details. But it’s a relatively easy shoot,” he said.

  “Relatively easy is never actually easy. But then again, this job isn’t easy.”

  “Would you be able to meet tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and kicked my feet up on the table. He couldn’t see me, but it was a power pose, and I felt I needed power. Besides, this was how a titan in business and world affairs would position himself during a pivotal phone call scene in a movie. I tilted the chair legs back slightly.

  “I’ll pay you half up front. It’s a ten thousand dollar job if you can get the picture.”

  The chair wobbled with my enthusiasm. I grabbed the edge of the table and righted myself before I cracked my head on the floor. “What type of shot? Don’t tell me it’s a wedding shot because those go for more. A lot more.”

  “It’s a hookup shot. And I’ll have a location for you. Can we meet tomorrow morning to discuss?”

  “Yes. But what’s the name of your agency?”

  “A Thousand Words,” he said and I typed it into my browser and called up his website. He had several decent shots of celebrities on there.

  “Fine. I can meet you at seven thirty at the Coffee Bean,” I said, and I gave him the location nearest my apartment.

  “You’re an early bird,” Keats said admiringly.

  “And since I can catch worms, I assume that’s why you’re hiring me.”

  When he hung up, I pictured ten thousand dollars dancing in front of me. Then I pictured eating a few bites of chocolate cake and actually enjoying it. Keeping up the reel of happy images, I pictured William kissing me. Then I pictured him kissing
my belly. Then I pictured him kissing my…

  I stopped my reverie when the phone buzzed again. I clicked it open.

  HBG: Just in case you were wondering, I still have red toes tonight, and I’ll still have them tomorrow.

  There it was again. The zoom. The spark. The shivers. My body lit up as I thought about seeing him. My stomach somersaulted with the possibility of another kiss.

  Evidently, the ice water trick had no lasting effects. Because I quickly replied: Will need verification, then.

  Which was a terribly dangerous thing to say since it meant I wanted to see him tomorrow. But I did, oh how I did.

  Another buzz.

  HBG: I’m still replaying that kiss.

  My skin was hot again, and before I could dunk my head once more I replied.

  Me, too.

  WEDNESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny

  14

  Jess

  * * *

  At seven twenty-five, I ordered a plain coffee from a rather peppy coffee purveyor at the counter who asked me twice if my name was Jess or Jeff.

  “Not that you look like a Jeff,” he said hastily. “But I thought it would be a fake name. Right? Because people use fake names for coffee all the time.”

  “Actually, my coffee shop name is Fred,” I said in a deadpan voice.

  He wrote Fred in Sharpie on the cup.

  I added sugar to Fred’s coffee and headed outside to keep my eyes peeled for Keats. I had no idea what he looked like, but I had a hunch he’d be able to find me, especially since there was only one other person at the outside tables, and she was doing a series of sun salutations in her maroon yoga pants while playing tic-tac-toe on her smartphone.