Pretending He's Mine

by Mia Sosa

  I don’t doubt it. And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  WITH MY DELICIOUS green smoothie in hand, I pass through the double glass doors of Sync Creative Management’s main floor. As usual, the frenetic activity hits me like a battering ram. My colleagues are loud, probably owing in large part to the industry adage that the only people worth listening to are the ones who can make themselves heard. I pass a small conference room, where an agent is engaged in a shouting match with the speakerphone, and ten steps from there, a cubicle station, where Marie, my assistant, sits in the cubby closest to my office, her space decorated with cheerful knickknacks, including a collection of Mickey Mouse–ear hats.

  She hurries to meet me. “Good morning and fair warning. Quinn is on a tear and wants to see everyone from the TV Group in Salon B at noon.”

  David Quinn is the head of our group. Being ornery isn’t just a mood for him; it’s his essence. His signature cologne should be called eau de asshole. Still, if he’s calling a meeting at noon, it’s for a good reason. The lunch hour is when agents make deals—or try to—and while lunch in this town lasts longer than an hour, noon is when we emerge from our offices searching for deals to feed the beast.

  “Any idea what the meeting’s about?”

  Marie chews on a fingernail as she shakes her head. She lives in a perpetual state of worry, fully aware that her job security is tied to the success of the four agents she works with. “No clue.”

  “It’ll be fine, Marie. If Quinn were mad at me, he’d ream me out first thing in the morning. That’s part of his charm.”

  My reassurance does the trick, and she laughs. “You’re right, of course.”

  “Messages?”

  She nods. “Tons of them.”

  “Let’s discuss in my office, then.”

  After Marie leaves, I work nonstop, speaking with several casting agents, a talent scout pitching on behalf of a child actor, and a client who’s lost somewhere near Stage 15 of Warner Brothers Studios. In between the marathon conference calls, I read the latest news on casting decisions and a summary of which shows writers and producers plan to pitch during the upcoming pilot season.

  With five minutes to spare before the noon meeting with Quinn, I get a call from a director who wants me to read the script of a movie he claims is tailor-made for Carter.

  It’s not. Carter’s already told me so. The director’s reputation for verbally abusing people on set precedes him. But I listen and pretend to be enthusiastic about the project, because the degrees of separation between this guy and a studio exec might matter one day. Unfortunately, my long-term strategy makes me late to Quinn’s meeting.

  I hoof it down the internal stairs to Salon B and look for a seat in the back of the room.

  Quinn sets aside the papers in front of him and looks up when I enter. “How good of you to join us, Julian.”

  I’m not apologizing for doing my job, so I give him a fuck-you smile. “Pleasure to be here, sir.”

  To Quinn’s right, his assistant coughs into her hand. Glenda’s a sweet woman who deserves a million of her favorite Peanut M&M’s for having the fortitude to work with him.

  I snag a seat by the window, its steel gray shades lowered completely because Quinn’s allergic to sunshine, and whisper to Doug, another agent in the group. “What’s going on?”

  “Someone jacked up a contract,” he says under his breath. “Quinn hasn’t identified the fucker yet. Now he’ll be on our ass for weeks.”

  This is true. Quinn looks for any excuse to ride us harder, to remind us that we’re one bad deal away from being shown the door.

  Our boss sighs and gets to the point. “Let’s discuss what happened.”

  The gist is that an agent screwed up a negotiation on behalf of a client, and it’s tied the client’s hands on future television opportunities. In short, an embarrassment to the agency and a major blunder vis-à-vis our client. Not one we can’t correct given the client’s star power, but the process of doing so makes us—and the client—look bad.

  Quinn works his jaw like he’s chewing on a T-bone. “If you don’t have the skill or experience to negotiate a deal for one of your clients, say so. Get help. Don’t fuck around on my dime.” After his gaze circles the room of approximately forty people, he settles his contemptuous stare on a lone figure sitting outside the inner ring of attendees. Adam Manning. Poor guy. “Need I remind you that the Film Group has been complaining about the redundancies in the agency for ages. We’re not Worldwide or APA. We can’t afford to get shit wrong. Do you know how we compete with the big dogs in Hollywood? By getting it right. Every. Time.”

  Damn, here we go again. There isn’t a week Quinn doesn’t remind us of our humble origins. Ten years ago, Worldwide Management Agency, a behemoth in this town, laid off more than a dozen of its agents as part of a restructuring effort. SCM’s founding partners, including Quinn, were among the ones let go. Pissed and unemployed, they opened their own firm, initially to dominate the industry and make WMA fall to its knees. But with the benefit of time and perspective—and a bitter dose of reality—SCM’s partners now focus on nabbing future breakout stars before they realize how talented they are. We’re the little fish in a big pond. Quinn’s still insecure about his foothold in the industry, though, and he has a perpetual scowl on his face to prove it.

  “Don’t embarrass me out there,” Quinn continues. “You have questions? Get answers. The legal department is here for a reason. You’re all dismissed.”

  Everyone except Quinn jumps to their feet.

  He points at me. “You. Stay.”

  Shit. What the fuck did I do now? I scroll through the list of possible transgressions. Nope. I got nothing. So I amble toward him with as carefree an expression as I can muster. “What’s up?”

  He motions for me to sit. “I heard there was some chatter at the GLAAD awards about Hollywood’s whitewashing problem. Your name was mentioned. Care to explain?”

  What’s to explain? So I might have gotten impassioned during the discussion, and yes, there might have been a studio exec or two in the group of people mingling, but it’s a well-known problem, and I’m not the first person to share my thoughts on the topic. “Agents and casting directors talk, Quinn. It happens. The issue came up. I shared some of my views. That’s all.”

  He presses his lips together and leans forward, his hands clasped on the conference table. “Since this seems to be a day for reminders, let’s review why you’re here. You have a shit ton of small clients, but your marquee player is Carter Stone. Your job is to keep Carter Stone gainfully employed, so this agency can be gainfully paid. Your job is to keep Carter Stone happy, so he’ll want to work with SCM and continue to make us money. You do Carter no favors by pissing off the very people who want to work with him. Do not fuck up the opportunities you’ve been given.”

  Well, he’s never pretended to be a nice guy, but goddamn, he’s not mincing words today. “Carter and I go way back, Quinn. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Don’t be so sure, Julian.”

  My stomach churns. Does Quinn know something I don’t? Is Carter thinking about cutting me loose? I try to recall a clue or two from one of our recent conversations, but nothing out of the ordinary comes to mind. But maybe he picked up on my lack of enthusiasm for the business? Dammit. I hate being racked by self-doubt.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be a prick,” Quinn continues. “I know he’s your friend, and you’ve done a fine job of managing your relationship so far, but you’ve always assured me that you and he keep work and personal stuff separate.”

  I nod. “We do.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that the dynamic you’ve cultivated makes it just as easy for him to sever your working relationship?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. It goes down like a boulder covered in spikes. “No.”

  “Well, you should. So make yourself indispensable. Don’t do anything to make him question your partnership. Because I’m not
sure there’d be enough work to justify keeping you if he left, and your comments about the industry’s problems could make finding another agency position difficult.” He shrugs. “I’m just looking out for you, my man.”

  He’s not, and we both know it. Quinn’s only interests revolve around SCM and the money it makes him. But as much as I don’t want to, I see his point.

  Quinn drums his hands on the glass table as he peers at me. “Before you go jumping to conclusions and confronting Carter, let me be clear. I haven’t heard anything about him wanting to fire you. But it stands to reason that if he wanted to, he could say, ‘It’s just business, nothing personal,’ and you’d be hard-pressed to debate him on that point.”

  Well, fuck. Nothing like getting my ass handed to me by my prick of a boss. Especially when he makes me question one of the most important decisions of my life. To Quinn, this is about a threat to my job, which alone would be devastating. To me, though, it means much more. When I chose to become an agent and represent Carter, I crushed my father’s dream that I’d join his business and continue his legacy. But I forged ahead, convincing myself that my success would be enough proof—not only to my father but also to me—that I’d selected the right path.

  If Carter fires me, the strain I put on my relationship with my dad would have been all for naught. And where would that leave me? I’d be a Hollywood agent without an A-list client. And any other A-list actor who might have sought my rep would view my and Carter’s “amicable parting” as a red flag. Failure with a capital F is what I’d call it.

  None of this can happen. I won’t let it happen. So from here on out, Carter’s career is my highest priority.

  Chapter Three

  Ashley

  MEANDERING THROUGH WHOLE Foods is a sensory experience. The well-lit bakery section boasts utilitarian aluminum stands filled with thousand-grain breads and ginormous muffins; less than a foot away, two plexiglass-covered cases display rows upon rows of mouthwatering cookies. And the aromas. God, the aromas. If the scent of fresh-baked bread were bottled as a perfume, I’d spritz it on my wrists every day.

  I close my eyes as I sample the cherry hand pie. The filling is thick and tart, and the flaky, buttery crust melts on my tongue. “Oh, that’s so good.”

  Beside me, Tori laughs. “People are staring, Ashley. Perhaps you and your cherry hand pie should consider getting a room.”

  “Ha.” I motion for Tori to get her own bite-sized portion. “You’ve got to try this.”

  She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. The curls that aren’t stuffed under her royal blue baseball cap swing around her shoulders. “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” I bump her shoulder with mine. “It’s filled with ingredients even a personal trainer would approve of.” Bending over, I read the card next to the platter. “Eggs from cage-free, non-GMO-fed hens and unbleached, unbromated flour.”

  “What’s bromated flour?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea, but whatever it is, it isn’t in these babies.”

  Ignoring me, she reaches into a bin and pulls out a loaf of hearty bread dotted with seeds. Frankly, it’s what I imagine French bread would look like if I slathered it with butter and rolled it on the forest floor.

  “I’m not a fan of cherries,” she says. “But I’ll take some of this home.” Then she peers into my empty basket. “Aren’t you buying anything?”

  I purse my lips and shake my head. “At these prices? No way. I plan to sample my way to a satisfying lunch and hit the Vons I passed on the way here.”

  She rolls her eyes and pulls me toward the hot and cold salad bar. “Let’s grab some food. My treat. We can eat in the dining room.”

  After grabbing a literal pound and a half of food, I follow Tori upstairs to the indoor café. We toss our bags on an empty chair and sit across from each other at a table overlooking an underwhelming view of the produce department. Below us, a bawling toddler throws her back out in a fit that reminds me of the snippy airline passenger I dealt with last week. The child’s mother is not amused, and a showdown is imminent. My money is on the kid.

  Tori wrestles open the lid of her container and sighs heavily.

  My gaze snaps to her face. “What’s wrong?”

  She drops her shoulders and pokes around at her food. “I feel bad that you left last night. I’m sorry if Carter and I made you uncomfortable. Again.”

  I wave away her apology. “Oh, Tori. Don’t worry about it. You guys deserved an evening on your own. It was no big deal to spend the night at Julian’s.”

  Well, it was a big deal, but not in the way Tori might expect. My mind replays the moment when I saw his trim waist and bare chest. Somehow, I manage to stifle a moan and attack my lunch instead.

  “What was that?” Tori asks.

  Fork in midstab, I look up and pretend not to see her narrow-eyed gaze and knowing smile. “What was what?”

  She purses her lips in the universal don’t give me that bullshit expression. “That look. When you mentioned Julian. Like you were hot and bothered.”

  “Hot and bothered? Tori, honey, I’m embarrassed for you. Delete that expression from your brain. Also, it might be time for prescription glasses. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

  She tilts her head and shakes it. “No, my vision is crystal clear, so spill.” She scoots closer to the table and leans in. Realizing a juicy secret isn’t immediately forthcoming, she sits back and pouts at me. “Oh, c’mon. Isn’t this the benefit of having a sister-in-law? Another person to share your closely held secrets with?”

  “You’re not my sister-in-law yet,” I grumble.

  Her face falls, and all I want to do is kick myself in the shins. Don’t be a brat, Ashley. You know she’s right. This is exactly the benefit of having a sister-in-law. I break out into a conspiratorial smile. “If you must know, I’ve had a crush on him for years . . . but that’s all it’ll ever be.”

  “Why?”

  We’d need all day to parse out the reasons, starting with the most important one: I’m not even sure Julian’s all that interested in me. There’s more, though. Lots more. “Dating my older brother’s best friend would be awkward. Period. And Julian’s his agent, too. Imagine what would happen if it worked out between us? How that might affect Julian’s decision-making? What he’d feel comfortable telling his own girlfriend? And if it didn’t work out? Yikes. I know he’s already uneasy about representing Carter. A failed relationship with me would send him into a tailspin.”

  Tori makes a big show of pondering my answer, her lips smacking together as she slowly chews on a spear of broccoli. When she’s done, she daintily dabs her lips with a napkin. “Interesting that you mentioned a relationship. I was just talking about you looking hot and bothered. Which makes me wonder. Is this a crush . . . or something more serious?”

  My cheeks warm under her scrutiny. It can’t be anything more serious. I know where Julian’s first allegiance lies, and it isn’t with me. I might come second to Carter in just about every aspect of my life, but I’m not interested in setting myself up to be second best in my own love life, too. “It’s a crush, of course.”

  “But do the same reasons apply, then, if you’re just messing around?”

  Now she’s speaking my language. “Okay, yes, I’ll confess to being super curious about what he’s like in bed. I mean, the man is hot, in a strong-and-silent type of way, and the idea of satisfying that curiosity . . .” I fan myself and blow out a breath that ruffles my bangs. “Good thing we’ll be living together for a bit.”

  Tori’s eyes grow big as saucers. “What? Since when?”

  I shrug and slather a pat of butter on my roll, pretending this development isn’t making me giddy with anticipation. “Last night he offered to let me stay in one of his guest bedrooms. Until I figure out a permanent living situation. And I accepted.”

  Tori returns the conspiratorial smile I gave her minutes ago. “Well, that should be interesting.”

  “I
t should be something, all right. We’ll either kill each other or spend the foreseeable future in bed.”

  “Julian?” Wearing a half smile, she shakes her head. “Don’t hold your breath on any sexual marathons. As far as I can tell, the man lives and breathes his job. He’d fit you in between six and seven in the morning and again from eleven to midnight.”

  “It’s true. I don’t recall him ever mentioning a girlfriend, and believe me, I’ve asked. Even my few attempts to ferret out information from Carter turned up nothing.”

  Tori nods. “Same.”

  “Eh. So we’ll go at it before dawn and the witching hour. I’m good with that.”

  “I wish you nothing but luck and sex-by-appointment.” Then, with a toss of her hair, she sets aside her food, leans in, and pins me with a stars-in-her-eyes gaze. “Carter and I have news, too.”

  Holy shit, she’s pregnant. I scan her face for clues to her condition, but I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for. A glow? Bags under her eyes? Besides, who’s to say she’s far enough along to show any signs?

  She gives me an exasperated sigh and bops me on the nose. “I’m not pregnant, Ashley.”

  “Oh.” I give her a sheepish grin. “So what’s the news?”

  She leans in another inch. “Carter and I are getting married.”

  I can’t suppress the duh expression that crosses my face. “Yes, I know.”

  “No, I mean we’re getting married at the Williamson Family Reunion.”

  I draw back. Now I’m the one who’s confused. “The reunion in three weeks? What? When? How?”

  “On Sunday. The closing brunch isn’t just a brunch. It’s a wedding. But only a few people know. My parents. Your parents. A close friend of your mother’s who’s a local caterer and who’s also sworn to secrecy.”

  “Mrs. Chapman.”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  I sop up the sauce from my chicken curry dish. “Why the rush?”

  “It isn’t a rush, really.” She picks at her fingers as she explains. “If we could have married a year ago, we would have done it in a heartbeat. But things were too hectic with my move to California and the fitness studio opening. We’re ready now. And Carter and I wanted to avoid the paparazzi as much as we could.”