Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  “It’s a shallow fried rice ball that has scallions and pinto beans in it, a sweet and spicy BBQ sauce. And please don’t giggle when you say ‘balls,’” she reminds me.

  I fake pout at her and then leave to get a tray. I waitressed all through high school, so I know I can handle carrying a tray of food around to rich, attractive people. This will be a breeze after nights of breaking up fights between Chicago Cubs fans and White Sox fans during baseball season.

  “So, Brit, did you need me for support or to be your food slave?” I ask as someone loads up my tray with small plates, napkins, and toothpicks. Brit doesn’t even look up from her work when she answers me.

  “Well, a little bit from column A, a little bit from column B.”

  “Right. Thought so,” I say as I push through the swinging doors and toward the masses.

  The TV Spotlight Awards after-party is being held in what must be the brightest, shiniest room I’ve ever seen. It must be the lighting or the way the event space is set up. Regardless, I squint to give myself a moment so I can see correctly. Blue and purple lights are everywhere, swaying, pulsing, and swirling. Antique chandeliers that seem to be floating in midair above us and giant white pillars that give the whole room a grand ballroom feel. Combined with the beautiful, sparkling people moving about the room, the effect is dizzying.

  After thirty seconds rooted to the spot, I start moving among the clumps of people, each group more attractive than the last. Some pretend not to hear me, some wave me off, while others just take the food and stuff it in their mouths before I can explain what it is. I only last five minutes before I have to go back to the kitchen to get more rice balls.

  Ha. Balls.

  I’m still chuckling to myself as I speed walk back toward the kitchen, which is located inconspicuously behind some blue and purple satin curtains. But before I can get to the swinging doors, I stop dead in my tracks.

  Tate is standing six feet from me, like he appeared out of thin air. He looks disgustingly handsome in an all-black suit with a plum tie. I believe I have the same color leggings. His blonde hair is pushed back off his forehead, making his chiseled features more prominent. Tate looks like a Greek god who has a really good tailor.

  And his eyes. They are wide open and staring at me, confused. He blinks rapidly, as if I’m a figment of his imagination. I’m afraid to move, lest I make him believe I’m not really here.

  I am real. And I am here. Standing in front of him.

  Tate, having decided I must actually be there, gives me a shy smile and waves me over. Relief floods through me. If he had pretended not to know me or gave me a lame head nod, I’m sure I would have fallen to pieces on the spot. I bite back the urge to tug my dress down or make sure my hair is behaving in its long, sleek ponytail and start walking over to Tate.

  “Dani?”

  I turn at the sound of my name and see Keith hovering near a pillar and beckoning me to come closer. I glance back at Tate, whose attention is now on three people who Camden used to refer to as just “the network.” Keith whispers my name again, this time with a little more edge to it, so I walk behind the pillar to talk to him.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. He’s dressed in an all-black suit with a silver skinny tie. Did he sneak in with the waitstaff?

  “I was invited,” he says, fumbling inside his jacket to pull out the invite. I don’t even look at it. I just stare at Keith in disbelief.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I just need to talk to Elise. She’s here, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think she wants to see you, Keith.”

  “I know, but all I need is five minutes,” he begs. He looks so sad that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

  “Look, I can’t talk to you right now. I’m working. But promise me you’ll leave her alone. Please?” I ask. I don’t let Keith answer, I just poke my head out from behind the pillar to make sure Tate didn’t see me disappear behind it. He’s alone now with his head turned away from me, so I start walking over to him. My heart speeds up with every step I take toward Tate. He turns around and sees me coming and smiles. And I know it’s not fake. Not one bit.

  Elise suddenly appears next to him, wearing a dress the exact shade of his tie. She snakes her arm through his, and without a pause in my step, I walk right past them and back to the kitchen. I can feel Tate’s eyes following me, questioning me, but I don’t look back.

  It isn’t just seeing Elise that made me want to run full speed away from Tate. It’s also the fact that there’s so much unanswered between us. I have so many questions:

  Is he really using Elise, like his publicist wants? If that’s the case, why is he doing it? The Tate I know would never stand for that. Which begs the worst and most troubling question of all: Do I really know Tate?

  My mind is spinning like a pinwheel caught in a windstorm, whirring faster and faster until only one solid image can be seen instead of individual colors.

  And that one image is Tate. It’s always Tate.

  I’m back in the kitchen now, just staring at the blur of activity happening around me. I can hear Brit’s voice calling for more shrimp, asking for dessert shooters, begging for people to plate carefully. She may only be the sous-chef for tonight cooking someone else’s dishes, but the way everyone is working at her command, it’s clear she’s in charge. She finally spots me when three waiters carrying trays full of mini fried chicken (which I assume is actually tofu-chicken or some chicken substitute) and waffles on a stick walk by me. She waves her arms frantically to get my attention.

  “Dani?”

  I turn around at the sound of my name. It’s Tate, poking his head through the kitchen doors. He must have followed me. He looks cautiously around the kitchen, as if it’s some magical place where he’s forbidden to set foot.

  Well, he’s not wrong. I glance back at Brit, who has her head so close to the plate she’s saucing that her nose is almost touching the rim.

  “Dani?” Tate asks again, this time more pleading than just acknowledging me.

  “I . . . You can’t be back here. Wait out there,” I tell him, almost choking on the words. Without waiting for a response, I weave through the prep tables, sprinting away from him as fast as I can.

  So much for dignity.

  The first hiding spot I find is the walk-in cooler. I step in and shut the door slightly; even though my mind is preoccupied, I still have the sense to make sure I’m not stuck in a giant refrigerator all night. Although if the alternative is facing Tate, I prefer the cold.

  I put on my chef’s coat and wrap it tightly around my frame. It helps with the cold a bit, but I still rock back and forth to keep my heart rate up. I need time to think.

  Running away and hiding from Tate is probably not the best way to handle the situation. Things are weird between us, and we both need to just put that out there and clear out the haziness. And I need to ask him what’s going on with his publicist. And with Elise.

  And I should tell him the truth.

  That thought pops up without warning, and I suck in my breath as soon as I think it. I’ve been lying to him from the beginning. He should know. He should know that Elise plotted against him and used me to do it. He should know I’m not who I said I was.

  It will end our friendship and destroy everything I have with him, but . . .

  It’s time.

  I take a deep breath and prepare to exit the cooler when I hear voices. Someone is right outside the fridge door, talking angrily. I don’t dare make a sound, but I step closer, straining to hear what this person is saying.

  “You’re not supposed to be back here.”

  “I’m sorry. I was just looking for someone.”

  I gasp and quickly cover my mouth to muffle the sound. Brit and Tate are both outside, arguing. Well, Brit is arguing and Tate is trying to charm his way out of it.

  “You were looking for someone?” Brit repeats back to Tate. “So was I! My friend is supposed to be here helping
me an—poof!—she’s gone.”

  “Um, that sucks. Sorry. Is there anything I can help with?” Tate offers carefully.

  I can’t help but smile. Of course Tate, the hero, wants to help someone in trouble. Most celebs wouldn’t be caught dead in the kitchen with the “help,” but here’s Tate, gorgeous and kind and thoughtful. Gah, why does he have to be so great?!

  “Actually, yes,” Brit answers, surprising me. “I need to find twenty ramekins for my pot stickers dipping sauce. I’m screwed if we’re short. Can you help me look back here?”

  “Sure. Um, what are ramekins?”

  “Small bowls, basically. If you see any small, white bowls, just holler. You look on those shelves, and I’ll see if there’s anything on this side.”

  All I hear for a few minutes is the sound of boxes being slid around and plates being stacked on top of each other. I will myself to come out and confess, but I can’t with Brit there. Besides, my feet seem to have rooted to the floor. I can’t move them.

  I peer through the crack of the door and see Tate, still looking perfect in his suit, standing on his tiptoes, trying to locate bowls. He has a serious expression, like this mission is as important as saving the president of the United States.

  Brit, on the other hand, is a frazzled mess.

  “Did you find them?” she asks. Tate looks one more time behind a box I know he’s checked twice already and shakes his head.

  “Perfect. I’m screwed. I need someone to keep looking while I handle the final dishes! This is only the most important night of my career, but where is she?!”

  I feel awful. Move, feet, move! I urge them, but no luck. Tate keeps his back to her, focusing on his mission, clearly uncomfortable with Brit’s outburst.

  “I’ll keep looking. If I find them, I’ll take them to the kitchen,” Tate tells her, obviously doing his best to keep her calm.

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea where my friend went. You know what she’s probably doing?” Brit says, ignoring him completely. “She’s probably dealing with her big Hollywood love triangle! She’s been running around trying to seduce her friend’s boyfriend for her, even though I warned her it was the worst idea ever!”

  Oh, no. Brit . . . shut up. Please!

  I hold my breath, willing Brit to go back to the kitchen. I am frozen, almost literally, listening intently and breathing so hard I’m starting to feel light-headed. I hear Tate laugh.

  “Wow, that sounds like something out of a movie,” he says.

  “She’s such a smart, pretty girl with a good heart! I don’t know why she’s running around with this girl who is clearly nuts if she thinks testing her boyfriend will work,” Brit rants, forgetting about the ramekins and just letting off steam. She paces back and forth in front of the fridge door, so I see her every two seconds, passing by. Tate is directly in my line of sight. He’s stopped searching the shelves and is now standing there a little awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.

  “Have you told her this?” he asks. Brit stops pacing and shakes her head and then immediately begins pacing again.

  “No, not really. She knows I hate the idea. I think she got wrapped up with this hot shot Hollywood actor. Some vampire guy. I don’t watch TV, but apparently he’s like, a big deal right now.”

  Brit. Please.

  Walk out, Dani. Burst out of the fridge and stop her from talking.

  Tate’s eyebrows are knitted tightly across his forehead, like he’s just been presented a complicated algebra equation.

  My heart is thundering so hard in my chest, I’m certain they can hear the echoes.

  Move, Dani. Move!

  My brain is screaming at me to walk out of the fridge, but I don’t. I stay there, listening.

  “Vampires?” Tate asks.

  “Yeah, he’s on this show called Vamp Camp. I’ve never heard of him, but I feel bad for the dude. Tate Lawrence must be pretty dumb if doesn’t see that Dani and Elise are totally playing him just to see if he’s boyfriend material. Sometimes I don’t get straight people!”

  The next ten seconds happen in slow motion. I see Tate flinch as if Brit had thrown something at him. He then looks toward the direction of the party, a look of disbelief flooding his face. I see him take a step away from Brit, probably to find me, and I can no longer stay hidden.

  “Tate!” I yell as I burst from the cooler.

  “Dani? What the . . . why were you hiding in there?” Brit demands with her hands on her hips. “Were you hiding from me? I need your help, Dani! Dani?”

  Brit is saying my name and asking where I’ve been, but the blood rushing in my ears muffles her voice. I’m only looking at Tate. His eyes search my face, as if he’s trying to see how he didn’t see my betrayal sooner.

  “Tate,” I say again, just above a whisper. If I say his name any louder, it might snap him out of his trance and he’ll run. “I can explain.”

  Tate’s expression has gone from hurt to full-on accusatory in less than a second, and I know before he makes any move that he’s going to walk away from me.

  And walk he does. He looks right through me as he passes by, heading toward the back exit.

  Then he’s gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My dad is obsessed with action movies. The more explosions, the better. Actually, he’d rather have fewer big explosions than lots of little ones.

  “Quality over quantity when it comes to blowing stuff up,” he used to tell me. But besides the explosions, the one thing every action movie has in common is that a character will no doubt yell “go, go, go, go!” frantically to someone else or to an entire team of assassins or something during a mission.

  My dad is the first thing that pops into my mind after Tate walks away from me, because Brit is nudging my shoulder and saying “go, go, go, go!” urging me to follow and explain everything to him. I look at her and see the guilt written across her face, knowing she feels like this is her fault.

  “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even know, Dani,” she moans. I shake my head.

  “It’s fine, you didn’t know what he looked like. This is my fault. I just—”

  “Right, go. You can still fix this. Go get him.”

  I squeeze her gently and head out the door that Tate just disappeared through.

  First I walk. Then I start speed walking. And then I just rip off my heels, throw them to the side, and start sprinting toward Tate. The source of all the happiness, all the confusion, all the feelings that I’ve been experiencing since opening his trailer door for the first time.

  I find him almost immediately. Not just because only fifteen seconds have passed, but also because I think there is a homing beacon in his chest that always pulls me directly to him. It’s the only way to explain why I’m constantly running into him on set and why he seems to pop up in the same places as me . . .

  Now I see him standing beneath a streetlight right outside the parking lot full of cars, news vans, and giant, hulking SUVs. A spotlight for a star.

  He isn’t moving. He’s not pacing. He’s just standing there, as if he knew I’d be chasing him.

  I slow my walk when I realize I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. I need time to prepare my strategy. I keep my eyes on Tate bathing in that bright light, my mind automatically senses a dramatic scene coming up and goes into storytelling mode. I can’t stop it, though I wish I could. I need to focus on what to say to Tate, not imagining a movie about this girl running out into the dark to meet this boy standing under the light. But it’s happening.

  She starts walking faster. Then jogging. Then running. Suddenly she is sprinting across the dark and deserted parking lot. Her long skirt brushes the asphalt, every swish a tripping threat. But she stays upright and launches herself across the sidewalk and into the arms of her beloved, the boy who is shining so brightly under the lights that she has to squint to see him. The second she gets her arms around his neck, his arms are circling her waist. He pulls her close and pushes her hair off her forehead .
. .

  “Dani.”

  Tate saying my name brings me back to the moment, and I realize with horror that I’m standing right in front of him, underneath the light. I must have spaced out, staring into nothingness for lord only knows how long. And I have no idea what to say to him.

  Well, there’s one thing I can say.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt out. He immediately rolls his eyes, which tells me that an instant apology isn’t how I should have started. He opens his mouth to say something, but I interrupt him.

  “Brit doesn’t know the whole story,” I insist. This time I get a glare from Tate. So interrupting and apologizing and blaming someone else are not the best ways to handle a fight with Tate Lawrence. At least I now know for the future. Not that there will be a future.

  “Okay,” he says. He’s calm, but there is something in his cool, measured tone that makes me uneasy. “Tell me the whole story.”

  This is not how I wanted this moment to present itself. Not in the least. I should have told him the moment I felt a connection with him. Or the moment I knew he was more than just an egotistical actor in a shallow city. He has taught me more about looking beneath the surface in the two months I’ve been here than I would have ever learned on my own.

  But now I’m standing on a cliff that’s crumbling beneath me. I can either jump or be forced to fall.

  I jump.

  I tell him how Elise and I have been friends since fourth grade. How Elise had her heart broken. How the whole idea had sprung from good intentions. How I agreed to spy on him for her. To seduce him.

  As I talk, Tate’s entire body seems clenched, like he’s curling inward to protect himself from a big, bad bully who was about to punch him in the stomach. I am that big, bad bully.

  “But then you and . . .” I hesitate, but then push forward, “we became friends. I didn’t want to spy anymore, but Elise kept pushing. She’s not a bad person. It’s just that she’s been hurt before, and I wanted to help her,” I explain, trying to keep my breathing even and not hurried. “So I was torn between losing her and losing you—and I didn’t want to lose either of you.”