Dating You / Hating You

by Christina Lauren

  He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Look, if Brad had an issue with Jonah doing the shoot, then okay, we could discuss how to adjust the plan. But he didn’t.”

  Carter clearly knows as well as I do that Brad approved of this for reasons completely unfathomable to either of us. Even a nearsighted dog in the room would know that what Carter did was outright nepotism. “Are you using Brad Kingman as your litmus test for honorable behavior?”

  “I just want to have a job,” he says. “My mistake was in not getting an okay from you up front, I get that. Can we move on?”

  Staring at him in the answering quiet, I finally say, “Do I really have a choice?”

  I must have made my point, because for the first time since I’ve known Carter, he doesn’t have a comeback.

  “Next week . . . Friday?” I ask, back to business. Carter nods. “Eleven should work. I told Seamus to get there at eight thirty for makeup anyway to make sure he gets there on time.”

  Carter’s eyes go wide. “That was pretty smart.”

  “Try not to look so surprised.”

  This makes him laugh, but he doesn’t bother to correct me.

  Just as Carter is about to turn and leave, Rose ducks into my office, closing the door behind her.

  “Do you want me to go, or . . . ?” Carter asks her.

  “You’re fine. You can stay, I want both of your opinions.”

  Oh, great. Here comes the gossip.

  I glance up at Carter, unsure as to whether he’s been subjected to her yet. He’s got his blank face on, which means he probably already knows exactly how indiscreet Rose can be. I constantly fear that any legitimate work conversation with her will devolve into gossip and name-dropping. It’s not that I am necessarily against gossip and name-dropping, but it has to be done in the right way, with the right people. Discreet people, for Christ’s sake, who do it only with the right combination of irony and credibility.

  But instead of slowly building an intriguing story of flirting, or client drama, or sexual harassment, Rose drops an incredibly personal grievance right in the middle of my office: “Ashton’s bonus was about seven thousand dollars bigger than mine.”

  My eyes widen.

  Carter takes a small step back, as if he’s trying to blend into the background.

  “How do you know that?” I ask. We talk about money all day with clients, but rarely do we share our own income with colleagues. And, I’m guessing, it’s for precisely this reason. Nothing is ever as clear and fair as we expect it to be.

  “We were talking yesterday about our projected year-end totals, you know, with the merge? Everyone’s head seems to be on the chopping block. So we went back to our desks, and our bonus statements were there. I guess because we were already talking money, he was comfortable enough to tell me what he got.”

  “Were his signings and bookings bigger than—” I begin, but she cuts me off, shaking her head.

  “The same,” she says. “We were almost dead even.” She looks over to Carter. “Bullshit, right?”

  “Unacceptable,” I say. “You need to ask Brad. Or go straight to Accounting and have them check the numbers.”

  Rose gasps. “I can’t do that!”

  “Then you’re out seven grand.” I shrug.

  “This sucks!” she growls.

  “Talk to Brad,” Carter gently urges. Naive Carter. As if Brad doesn’t already know.

  She looks up at him, miserable. “He won’t care.”

  I lift my hands in front of me, exasperated. “Honestly, Rose, if you’re only going to complain here—where I have no power to help you at all—the money must not be the reason you’re in this job.”

  She looks down to the floor, nodding for a few seconds. “I know. I know, it’s just so frustrating.”

  “I get it, sweets, but you’ve got to be your own advocate. No one else is going to be that for you.”

  With a small smile of thanks, she turns and leaves.

  Carter steps away from the wall. “Wow, Evie. That was a bit of tough love.”

  I look up at his face, at the wide green eyes behind his glasses, his clean-shaven jaw and mussy hair. It’s a good thing he’s so pretty, because the attitude is not making any friends today. “You could have added anything you wanted to.”

  He considers this for a few seconds and then shrugs. “Is she sure that’s really the case? I’ve never had any sort of pay disparity.” He seems to realize what he’s just said. “I mean, obviously. I know that sort of thing happens, but . . .” He winces, backpedaling. “That sucks for her. Hopefully she’ll get it fixed.”

  He can’t be serious.

  “This isn’t some rare case of a mathematical error in finance, Carter. This sort of thing happens every day. It’s happened to me.”

  “Really? It’s just, you seem so in command all the time, I have a hard time imagining anyone taking something that’s yours.”

  He moves another step closer, leaning back against my desk, facing me. It’s so close, it’s almost like we’re friendly, or flirting, but obviously we aren’t.

  “It happens in this business all the time,” I say quietly. “You just don’t see it. It doesn’t affect you.”

  “It should.”

  I nod. “I agree.”

  “So what do you think we should do?”

  I don’t miss the way he looks at my lips for a tiny beat, and it suddenly feels like we’re not talking about pay disparity anymore.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  But I definitely feel like making out with Carter right now would help lead us in the right direction.

  His eyes seem to roam all over my face, and then lower; he leans in . . .

  For the span of two . . . three . . . four frantic heartbeats, I think he’s going to kiss me.

  “Your shirt seems intent on staying open today,” he whispers, nodding.

  Startled, I follow his eyes, and sure enough my top two buttons have popped open again, leaving a good deal of cleavage perfectly visible to both of us.

  “Oh.” I look up at him, feeling my cheeks heat.

  I start to smile at him, but instead of leaning closer to kiss me like I still think he’s going to, he leans back, offering an unreadable expression before he turns and leaves my office.

  chapter fourteen

  carter

  THAT WAS CLOSE.

  If this isn’t about a bank robbery

  I don’t think I want to hear it.

  MC, I nearly put my face in Evie’s boobs in her office.

  Okay, no, I want to hear this.

  She’s so badass and straightforward.

  Which is sexy and intimidating all at once, and her shirt keeps popping open.

  And then I went to tell her and it was like . . . impossible to want to leave without kissing.

  Dude.

  Just keep reminding me she’s Lucifer.

  I mean, not really she isn’t.

  She’s the nicest person.

  It seemed like she wanted to kiss me.

  Or bite your face?

  In a good way.

  In a bad way.

  Whose side are you on?

  The side where the two of you get married and she gives birth to a fully formed toddler who draws on your bedspread with toothpaste.

  Dick.

  Bye.

  chapter fifteen

  evie

  If I thought I was angry with Carter before, now there’s humiliation thrown into the mix. Over the next couple of days, I spend entirely too much time looping back through those few seconds he’d leaned in and looked at me like I wasn’t the enemy. I must have appeared to melt in my chair.

  With any other romantic failure, there’s the regret, and the replaying of the good times and bad times. Maybe there’s even the occasional awkward run-in around town because, as huge as LA is, it feels tiny. But it’s a different matter altogether to work alongside a romantic failure. To pass him in the hall, to see him at meetings, to be fo
rced into a tiny space to plan company retreats together . . .

  I get to the small conference room first and take a seat on the couch at the far end, near the windows. It gives me the benefit of being able to see Carter walking all the way down the hall and toward me—not the worst view in the world—escorting the planner from Corporate Fun!

  She’s put together in a bland, anonymous way, but Carter—because he’s the devil—exudes sex. Hands in his pockets; lazy, confident stride; crooked smile. Is it more noticeable now because I’m not getting any? Probably. Or is it just how he is? His dark dress pants fit him perfectly, sitting low on his slim hips and hugging his quads. I swear I can see the outline of his cock along his thigh. His dress shirt today is a subtle blue-and-white-check pattern and seems like it was poured on him, it looks so good. When he smiles more broadly at something the planner says, his entire face lights up and somehow, he looks sweet again.

  I’m ruined, I can see that now. I look bleakly out at the next few years of my life, working here or somewhere else and unable to get over my hate-crush on Carter Aaron. Or even worse, watching him with someone else. I’m doomed.

  I stand when they enter, smoothing my skirt before shaking hands with the woman—Libby Truman—who already seems enamored with Satan’s Errand Boy and his stupid perfect face. As she holds on to his upper arm, she gushes about how funny he was on the walk down here.

  On the walk down the hall. Thirty seconds, tops. How amazing, no doubt.

  We sit, do the perfunctory explanation of what we need—and honestly, I feel like we could have had this meeting over the phone. We require someone to plan some games for the group of fifty or so people over two days. We require activities that won’t (a) make us all cringe or (b) trigger our grossly competitive natures. We require alcohol. That’s it; it’s pretty simple.

  But whenever possible, people like to come to the P&D offices for meetings. It’s for the exact reason I can see Libby occasionally looking out through the glass walls of the room: she’s hoping to spot a celebrity.

  Unfortunately for her, she sees only Justin, who peeks his head in about five minutes into things.

  “Jett Payne is here; he’s waiting for us upstairs. Also, Kylie wanted me to let you know that she overordered for the break room Keurig, and you’re free to take a box or two home.”

  Carter stands with a smile. “Thanks, Justin.”

  My jaw drops.

  “You double booked?” I ask him, wearing a tight fuck you smile of my own.

  “I guess I did. Sorry about that,” he says, as if it were purely accidental and he’s not meticulous about his calendar. He stands, reaching forward to shake Libby’s hand. “Great to meet you, Libby. Evie can handle the rest of the discussion. And make sure she validates your parking. Looking forward to what you two have planned!”

  Libby, a little breathless, overexclaims, “It will be great!”

  • • •

  About an hour later I wrap up the meeting with Libby—still fuming—and head back to my office while checking the rest of today’s schedule on my phone.

  I have forty-five minutes to get across town to meet Sarah Hill for a hair appointment. We just landed Sarah a part in an adaptation of a runaway bestselling teen novel, and the studio insists her hair be a specific shade of blue for the role. It’s in her contract that her agent and the producer be present for quality control. What it means, essentially, is four hours in a salon, trying to stay alert enough to be able to tell the subtle difference between fifteen different shades of blue hair.

  Passing Carter’s office, I stop dead in my tracks, seeing that he’s already put two boxes of K-Cups in the middle of his desk.

  When I was a teenager, my father was strict; it was the opposite of Daryl’s family, who basically let her run around with whoever she wanted. I wasn’t allowed to date until I was sixteen, and even then there were rules. I could date as much as I wanted, but I couldn’t have a boyfriend, which meant no consecutive dates with the same guy. I’m sure the intent there was that I didn’t get too serious with any one guy, because serious leads to sex. Their plan worked, mostly: by eleventh grade, I hadn’t had sex yet. Had never really even come close.

  And then I met Kai Paialua. I managed to sneak as much time with him as I could, away from my parents’ watchful eyes. The night of the Homecoming game our senior year, we found ourselves in a bedroom at a party. Somewhere in another room Santana was playing on repeat, his sexy guitar riffs egging action along, and . . . I wanted to have sex with Kai. I was pretty damn close, too—his pants were around his ankles and he was checking to see if the condom he’d carried in his wallet since sophomore year had expired—and I knew I was at a crossroads. Go one way and that was it, we’d have sex and there would be no turning back. Or pull my skirt down from around my armpits and my hymen would live another day.

  Needless to say, I never saw my virginity again.

  Loitering in the hall outside Carter’s office, staring at those damn K-Cups on his desk, I feel that same potent blend of thrill and dread. If I follow through with the plan forming in my head, I won’t be innocent anymore.

  And so, five minutes later, the K-Cups are all swapped out, the pods inside no longer matching what it says on the boxes. And I’m on my way to the salon, nobody the wiser.

  Same great flavor . . . now in decaf!

  • • •

  Friday may go on record as being the best day of my life, because it’s the day that Carter Aaron can’t keep track of a single thought at work.

  It’s a little like watching a lion with a limp: it’s just not something you see very often, making it incredibly hard to look away. He wasn’t kidding when he said he can’t function without coffee. Apparently, he walked into the women’s room and stared at the wall, obviously shocked that the urinals were gone, until Jess emerged from a stall and steered him in the right direction. He spluttered his way through a conference call with Smashbox Studios about the setup for the Vanity Fair photo shoot next Friday, and afterward stood in the hall, confused, before turning into his office and sitting down in front of the cup of decaf I’d stealthily placed on his desk.

  I wonder if I’m turning into a horrible human being, really, because I am completely alive watching all of this. Who does this kind of backhanded crap? Well, aside from everyone in this business.

  Except . . . I’ve never stooped this low, and as soon as I really start to think about how far I’ve strayed from my own ideals, my guilt begins to eat at me.

  I dial Steph’s number, thankful when she answers on the first ring. “I’m a terrible human,” I say in lieu of a greeting.

  “Is this for anything specific or just in general?” she asks.

  I think about it. “A little of both, I think.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it or should I have plausible deniability?”

  I can hear voices and the sound of glasses and cutlery clinking in the background, so I assume she’s meeting someone and doesn’t have much time.

  “Are you busy? I can stop by and confess tonight.”

  “Just waiting on a casting agent,” she says. “And by the way, you’ll never guess what my assistant told me this morning.”

  I lean to the right, where I can see Carter at his desk, staring blankly at a pencil. I bite back a laugh. “What?”

  “She slept with Carter’s brother last night.”

  This gets my attention.

  “No,” I say, straightening. “Your assistant?”

  “Yep.”

  “Jesus, this town is small. Where did this happen?”

  “At some party. They didn’t exactly do a lot of talking, and she only put two and two together this morning.”

  Honestly, if I weren’t busy hating Carter Aaron, I would be texting him immediately to share this so we could laugh together.

  Unable to resist, I lean over again and peek into his office. Today just keeps giving. “And?”

  “And . . . from what I gather, it was
a ringing endorsement for the Aaron family. A fact you’d have personal knowledge of if you two would get your heads out of your asses.”

  I groan. “Do not remind me. Speaking of his brother, we have a shoot with him next week. Now I’m going to be thinking of him banging Anna.”

  Steph laughs into the line. “Tell him she says hi!”

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay, well then tell Carter his suit is hanging in my bathroom. He needs it for Friday.”

  “His suit?”

  “He took Morgan trick-or-treating so we could go out, and she threw up all over him. I’d yell at him for letting her eat an entire bag of candy, but I got a grown-up party and hotel sex, so . . .”

  “No, Mistress Overshare, not today. Don’t tell me about your sex life, and definitely don’t tell me cute things about Carter. He’s a monster.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Okay, I see my person walking in. Love you and stop being a terrible human.”

  Why does the universe do this to me? I’m riding high on inefficient, undercaffeinated Carter when the world has to remind me that he might not be entirely awful. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve messed up, and maybe Steph’s right: I am a terrible human.

  The anxiety gnaws at me a little during a lunch meeting with Adam Elliott, and when I’m with America’s favorite aging hottie I can’t be distracted, not even a little.

  Carter isn’t in his office when I return, so I can’t confess, can’t even give him the fully caffeinated cup of joe I got him on the way back from lunch. I open my email and absently reach for the bottle of moisturizer on my desk. But instead of reading, and instead of cultivating the lingering guilt, my mind goes back to Carter forgetting Brad’s name this morning when they passed in the hall. That one was pretty great.

  I rub my hands together and smooth a little on my elbows and my face, and a little more on my legs as I recall Jess telling me how Carter got off on the wrong floor earlier, and sat down at Evan Curtis’s desk up in Legal.

  I’ve repeated the process two more times before the guilt returns and I realize what I need to do: I need to replace the coffee and ’fess up. Karma is a bitch I do not need coming after me.