After a second, Jack says, “It’s not that…I’m not trying to schmooze you for work or to join the docuseries—though, you’d be great in it.” He smiles.
I shake my head with a matching grin. “Still never happening.” I like maintaining some anonymity in the public, and that’s already hard these days.
“Really, I just enjoy this,” Jack says more quietly, our gazes latched with seriousness. “You and me and…” He breathes in but doesn’t breathe out. Our eyes dance along each other, and I find myself stepping closer.
His chest rises in a headier inhale.
My lungs inflate, and I want to take my hand and clutch the back of his neck. To let my fingers thread through his dark hair and up the back of his skull.
For our lips to find each other in a slow, scalding ache of a kiss. I want that. Warm summer wind whips around us, and tension mounts while we linger, an inch away.
I glance at his mouth. My voice husky as I ask, “Can I kiss you?”
Jack stiffens.
And not like a dick-stiffening kind of way. He morphs into a stone statue, which rocks me back.
Fuck.
Should I be checking myself to make sure I didn’t turn into Medusa and cast a spell on the guy?
He blinks.
So at least he’s alive.
I actually take two steps away from him. Putting space between us.
“Jack,” I say, his name sounding weird on my tongue. I usually call him Highland…or Long Beach. I’m concerned about him, but I’m afraid crowding him will make it worse somehow.
“Uh…” he breathes out. “Thanks, but I’m straight.”
I go rigid.
Thanks, but I’m straight.
Thanks, but I’m straight.
Thanks, but I’m straight! It blares in my head.
Concern is gone. I’m just…fuck.
My skin scorches from head to toe in deep embarrassment.
He’s quiet again, apologies in his eyes.
I want to disintegrate right now. I’ve never been this fucking mortified. I feel like an idiot, and I know I’m not one. An awkward stretch of silence bends around us.
Jack often throws out platitudes to make sure no one in the room is uncomfortable. Well, that’s not happening here. He’s not saying a fucking thing.
We’re both wading in intense, unbearable discomfort.
What was I thinking?
I break the quiet. “Yeah, fuck, sorry,” I mumble. “I just…I didn’t mean…”
He offers a weak smile. “Yeah.”
That one word literally sets my pulse into a panicked race.
Good God I want to run and hide. “Um…cake…has name.” I turn around, avoiding his eyes. And I leave with a hot, lengthy stride.
I’ve never run away from a situation so fast.
Shit, what did I even say? Cake…has name? That’s not a complete motherfucking sentence! I was trying to tell him there’s a piece of cake that has my name on it.
Fumbled the exit.
Fumbled everything.
I’m just mortified I asked him if I could kiss him. It would have been better if I didn’t feel like a twelve-year-old. I’m thirty-two, and the way I feel around that guy puts me back to preteen eras. I hate it. I hate what I just did. Most importantly, I’d like nothing more than to never see Jack Highland.
I don’t know how I’m going to be able to look him in the eyes ever again.
OSCAR OLIVEIRA
PRESENT DAY
The two-hour car ride to The Walnut screws me over. It’s too much down time to Philly, and I end up replaying the awkward moment in Anacapri over and over in my head. I can’t tell if it was actually as bad as I’m remembering or if I’m imagining the interaction worse on each replay.
In any case, I was rejected for a kiss.
I’ve never been rejected before. Not like that.
Charlie and I are buzzed into the building, and while we ride the elevator to the third floor, I glance at the time on my watch.
1 a.m.
Who has an appointment at 1 a.m. that’s not a booty call or something that could put you in jail?
Charlie. That’s who.
My ear picks up sudden comms sound.
“Farrow to Omega, I’ve already left for the lake house. We’re trying to make it there before sunrise. Unless some bad shit happens, you probably won’t be able to reach me on comms for a while.”
I feel my mouth curve. His maverick ass is actually informing our lead about where he is. Albeit, after he’s already started driving to the Smoky Mountains.
I click my mic and speak quietly on comms. “Have fun on your honeymoon, Redford. Don’t be too sad I’m not there to make a good time better.”
“I think you mean messier, Oliveira.”
I stifle a laugh since Charlie is literally beside me and can’t hear the radio. I have enough time to say back, “A hundred-and-one tabloids with your face front-and-center would disagree.”
“You mean the ones that say I’ve had the wedding of the century?” I can practically see his smug cheek-to-cheek smile with that ace thrown.
He got me.
Farrow and Maximoff’s wedding made every headline, every entertainment site, late-night show, and Instagram feed. I love them, but my friend getting hitched recently, especially to a Hale, has been a painful reminder that I’m…alone.
And I’m about to face my crush that last ended like a pie in the face.
I’d joke to Farrow about letting me tag along on his honeymoon if there were time. But the elevator doors slide open, and my good time on comms comes to an abrupt halt.
Officially, I’ve lost the nerve to actually see Jack. Avoidance isn’t an option. I’m here for work, not a social outing. The only way to minimize embarrassment is to ignore Jack. Maybe I won’t even ask for the clothes he borrowed anymore.
I waffle between the options before I land on one:
Professional.
Keep it professional.
I settle with this plan as we reach Jack’s apartment.
Protocol: I answer Charlie’s doors and knock on the ones he visits.
But before I put my fist to the wood, I look to Charlie.
My client leans a shoulder next to the doorframe, his brows rising like he knows what I’m about to ask. “You’ll find out why we’re here in five seconds,” he says. “I’m not about to ruin the surprise.”
“Who said I was going to be surprised?” I knock on the door. I always plan for the unpredictable with Charlie.
The door swings open.
Jack Highland stands on the other side.
I cage my breath.
A yellow sweat-stained Under Armour shirt suctions to his muscular chest like he just returned from the gym. Smart watch on his wrist, one wireless earbud in his left ear, and running shorts all add up.
“We interrupt something?” I ask, worried Charlie didn’t have a meeting with Jack at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s showed up somewhere unannounced.
Jack shakes his head. “Not at all. I’ve been waiting for you guys.” He pushes the door open wider, and I slip past him, avoiding his eyes.
He clears his throat. “Sorry I didn’t have time to take a shower.”
I bite back a comment about how he still smells good. My pulse thumps loudly in my ears. Professional. It’s usually not hard for me to dip into work-mode. I take my job seriously.
Quickly, I assess Jack’s apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever been here.
My first thought: how does a six-foot-four guy live in something so…small?
The space is tinier than even my studio, and I live in Hell’s Kitchen. A gray sofa rests against the same wall as a murphy bed (currently drawn up and hidden), and I’m guessing the metal bins in an open-faced cabinet are his dresser, all of which resides under the only window. A surfboard is propped in the corner. One that looks old and used.
Jack surfs.
Didn’t know that.
Even if he’s born and bred in Southern California, I’m not going to assume every Cali stereotype applies, even if they do.
We’re all a lot of where we come from, just as much as we are the people who raised us and who we’ve met along the way.
His place doesn’t even have a full kitchen. Just a mini-fridge and microwave. I look around for the TV, thinking he has to have one. He’s an exec producer. That’s his job. But I can’t find it.
I have so many fucking questions.
But that would involve actually staring him directly in the eyes. Not about to do that. My gaze plants on the only window. Just one. Well, that makes my job easier.
Charlie steps into the apartment behind me, and I give him a look. “Stay here.”
He nods.
For as much of a pain as Charlie can be, he does listen to me sometimes. I glance to Jack, who’s busy locking the door. “Can I sweep your place real quick?”
He doesn’t turn around as he says, “There’s not much here but go for it.”
I slip into the bathroom first, and it’s bigger than I expected. I pull back the plain shower curtain. Empty.
A cardboard box is tucked under a rack of towels. Flaps open, I can see some suits and expensive loafers inside. Not sure why he’s packing his suits in a box. But I don’t stare long or dig through it. I try not to let my eyes roam to Jack’s personal belongings. Like his brand of shampoo or the magazines in the wicker basket by the door.
I don’t need to know more about him than I already do.
It’ll be like rubbing salt into an opened wound, and I just need that shit to heal as quickly as it can.
I check all the usual spots for any mics or electronics that could be recording. Satisfied, I return to the living area. Charlie is already on the couch, and Jack sits across from him on a plastic fold-out chair.
“Do you want it for personal or commercial use?” Jack asks my client.
My muscles tense.
What the fuck are you up to, Charlie?
Floorboards squeak as I walk further in the room. Jack and Charlie glance over at me.
“Everything good?” Jack asks.
“So far,” I say. “I just need to check that window.”
Jack is currently occupying the middle of the entire room. He stands quickly as I step closer. “You really think I would bug my apartment?” He sounds more curious than dispirited.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell him. “It’s protocol.” Jack might be trusted in the inner-circle, but his place hasn’t been cleared today. I slide past his chest, an inch of air between us. I don’t know if it was my words or our past that puts an invisible strain between us. But I can tell we’re both holding our breaths.
I barely exhale when I make it to the window.
“Personal would be preferred,” Charlie tells Jack, replying to his question.
Window cleared and blinds snapped shut, I face them again.
Jack hasn’t sat back down, thankfully, because I have to return to the front door. “You could use a bigger apartment, Highland,” I whisper to him as I pass again. “You don’t fit in this one.”
The top of his head is barely an inch from the ceiling fan.
He lets out a short laugh. “I’ll take that under consideration. Any other critiques?” His tone is friendly but eager.
Our eyes latch for what feels like the first time tonight. I should ask for my clothes back. But it’s not the time or place and the longer he’s staring at me, the more my stomach knots. I can’t read him. Before, I found it intriguing, now it’s almost agonizing. Unnerving.
“Nope,” I say and break our gaze to head to the door.
I lean beside the doorframe, giving both of them space, but I’m in earshot. Charlie rubs his fingers over his lips in thought.
Jack refocuses on my client. “I’d love to work with you on it, Charlie, but I can’t take on any personal projects right now.”
“I can pay whatever you want,” Charlie says casually like his checkbook is open on the table. Now I’m a little concerned. Again, what in the fuck is he doing? I wish I could ask, but I usually don’t get involved unless his safety is on the line.
Jack smiles. “I appreciate that. But it’s not about the money. I’m busy these days, so I’m only taking on projects that will land me network and cable contracts.”
“So let’s say I want you to shop it to a network. You’d take it on then?” Charlie asks.
Pieces are suddenly colliding at a sharp rate, and I have to cut in this time. Not moving from beside the door, I speak up. “You want Highland to film you?” It’s an educated guess.
Jack’s brows shoot up and he swings his head to me. “He didn’t tell you?”
I go rigid. God, I wish I were wrong.
Charlie twists the gold ring on his finger. A Faust Academy crest of a falcon and crown rest in the center. He never had to tell me, but I know that’s his father’s high school ring.
Charlie’s yellow-greens flit to me. “You know now.”
“You’re already on We Are Calloway,” I remind him. He also barely shows up to gigs. He’ll comply for his segments, but they last maybe two minutes tops. I can’t see him staying in Jack’s orbit long enough to fill up a whole episode.
He shrugs and tilts his head. “Maybe I want to be the star.”
I don’t believe him.
Most of the world truly thinks Charlie Cobalt is as narcissistic and self-serving as his father, but I’ve been around him long enough to know that he has motives. And they’re not always egocentric. But does he have the ability to go there? Yeah. It’s in him, sure.
He’s only twenty-one. He’s so young still. I just don’t know where he’ll really land.
I think on the facts that I do have. “If that were true, Charlie, you would have been the one to bring up the network deal.” He wasn’t. He wanted this project to be personal. Private.
Jack’s brows cinch in worry and he raises a hand to my client. “And I don’t want to pressure you into doing anything for network TV. I have reliable contacts that would be more than happy to take on a personal videography project for you.”
“If you were pressuring me, I’d already be walking out the door,” Charlie says, still rolling his ring absentmindedly. “Let’s do it. Once you have the footage for a pilot, you can shop it to whatever networks you want.”
I grind on my teeth, sawing my opinion down. I have to let him live his life. Make his own decisions without my input. But damn, it’s hard sometimes.
Jack hesitates. “This can’t be like We Are Calloway. If you want to do a show that centers on your life, you’re going to have to stick around for every scheduled filming. I can’t move equipment as fast as you change your mind and run off to Prague.”
Charlie snorts. “You mean we’re not filming a nature documentary? An up close and personal look at the mysterious beast in his natural habitat.”
Jack’s face contorts for a second, empathy leaking out. “I didn’t want to ask, but I feel like I have to…is there a reason you want to do this?” I’m a little relieved Jack is pressing him on this. I know I won’t.
Charlie rolls his eyes. “Do I have to have one?”
“For my moral conscience, yeah,” Jack nods. “I need you to give me one. Because I can’t film you, if deep down, you don’t really want to do this.”
Charlie scoots to the edge of the couch. Elbows to his knees. “Deep down,” he says. “I don’t give a shit if people love me. Or hate me. Or think I’m an entitled, spoiled brat. I’d have to care enough about them to care about their opinions—and I don’t give a shit. You want honesty, I have reasons I want my life filmed, but I’m not going to tell them to you. And if you think I’m going to care about exposing myself to the world—I won’t. I don’t.”
I believe that.
Jack looks him up and down, still gauging. “I won’t air anything you don’t want aired. You can trust me on that, but you’re going to get
more shit than you’ve ever received from the public. You’ll be the first of the famous kids to step out with their own show. It’s like announcing to the world you’re going solo.”
Charlie lets out a genuine, heartfelt laugh. “Better, even.” He rises to his feet.
Jack follows him to a stance. “Everyone knows Cobalts run on loyalty,” he reminds him. “To a lot of people, they’re going to think this move is a betrayal to your family. I just want you to be prepared for that kind of heat.”
“If people think that I’m betraying my family, they’re dumber than I thought,” he says. “Which is saying something because I think the human race has a chronic case of idiocy.”
Jack takes a breath. “We’re doing this then?”
“How fast can you get the contract to me?” Charlie asks. “I’d like to start as soon as possible.”
Jack nods. “I can have it for you to sign in about five hours.”
It’s in this moment that it hits me…
I’m about to be around Jack Highland a hell of a lot more. There’s no avoiding him. No ignoring him. In fact, I have to schedule a meeting with him. A one-on-one.
I cross my arms over my chest, tensed beyond belief. “Highland,” I say. “Whatever time you’re thinking of stopping by. Arrive an hour early.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he says, but his voice is suddenly stilted and lacks the natural warmth it usually carries.
Awkward.
This whole fucking thing.
Charlie’s phone rings. A quick glance at the screen elicits an eye roll. Has to be one of his brothers. He silences the call and slides his cell in his back pocket. “See you tomorrow,” he tells Jack.
And just like that, we’re out of Jack’s apartment.
“Where to?” I ask my client as we take the stairs.
There’s a long moment of silence before he sighs heavily, almost in defeat. “Home.”
4
JACK HIGHLAND
Here’s one thing I can always count on: structure. Every great film, every cinematic plot has structure. Even with the docuseries that I work on—which isn’t scripted—there is a story structure. We take our footage and make sure the narrative is in order.
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 3
