Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7)

by Krista Ritchie

  A beginning, middle, and an end.

  My life has always had structure. I’ve known how it’d start, where I’d go, and where I’d end up. That is, until Oscar…

  My life has never been more jumbled. Confusing. Messy.

  God, I spent three hours in the shower after Oscar and Charlie left my apartment. I just stood there! The hot water ran cold, and I stared at the tile walls in a daze. And I confess, I was thinking about Oscar Oliveira.

  I kept replaying how he came into my apartment like a frozen wind. He basically coldshouldered me. Treated me like a co-worker and not a friend.

  Were we friends?

  I thought we were friendly…maybe too friendly. I don’t know. But usually when I fuck-up a conversation, I can work my magic and rewind the reel, like nothing ever happened.

  Oscar is different. No amount of charm is getting me out of what happened at the wedding reception. I can’t flash a smile and expect him to go back to how we were.

  I’m terrified of our dynamic changing into something uncomfortable, or worse—something cold and empty. Especially now. When it’s looking like we’re about to be around each other a hundred times more.

  I try to take a breath.

  Relax, dude.

  I’d say I’m rarely uptight. I grew up surfing. Patiently waiting for that perfect wave. Breathing in and out, but fuck if I know anything right now about oxygen and patience—because I’ve never felt more asphyxiated and unbalanced.

  I’m in my Mazda. By the time I got out of the shower, I threw on dark jeans, a white crew-neck, and left my apartment, then jumped in my car. No sleep tonight, I’m driving to New York for the early-morning meeting with Oscar.

  My cell is docked on the dashboard, traffic a nightmare and the sun isn’t even out yet. So I’m even more caught off-guard when my phone rings for FaceTime and the caller is from California.

  Long Beach is three hours behind East Coast time. It’s basically the middle of the night there.

  I answer fast.

  Not able to look at the screen while I change lanes.

  “Kuya,” my mom calls out to me, using a Filipino term that means big brother.

  I rotate my wheel and check over my shoulder. “Po.” I usually say po instead of yeah to my mom, out of respect.

  “Have you heard from Jesse? I can’t get ahold of him. He’s not in his bed.”

  Jesse. My seventeen-year-old brother.

  I frown, more at the street as a car tries to cut me off. “No, but he’s probably just at the beach.” And giving our mom a heart attack. “I’ll call him, Mama.”

  “He shouldn’t be at the beach. He’s already been grounded. No surfing for two weeks. And it’s too dark outside. It’s late.”

  I glance down at the cellphone. My protective, sweet-natured, generous mom fills the screen on FaceTime. Short black hair molds her heart-shaped face, glasses perched on her nose, and she’s in a robe like she hurriedly woke up out of bed.

  I smile at the sight of her features. I like talking with my family, but nothing beats seeing their faces. It makes it feel like we aren’t split apart on either coast. We try to FaceTime as much as possible. Even when we all should be asleep.

  She sees my smile. “This isn’t funny, Kuya. He could be in trouble or hurt.” Worry is etched in her voice. “What if he’s not at the beach? What if it’s drugs?”

  “It’s not drugs. I’ll find him, rest assured.” I’m more confident than concerned.

  My brother spills his whole life story to me when we talk on the phone. I literally know when he took a shit yesterday, and not because he called me while he was on the toilet, which he’s also done before.

  So I’d know if he were snorting coke or shooting up heroine because he can’t keep his mouth shut, and he’d tell me in a bout of word vomit.

  “You never broke curfew. You told us where you’d be,” she says, “and you always came home on time—are you sleeping? Why are there bags under your eyes?”

  I glance from the phone to the road. She tries to inspect my face through the screen, but I’m further away from my cell’s camera.

  “It’s dark in the car right now, Mama. The sun hasn’t risen yet.”

  “You’re working too much?”

  I want to say no, but again, my life has an outline. I want to work towards something big. I always have. And she understands hard work and working hard. I’m just glad she’s not asking me about dating.

  Or marriage.

  Or kids.

  That part of my life is starting to be an astronomical who-the-fuck-knows. I blink and picture Oscar, and my heart rate jackhammers.

  I inhale and try to stay calm. “My job always has weird hours,” I remind her. “I’m gonna call Jes—”

  Another voice is muffled in the background. I switch lanes again while my mom turns her head to look over her shoulder.

  “Ano ho?” My mom says what in Tagalog to the other person in her house. She speaks more in the language.

  I figure my Lola—my mom’s mom—must’ve woken up. She’s lived with my parents ever since I was a kid. I hear her ask what’s going on.

  “Utoy?” my Lola questions, using a Filipino term for Jesse which means little boy.

  I can’t hear their exchange until my mom moves closer to her phone and tells me, “Call me back if he doesn’t answer you. Ten more minutes and I’m waking up your dad. We’ll drive past every beach until we find him.”

  Jesse has broken curfew before, but that was when he had a girlfriend and snuck into her house. My mom knocked on the door demanding for his return, like the girl’s family was holding him captive. Our mom is on our side, always, but she’s not afraid to tell us we’re doing something wrong. She grounded Jesse on the car ride home.

  Our dad slams down the gavel just as strongly, but I’d say that my mom does everything better. My dad would be the first to agree. She’s the heart of the Highland family.

  “I love you, Ma,” I say goodbye to my mom. “Ingat po.” Take care.

  “I love you more, ‘nak.” ‘Nak is a shortened term for anak, which means child.

  We hang up, and I give my cellphone a voice command. “Call Utoy.”

  You better answer, Jesse.

  The phone rings.

  And rings.

  And I wonder if he’s actually at a girl’s house. Not the same girl. That one broke up with him two summers ago.

  It rings.

  He would’ve definitely told me if he had a crush on another girl…or guy. He’s straight. He said he’s straight before. I said I’m straight.

  Because I am straight. I can appreciate good-looking guys, and yeah, Oscar is one of the best-looking bodyguards. If not the best.

  And I’ve only had sex with women. All of my celebrity crushes have been women. Whenever I’ve envisioned my future, there’s always been a wife at the end.

  But at night, my mind wanders to him. I wake up with a massive hard-on that only goes away when I stroke myself thinking about him.

  Doesn’t mean I’m gay or bi or anything other than straight.

  Am I convincing myself or am I really fucking straight? I need a road map to navigate this uncharted place, and I don’t have it. I don’t know anyone who does.

  Oscar.

  Yeah right, like he’ll help me. Like he’d even want to after I rejected him.

  Anyway—I’m straight. There’s nothing to ask.

  I’m not into Oscar like that.

  My nose flares as I bite down on my teeth, and I realize the phone has already rung out with no answer.

  Fuck.

  I redial for FaceTime.

  And he answers on the second ring. “Long time no chat”—we talked yesterday—“listen to this…” He rolls down the window to his Land Cruiser, and I hear the splash of the ocean.

  I smile. “Sounds like you being grounded. Again.”

  “The volume must be broken on this thing. Because that’s clearly the sound of the sickest swells.”


  “Jesse.”

  “I want to be the first out there when the sun comes up.”

  My eyes flit from my brother to the road, back to him.

  His shaggy hair sticks out in a million different places and he yawns into his arm like he woke up from sleeping in his car. I notice the wetsuit splayed over his headrest and the surfboard in the back. “So you’ll tell the parents I’m safe and that I’ll see them for breakfast—?”

  “Fat chance, wild child, it’s a school day.” It may be summer, but he has to repeat British Lit for plagiarizing a paper last year.

  He has a warm smile while he slouches on the passenger’s seat of his SUV. “You look at the calendar this morning, Kuya? I’m impressed.” He runs a hand through his dark hair that’s long enough to reach the back of his neck. “It’s almost like you’re a fully functioning adult or something.”

  I skip over his sarcasm. “Aren’t you actually grounded?”

  “Like in this moment?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. What other moment would there be, Jess?”

  He shrugs with a bright smile that could rival mine. “You tell me, Jack.” He puts extra emphasis on my name like I’m a pirate from the Disney franchise.

  Jesse is exactly ten years younger than me, and I love him more than life itself. He’s my only sibling, and while my family is still in SoCal, I end up seeing Jesse in person more than my parents. He’ll fly out to Philly and stay with me for the weekend at least once a month. My mom and dad would make the trek more often, if their jobs didn’t usurp their time.

  “You have withstanding groundings,” I tell him more plainly.

  “Groundings?” Jesse leaves the camera frame for a second. “I mean, I feel like those might have been suggestions.” He returns with a banana and slowly unpeels it.

  My stomach groans at the food. Fuck. After my three-hour dazed and confused shower, I hightailed it to my car without grabbing breakfast. Hunger pains vs. being late. I’ll choose the hunger pains every time. Showing up late feels worse somehow. Like knives plunging into my gut.

  “You broke curfew three days in a row,” I remind Jesse. “I don’t think being grounded is a suggestion.”

  “KuyaI’mseventeen.” He mumbles the sentence through his banana-filled mouth.

  I laugh. He’s an idiot.

  He swallows and smiles. “I’m an adult.”

  “Pretty sure you’re one year behind that, dude.” I give him a look. “More if we’re talking about maturity levels.”

  He smiles more. “I’m mature. Mama and Dad just miss you, since you’re all the way out there and they’re keeping their claws in me tight. They were never like this with you.”

  “Because I didn’t break curfew.”

  “Did you even have curfew?”

  “Yeah,” I nod strongly. “You were just too little to remember.” I switch lanes to take the next exit. “Text Mama right now and tell her you’re driving home.”

  He lets out a huff and peels back more of his banana. “Did you already talk to her?” He sounds more remorseful. “Is she awake?”

  “Yeah, and she’s worried you’re doing drugs.”

  He groans. “Fuck, okay.” He sits up straighter and turns on the ignition. Biting a chunk of banana, he tosses the rest over his shoulder in the backseat. “I thought they wouldn’t notice if I left—they’ve been buried in some new development going up in Malibu.”

  Real estate. It wasn’t their first careers, but it’s what they’ve poured everything into for as long as I can remember.

  I’ve inherited their work ethic, the kind that drives me every day to reach higher. Do more. Be more. But it has consequences.

  I’d think Jesse breaks the rules just to get their attention, but he probably wishes they forgot about him right now. He’s just a free spirit that doesn’t like anything tying him down.

  But when our parents are working and he thinks he can pull shit over them, I’m usually the one enforcing his punishments from across the country.

  “They noticed, and you’re still grounded from last time,” I say. “That means no surfing. Not even before school. Definitely not during school.”

  Jesse considers this for a second before setting his phone in a car holder. “You’d think differently if you were here, Kuya. The swells are—”

  “Sick,” I smile. “You already told me.”

  His eyes soften, almost sadly. I know he misses me.

  I miss him every day.

  I sigh heavily. “I have a new project—”

  He perks up. “Can I help? Please. I beg of you, Jesus Christ on a cracker, Kuya, I’d do anything.” He makes a praying motion with his hands.

  My brother wants to attend college for photography. To the University of Pennsylvania. My alma mater. But he doesn’t have the grades for Penn, so he’s been trying to build his resume. I’ve let him help me here and there on smaller projects I was hired to produce. Like music videos and commercials.

  Never have I let him twenty feet near a We Are Calloway production. I trust him, but maybe not with that much responsibility. He’s still just seventeen.

  “I’m going to have to think about it,” I tell him. “It involves a Cobalt.” I don’t give him more information than that.

  “I won’t make a peep. I’ll just do grip work. Please. It’s the summer before my senior year. I might not get this chance again.”

  I haven’t filled the grip position yet. Fuck, I haven’t picked out any of my crew for the pilot, which is the test episode and will usually become the first episode of a series if it goes to network. It’s still so early.

  It feels like two seconds ago I was just in my apartment with Charlie having the first meeting. I haven’t even slept since then, and he still needs to sign the contract.

  And I still need to talk to security about the show. His bodyguard.

  Oscar.

  Strange heat blankets my skin. Nerves? Anticipation? I hate not knowing the name to this feeling.

  I push it away and concentrate on the details. How I have an experienced, trustworthy group of people that work with me on my production team for We Are Calloway. How the plan was to grab some of them to work on this pilot.

  “You have summer school,” I remind Jesse.

  “I can do the class remotely…probably.”

  “Let me think about it,” I say again. “It’s a big deal. It’s not a small project.”

  He nods and pulls his SUV out of the parking lot, heading home. “How mad are they?”

  “You’re definitely gonna get the look.”

  “The one that’s followed with, halika nga rito.” He says come here in Tagalog, his voice light-hearted.

  “That’s the one.”

  I feel his smile. “I know that look well.”

  While we’re both driving, we stare at the phone screen less, and it’s not long before we say our goodbyes.

  Jesse always ends the call with, “Talk later, Kuya.”

  I hit green light after green light, and it feels like I’m flying towards Hell’s Kitchen, towards Oscar. I shift in my seat, glance out my rearview mirror. Tendons pull taut in my shoulders, making me sit more tensely than normal.

  I feel most comfortable being approachable, being a positive energy when the world clouds and darkens. But for the first time, I’m…

  I’m confused.

  So confused that positivity feels like a fucking farce, and my mind can’t stop spinning between my personal feelings and my professional life.

  And I knew this project with Charlie would be chaotic on multiple fronts. But adding Jesse to the mix brings it to a new level.

  Chaos Factor #1: Filming Charlie Cobalt. It’s like trying to catch a firefly on a normal production day, and this show will be anything but routine.

  Chaos Factor #2: Being around Oscar Oliveira. At all. For any period of time.

  My pulse pounds hard in my neck.

  I don’t have time to sort out my feelings.

 
; I’m here.

  5

  JACK HIGHLAND

  New York.

  Residence to 4 of 5 Cobalt brothers, and in effect, their personal bodyguards. I practically know everything about the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. Comes with my job title. I’m a treasure trove of their secrets that I’ll always keep locked away, and yet, I can’t name a single secret of Oscar’s that I have.

  Nothing man-to-man, person-to-person he’s told me that he’s never told anyone else. Human connections are usually so easy for me, but after our awkward fallout in Anacapri, I wonder if that’s even true.

  21st floor of a luxury apartment complex, the deep walls are painted red, and industrial lights hang along the wide hallway.

  I pass the gold number: 2166.

  Cobalt brothers live there, and I used to take meetings in the Triple Shield’s security apartment right across from 2166. But ever since Akara created Kitsuwon Securities, Omega has different housing from Alpha and Epsilon.

  Oscar is the only SFO bodyguard with a client living in New York, so he’s moved to a studio apartment and lives alone.

  I’ve been dealing with the dynamics of security and the families long enough to know how it runs. And if I don’t know something, I ask.

  But I’ve never been inside this studio apartment. Something solely belonging to Oscar. The strap of my messenger bag is across my chest, and I glance at the spiral notebook in my hand before slipping a pen behind my ear. Trying to ignore the knot in my chest.

  His studio is at the end of the hall. Right next to a stairwell. And he’s already texted me about the door being unlocked. To come on in.

  Still, I knock, and I take off my shoes before entering and set them next to a fake fern inside. “I’ve arrived,” I say lightly, wanting to smile but my rattled confidence flatlines my lips.

  “One second,” he calls out.

  He’s in the sleek kitchen, digging in a pantry. I gaze around his place. White marble counters, gray tile backsplash, and dark wood floors—I look up at industrial lights and the loft where a king-sized bed is in view of a living area (leather couch, bookcase, and TV). Yeah, this is nice.