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

by Krista Ritchie

  I prefer operating the camera, if I can.

  So how big of a team?

  “As small as possible,” I answer Ali. “Charlie’s bodyguard doesn’t want a big crew, and I think we can strike gold with just the three of us, but—”

  “I knew there was a but,” Ambrose says.

  “I can’t sugarcoat it,” I admit. “I shadowed Charlie so I could get a sense of how difficult it’d be filming him longer than five-minutes, and I lost Charlie for hours.”

  I don’t mention how he ditched his bodyguard to give us some quality “alone” time together.

  “You lost the kid?” Ali’s brows spring up. “During filming?”

  “I wasn’t filming yet.”

  “But you would’ve been,” she notes. “And that’s hours of lost footage and wasted time.”

  “On the flip-side, I was able to ask him thought-provoking questions, and he answered honestly.” I want to explain what he said at the New York concert venue, but it involves Luna’s fanfic, which Luna told me in confidence.

  So I mention Charlie’s apartment in Paris, which no one has ever seen before.

  “Was he there when you were shadowing him?” Ali wonders since I did lose sight of him for a while.

  “Not at first,” I admit.

  Ambrose cocks a brow. “This is your pitch?”

  “It went better in my head.” I smile but it fades, and I tap my pen to the table. “I’m not trying to pull one over on you two. It’s going to be a tough shoot. But I need you both on this. You’re the best.”

  Ali contemplates fast. “Have you asked anyone else?”

  I shake my head.

  “I take it you’re settled with just a production manager and a sound mixer? So no gaffer or writer?”

  She’s a PM (a production manager) on We Are Calloway and takes care of logistics like location, budget, and scheduling, but whenever we need an extra camera operator, she takes over with ease.

  And I need Ambrose. A whole show can make or break on sound.

  My leg jostles underneath the table a little bit. “I figure I can handle the lighting and story myself.”

  Ali takes a long breath, and her tone changes considerably. “Jack, you know how much Ambrose and I love you.”

  Fuck.

  Ambrose nods. “You’re one of the best producers we’ve ever worked with, especially considering how young you started.”

  “But,” Ali says, “we’re already booked solid with side projects. We have two music videos we’re doing just this weekend, and Charlie is a risky bet.”

  “I’m not putting all my chips on him this year,” Ambrose agrees. “You know how much a week in Malta costs?”

  Ali gives me an encouraging look. “I’m not even sure you need a PM, Jack. It’s just a pilot.”

  “You do need a sound mixer,” Ambrose says, and adds to his sister, “Looks like I’m the important one.”

  She gives him a pointed look. “You wish.”

  Ambrose reaches for his iced water. “And I thought you were going to date more this year.” I did tell him that at his wedding reception, but only after he asked about my lack of a plus-one.

  “I’m fine being single,” I say, but that hot feeling returns. The only thing that cools it is this project. This goal. I want it. So badly.

  “You could be playing the field, instead of ignoring the field,” Ali notes, and Ambrose nods vigorously.

  “This could be the one though. The white whale.”

  We all talk about the white whale. That one project that puts you over the edge. That has your name on it and catapults your career. Being the exec producer of We Are Calloway has its merits and accolades, but it’s not the one.

  Ali shakes her head. “You do know how Moby-Dick ends, right?”

  Sure. The white whale ends up killing the guy obsessing over it, but I’m not obsessing. I just don’t want the whale to swim away before I even have a chance to see if it’s the one.

  “Hey, maybe I won’t die if I have you two on my team?” I flash a smile. One that’s opened some doors and driven me further in life.

  Ali laughs. “Nice try. I can put you in contact with another sound mixer.”

  “But he won’t be as good as me,” Ambrose chimes in.

  “No one is,” I say with a brighter smile. “But can I trust him?”

  Ali hesitates. “It won’t be the level of trust like on a WAC production. I’d…make him sign an NDA. And maybe also talk to a lawyer. We’re talking about filming Charlie. You can’t be too careful.”

  “Speaking of WAC,” Ambrose says, “filming starts for the next season in August, and Google calendar keeps incessantly reminding me that August 1st is in five days.”

  Five days left of pre-production is nothing at all, and with that blanket of urgency, we spend the rest of the time in the weeds of budget and schedule.

  No matter the side projects, We Are Calloway is the number one job. The production and crew have dedicated years and heart and sweat into this docuseries. And we have the awards to show for it.

  If I prioritized a Charlie Cobalt spin-off over We Are Calloway, the other exec producers—who are decades older and more seasoned than me—would be irate.

  Ali, Ambrose, and I finishing discussing next season and the famous ones before saying our goodbyes. On the table, I bury my head in my arms. I’ve got to figure this out.

  My phone vibrates next to me. Lighting up. I click into the text.

  We should talk. Can you meet me at the penthouse tomorrow morning? – Oscar

  Blood drains from my body, and my hand falls slowly down the side of my face.

  We should talk.

  Three notorious words that no one likes hearing or reading. My high school girlfriend said that before saying, “We’re going to different colleges, Jack. Let’s just do our own thing. We should see what else is out there.”

  I agreed. Time to move on. Find the college sweetheart. Settle down after the career is built.

  But I never found anyone I loved more than my ambition.

  But Oscar and I aren’t a thing, so he can’t break-up with me.

  He can bail on the show.

  Lump lodged in my throat, I scrape a hand across the back of my neck. But what if he does want to bring up him and me? Our flirting?

  I drop my hand and focus on the meeting spot.

  The penthouse.

  About a month ago, Maximoff, Farrow, Jane, Thatcher, Sullivan, and Luna all moved in together in a glittering Philadelphia high-rise. I’ve been to their penthouse a handful of times.

  Over the years, after filming them for so long, I consider myself friends with Maximoff and Jane, and more recently Sulli. It’s not a typical friendship, but they’re American royalty. Not much about them is typical.

  I stop just staring at the text and my fingers fly over the keypad. I message back: Yeah, no problem. What are we talking about?

  Seconds later, like Oscar is poaching my confidence, he replies.

  The show. – Oscar

  My stomach flops, almost in disappointment. I realize I kinda wish he replied with us. My phone pings with another text.

  And Jack. Bring my sweatshirt, bandana, belt, button-down, and slacks with you. Thanks. – Oscar

  Shit.

  I rub my lips. I didn’t forget that I had his sweatshirt—something he lent me in Scotland when we were snowed-in. I didn’t forget about his bandana that I took when the wind picked up in the Scottish Highlands. I definitely haven’t forgotten about the belt he let me borrow in Anacapri before Maximoff and Farrow walked down the aisle.

  Or more recently, the button-down and slacks from Paris.

  I never picked a date to return them. It kind of feels like once those items are gone, Oscar will be gone from my life too. I realize with Charlie’s show, we do have more than a few articles of clothing keeping our worlds tethered together, but it’s different. The show is professional. Work.

  The clothes were personal. Friendsh
ip. I almost laugh. Yeah, my daydreams definitely don’t put Oscar Oliveira in friendship territory.

  I’m not straight.

  I’ve known that for the past two weeks. Since the flight to Paris.

  And I’m starting to realize my future map can have multiple destinations that I can drive down. Husband. Wife. Spouse. It feels better to take the question marks off those possible futures. Less like staring down the street into dense fog. More like staring at forks in a path. But fuck does it make me nervous.

  My stomach cramps the longer I read the text. Every second I wait to reply feels like a depletion of my confidence. I fight that feeling by typing quickly. Yeah, okay. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Let me know a time.

  I hit send.

  13

  OSCAR OLIVEIRA

  I block out laughter, splashing, and loud chatter on the rooftop terrace of the Philly penthouse. Like the adult that I am, I just went ahead and texted Jack. Told him to meet me tomorrow. My legs are submerged in the private pool, and with my phone cupped in my hand, I stare and stare and stare at his reply.

  Yeah, okay. I’ll bring them tomorrow. Let me know a time. – Highland

  This is it then. The end. I’m still waiting for that weight to lift off my chest. For the big ah-ha moment where I flex my biceps and realize I’m strong. Look at me, setting boundaries. Healthy ones. I should be motherfucking happy that I’m a day away from not being jerked around anymore.

  But I feel a longing to see Jack again and sadness that it won’t be the same after tomorrow.

  I let out a long, cantankerous groan, “Estou morrendo de saudade.” I’m dying of saudade.

  Alright, I know I’m being dramatic.

  A beer bottle taps my shoulder.

  I look up and meet a pair of pierced brows that rise in asshole-ish fashion at me. Wouldn’t want it any other way, especially as Farrow tells me, “You didn’t just say what I heard you say.” Handing me the beer, he takes a seat beside me on the edge and dips his inked legs in the pool where mine have been.

  Like me, he’s bare-chested and just in swim trunks. Unlike me, his body is covered in pirate and skull tattoos. I’ve known Farrow since before the neck tats.

  “I said it,” I say into a hearty swig, and more clearly, I repeat in Portuguese, “Estou morrendo de saudade.”

  Farrow rolls his eyes halfway around Center City.

  “I think your eye-roll passed Fishtown.” I push my curls back, feeling my rolled bandana around my forehead. “Better be careful, Redford, the hipsters there are gonna think you’re too cool for them.”

  He cracks a smile that levels-out in concern. After a swig of his own beer, he tells me, “I haven’t heard you say that since Darrien.”

  My college boyfriend. By far the Mount Vesuvius of break-ups that I’ve ever experienced. I thought he was the one at first, but it erupted after an argument over microwavable pizza bites.

  I haven’t eaten a pizza bite since.

  Deep down, it wasn’t about the food. After our fight, he dumped me in the fucking Yale library while I was cramming for mid-terms. I failed three of my exams that semester, and I didn’t consider the dumping a rejection because I thought about dumping him too.

  But the more alone I was afterward, the more I missed him. The more Farrow would take me to bars so I’d stop embarrassing my ass by texting him.

  And I’d groan out, Estou morrendo de saudade.

  There is no direct translation of “saudade” into English. To me, it’s always been a nostalgic longing for a love that’s missed and gone. When I left for college and missed my brother and sister, sometimes I’d call them and groan out, Quero que você mate minha saudade.

  I want you to kill my saudade.

  I want you to kill this longing feeling inside of me.

  “I feel like I’m breaking up with the guy,” I admit to Farrow, tipping the beer to my lips. “And all we’ve done is flirt like kindergarteners.”

  “Man, what kindergarteners do you know that understand blow-job euphemisms?” he asks in a rising wiseass smile. “You’re more like middle schoolers.”

  I grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Your husband is more like the kindergartener.”

  He goes to shove me in the pool, but I careen back and laugh.

  Farrow raises a hand in surrender. “You’re not going in the water, only because of that.” He points at the phone, referring to my fracturing heart. “He text you back yet?”

  “Yeah.” I show him the text. “What time can I stop by tomorrow?” I chose the penthouse as the meeting place.

  “Pick anytime, Oliveira. The door is always open.” He tilts his head back and forth, reconsidering. “More like, partially ajar for you.”

  “Aw, fuck you,” I say in a grin and text Jack.

  Morning. 8 a.m.

  I press send, hoping it didn’t sound too curt. But I can’t exactly attach a bunch of heart emojis. He’s giving me enough mixed signals to power the sun, and I don’t want to add to that.

  I set my phone aside on the gray stone.

  “I think it goes up like this. Oh, wait, fuck, no the other way,” Sulli says in the water, setting up a pool volleyball net with Luna and Jane.

  Banks and Akara jump in the water to help them. Akara’s hair has grown a little longer this summer, the black strands wisp over his ears and brush his neck.

  All of SFO is on the rooftop hanging out together. The penthouse is a mega-upgrade from the 900-square-foot Rittenhouse-Fitler townhouse that burned down. We’re not all cramped together, for one. For another, it’s a fucking penthouse. 33rd floor. Philly skyline views.

  And three floors below, Akara, Banks, Donnelly, and Quinn moved in together. Fucking expensive, but Kitsuwon Securities pays for housing, and I’m sure our pay-cut helps afford my Hell’s Kitchen studio and the 30th floor apartment.

  Whenever I’m off-duty, I like coming here.

  Just to be with the people I’m missing.

  Thatcher Moretti is grilling burgers and sausages, the smell making my stomach growl, and my gaze drifts over to my baby brother.

  Quinn has been doing sit-ups and planks. Thank the Lord he hasn’t wanted to rip my head off the past couple of weeks. Just what I need, a war with my brother while all this other shit is happening.

  “Horses are walked,” Donnelly calls, coming through the sliding doors and unclipping leashes on the two Newfoundland puppies.

  “Thanks!” Luna shouts from the pool. Orion is her hyper dog, and he’s chasing his tail in a circle. I reach for my two paperbacks that I’m in the middle of reading and notice Farrow looking bummed at the sliding glass door.

  Donnelly isn’t who he wanted to see.

  I laugh into a grin.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he says into his swig of beer. “Weren’t you just sending cry-face emojis to Jack?”

  I’m still grinning. “Says the cry-face emoji next to me. Don’t worry, Redford, the Husband will be back. He didn’t drown in the toilet. He knows how to swim out of shit.”

  Farrow shakes his head but he’s laughing. “You’re one of the wittiest fuckers I know.” I have a quip for that, but his features turn more serious in a beat, and he tells me, “I’m almost mad at him. You deserve so much better than the mind games he’s making you play.”

  “I don’t think it’s intentional,” I defend. “It’s Jack. When has he ever been cruel to anyone?”

  Farrow nods a couple times.

  I nod back, understanding that he’s looking out for me exactly how I’d look out for him. Farrow and I don’t have to dive into the weeds in order to get deep. With few words, we reach that place, and we both drink our beers and bathe in the hot summer sun.

  I’m glad to have good friends that’ll be with me when I crash and burn.

  Besides my job in security, it’s about the only thing I have going for me right now.

  I decide between my paperbacks I’ve read countless times: The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck and Laura Esquivel’s L
ike Water For Chocolate. Choosing the former, I find the dog-eared spot, and I don’t get far before Farrow and I talk about our clients.

  How Maximoff and Charlie seemed more like actual fist-bumping friends at the lake house last week. They sat on the dock talking for about an hour. All of us on SFO theorized about what:

  “Religion,” Banks guessed.

  “Sports,” Thatcher said.

  Akara nodded. “Sports.”

  “Dingle-berries,” Donnelly said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Plato, probably,” Farrow threw out.

  “Ditto, add in Confucius,” I said.

  “Who’s Confucius?” Quinn asked.

  My baby brother. He should’ve gone to college. I bit my tongue from saying that one because that definitely would’ve ignited an Oliveira Civil War.

  At the rooftop pool, I say to Farrow, “Remember the tour bus days when they were in each other’s face?” Feels like eons ago. It’s been over a year.

  “If you mean Charlie getting in Maximoff’s face, then yeah, I remember that.”

  It’s not complete revisionist history.

  I don’t always defend Charlie—he provokes on purpose, especially Farrow’s husband which puts me and my friend in hard spots. But back then, I know Maximoff’s short-fuse didn’t help. Being Charlie’s bodyguard lets me see his perspective better than most ever could.

  “Speaking of the Husband,” I say as Maximoff enters with a volleyball and his sixth-month-old propped on his waist. Ripley has a happy-go-lucky smile in his papa’s arms, sun hat shading his fair Irish skin. We all celebrated Ripley’s adoption at the lake house last week, and I’ve never seen the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalt parents cry so much at once.

  Joy is a feeling I live for, and my joyful ass cried too.

  Farrow smiles wider. “Miss me, wolf scout?”

  “Who?” Maximoff feigns confusion, tossing the volleyball to Sulli, then stepping into the pool with the baby. His tattoo on his bicep is in full view. Farrow’s name. He got Farrow’s name tattooed on his arm. Almost couldn’t believe it when I saw it. But then again, yeah I can. He’s really in love with my best friend.