“Hey, Hale,” I cut in before they launch into five-minute flirty insults. “Did Charlie tell you the reason he wants a docuseries filmed about his life?” Now that they’re chit-chatting around bodies of water without one pushing the other in, maybe my client could’ve dropped a hint to his cousin.
“Other than what you said—how Charlie’s setting you and Jack up to kill the Oslie rumor—no,” Maximoff tells me while Ripley slaps the water ecstatically.
When I told Maximoff about the “set up”, I made sure to leave out the part about Charlie calling me lonely.
“But honest-to-God,” Maximoff continues, “I think it’s more than that. I know my cousin, and this colossal undertaking—being filmed day-to-day for who knows how long—doesn’t sound like something he’d do just to squash a rumor.”
“Oui,” Jane Cobalt says, swimming closer since she overheard us talking about her brother. Cat-eye sunglasses cover her blue eyes, and she adjusts the straps of her pastel purple tankini. “Charlie has other motives, most surely.”
“As Charlie’s bodyguard, I agree with that assessment,” I say with the sip of my beer.
Farrow makes an uncertain face. “He could just be 5D chess-ing this show into his version of The Bachelor.”
“It is his favorite show,” Jane muses.
Charlie is a bunch of contradictions. Whatever moves he is making, they’ll be what he said: selfish and selfless. Oxymorons to the tenth degree.
My phone buzzes, and my pulse jolts with too much fucking excitement. I grab my phone.
“Da-da,” Ripley giggles, trying to swim to Farrow who plays peek-a-boo, using his inked hand to shield his face. Maximoff has their son loosely in his hold, but the baby can already float too well.
I read the text.
K. See you tomorrow at 8 am. – Highland
Curt.
To the point. No compliments or ego boosts. Definitely not Jack. But I’m not dumb enough to think he had his friend or little brother message me on his behalf. He’s just responding in the same cold tone.
I stifle a dismal groan.
Estou morrendo de saudade.
“He’s reupholstering the limo, Moffy,” Jane says, more hushed but audible. “He just replaced the interior last year. I’m telling you my dad knows that Thatcher and I had sex in the backseat.”
Cobalt drama is like a Cool Ranch Dorito. It makes me happy inside, and I’ll gladly take anything right now. Especially Thatcher, my lead, fucking his fiancée in his future father-in-law’s limo. Look, I’d pay good money to see Connor Cobalt’s reaction.
“Your dad can’t know that, Janie,” Maximoff refutes. “He wasn’t there, and none of us would’ve said a damn thing.”
“Hey guys,” Sulli calls over, breaking up some good harmless drama. “You all wanna play?”
I sit out.
Not feeling the “team sports” spirit today.
And I crack open my book while Quinn, Luna, and Maximoff face off Akara, Sulli, and Banks. I place a bet with Donnelly and put a twenty on Sulli’s team.
Music pumps, an “SFO” playlist. We all added songs, and right now, Cher’s “Believe” blasts which is causing Farrow to grimace.
Cher was my addition.
I grin.
And ten minutes through, I look up and slowly turn a page.
“I got it,” Sulli calls out, competitive because the volleyball is soaring towards six-foot-seven Banks. He spikes the ball as she slams into his chest. “Oh, fuck—sorry, sorry.”
“It’s alright.” He combs back his wet hair. Her eyes fall down Moretti’s body, and the volleyball sails back on their side. Somehow poor, poor Sullivan Meadows ends up elbowing Akara in the abs. He buckles, and she apologies profusely.
“I’m okay, Sul.”
I watch the dumpster fire for another five minutes. Sulli keeps running into Banks and Akara’s wet bare chests, bodies and limbs colliding left and right, and the more they do, the more flustered she’s becoming. Her breath looks shortened, and I’d bet a crisp hundred it’s not from physical activity.
“You see that?” I ask Farrow beside me; his son is on his lap, playing with his silver rings. But even though Farrow has been watching the volleyball match, his eyes are more glued to his husband.
“Who?”
I explain and he shakes his head, “Not my business.”
“I don’t know how you do it, bro.” It’s not my business either, but it’s in my face and I see it. So give me the popcorn.
We watch as Sulli climbs out of the pool, dripping water, after her team loses the game 4 to 21. She darts to the platter of grilled food, avoiding Akara and Banks still in the pool.
From a lounge chair, Donnelly makes a cha-ching motion to me. He’s been eating a burger.
Not upset I lost a bet, I’m about to return to The Grapes of Wrath when Akara reaches for his phone and asks, “Hey, everyone, is it okay if I invite Jack over for lunch?”
I solidify.
Kitsuwon. He cannot do this to me right now. His friendship with Jack is going to fucking kill me. I imagine Jack strutting in and smiling that hundred-watt smile as he says, “Beautiful people” to everyone—and I can’t.
Not today.
Not now. Not when I’m setting boundaries tomorrow.
“We love Jack; of course you can invite him,” Jane says, sitting across Thatcher’s lap on a chair.
My head dizzies, and I skate a hand down my mouth.
I feel Farrow and Donnelly eyeing the living fuck out of me.
Come on, Oliveira. I go to speak, but breath is tight in my chest.
“Nah,” Donnelly says coolly. “There’s not enough food.”
“There’s plenty here,” my brother pipes in with knotted brows.
Farrow opens his mouth, about to slingshot another excuse, but I locate my vocal cords. Loudly, I declare to everyone, “I’d rather not see Highland right now.”
The rooftop deadens, except for Ripley babbling in his dad’s arms and the music speakers blaring “Chega” by DUDA BEAT, Mateus Carrilho, and Jaloo. Another of my song additions.
“Did something happen?” Akara questions, actually concerned.
Absolutely love Kitsuwon as my boss. I’d move mountains for Akara. He cares and would put his ass over hot coals for my ass, so I’d do it for him. Not all men I’ve worked under in security were like that.
Did something happen?
I bake under embarrassment and the sun. “Yeah.” I pick myself off the patio. “I made a mistake and asked to kiss a straight guy.”
The Moretti brothers, plus my little brother, and Akara stare dumbfounded and shocked.
Way too many people know now about the rejection.
But there’s no turning back.
“Look, you can invite Jack,” I tell everyone. “I don’t mind, but just give me a warning beforehand. Because I’m leaving if you do.”
Akara is quick to say, “We don’t have to invite him, Oscar.”
I nod once.
So deep in my feelings, that I tell them I’m going to use the bathroom. But I take my two books and just head inside to cool off.
14
JACK HIGHLAND
“I just don’t get why you live in a closet,” Jesse complains over the phone, his choice of words icing me over, even if he’s just referring to the size of my apartment. “My surfboard can barely fit next to yours.”
I ride the elevator up thirty-three floors to the penthouse. My camera hangs at my hip, the strap across my chest, and I remind myself to breathe. In, out.
Ride the swell.
“I don’t know why you brought your board, Jess,” I tell my little brother. “You’re my PA, when do you think you’ll have time to drive an hour and a half to New Jersey and surf?”
“After doing PA stuff.” He pauses. “I’ll have some breaks di ba?” Di ba means right?
I’ll have some breaks, right?
I smile and stay quiet, letting him sweat it out.
> “There are labor laws, Kuya,” Jesse says, sounding more worried.
“You’ll get breaks,” I smile more, pressing the phone firmer to my ear. “But you didn’t come out here for a vacation. I need your help, remember. And you need this on your resume.”
Since Ali and Ambrose said no to my pitch yesterday, I decided rather than hire a stranger, I’d hire someone I trust with secrets.
My brother.
Jesse flew in on a red-eye last night, and now he’s finishing summer school online.
Over the phone, he mutters under his breath, and the elevator doors glide open. I land in the empty private foyer facing the penthouse’s front door.
“Ano?” I ask what? to Jesse.
“I get why Mama’s worried about you now. She doesn’t want you to turn out like them, working super long hours. That’s actually why she let me come out here, you know. Maybe I’ll be a good influence on you, she said.”
I smile. “Mama did not say that.”
“She implied it.”
She’s more understanding of me working hard than Jesse slacking, which is probably why she let him come out to Philly. For the opportunity.
Can’t pass it up.
I pull the phone down to check the time: 7:54 a.m.—I’m supposed to meet Oscar at 8. “I have to go,” I tell Jesse. Even though I’m early, I feel late. “Make yourself at home. Pantry is stocked—oh and my neighbors were hijacking my WiFi and slowing the internet, so I had to change the password since the last time you were here. The new one is LeChatRouge0502.”
“How do you spell it?”
I spell out le chat rouge and describe the capitalization.
“Why 0502? Don’t you usually go for 1118 in passwords?” 11/18 is my birthday. November 18th.
May 2nd is Oscar’s birthday.
And I didn’t think anything of the password when I created it, other than having Paris and Oscar on the brain. Didn’t seem like a big deal.
But hearing Jesse ask, I feel tilted sideways. Switching my phone to my left ear like I’m trying to balance, I tell him, “It’s the birthday of Charlie’s bodyguard. You’ll meet him during filming.”
“Sweet.” He sounds distracted like he’s typing in the password. “You know I’m amped to be here. I get to flex my camera skills, hang with my big brother, travel wherever Charlie Cobalt flies off to. It’s gonna be a gnarly summer.”
I smile, one that vanishes fast.
This summer has been a cyclone of feelings and missed opportunities for me. It’s already been gnarly, but not completely in the positive way Jesse used the word.
Still in the empty foyer with the elevator behind me, I thank Jesse again for flying out so fast, and we say our goodbyes.
“Talk later, Kuya.”
We hang up, and I rap a fist on the penthouse door.
Two seconds and it swings open to a six-foot brunette. Sulli towers, her biceps cut and abs visible in a bikini, towel bunched in her hand. It doesn’t feel that long ago that we sat down together at Superheroes & Scones and had her first production meeting. It was really our first introduction to each other too.
A Secret about Sullivan Meadows: at 13, a swim coach told her that she needed to shave around her bikini line better. It was one of the only things she feared telling her protective dad, who she tells everything to.
“Oh hey, Jack.” She motions behind her shoulder. “Oscar’s in the library.”
I tense. She knows I’m here for him?
Off my confusion, Sulli frowns. “You have a meeting with him, right? Fuck, did I get that wrong?”
“No, no.” I shake the thoughts from my head. I’m an idiot. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s why I’m here.” I recover with a wide smile. “So I heard about your speed climb. First place. Congrats.”
“Thanks.” She twists her hair in a bun with one hand. “It was a fun event. But I think that’s probably the last speed-climb for a while, oh cumfuck—”
A fluffy dog and calico cat scamper towards us. I slip through the door and quickly shut it behind me as the pets skid to a halt.
Sulli bends down, rubbing behind the dog’s ears, while the calico cat prances off. “Orion, you know fucking better,” Sulli says, and then tells me, “Luna says her dog is trying to commune with his star people and that’s why he tries to leave.”
I laugh. “Yeah, what’s Carpenter’s excuse?”
“He’s a little shit-stirrer.” Sulli smiles.
As she stands up, I ask, “Why no more speed-climbs?”
“It’s getting fucking boring, honestly. I’ve already won what I set out to win. There’s not much left, it feels like.”
My smile weakens as I mull over her words.
I have no clue what it truly feels like to reach the pinnacle of my goals. I’m close, but I’m still climbing. Talking to Sulli over the last couple of years, I realize now how empty it must feel once you’re there.
How lost.
She keeps tacking on new goals to fill an unfillable void.
It scares the shit out of me. Because I lived my life in that competitive lane, and ever since Sulli joined the docuseries, it’s been like staring into a mirror that reflects the future. This is what you could be. And how strange that a twenty-one-year-old Olympian’s life could be my future that I fear.
In the end, I’m invested in all the famous one’s happiness. Because I care about them. But for me, Sulli’s happiness is different.
Maybe if she turns out okay, it’s a sign of good things to come for me. That people like us aren’t destined to always be yearning and searching and wanting. That we can succeed and that can be enough.
Just thinking those words heavies a weird weight on my chest. Like I know there’s a lie there somewhere.
“So if you’re done speed-climbing, what’s next?” I ask her.
“I’m contemplating a few things…hey, if you’re free sometime this week, you should come by for a swim.”
I smile brightly. “Definitely. I would never turn down the chance to swim against an Olympian.”
“I—” Sulli starts to reply when Orion barks up at her. “Alright, I’ll find your mom. Sit, sit.” He plants his ass on the ground, tail swishing back and forth. She nods towards the stairs. “You remember where the library is?”
The meeting. I realize I’m hard-core stalling, and my chest knots. “Yeah.” I already know this is going to end badly.
Because I didn’t bring Oscar’s clothes with me.
Not sure why I purposefully left them at my apartment. I’m still trying to work through that in my head.
And I have about twenty seconds to figure it out.
Fantastic, dude.
Here we go.
Heading to the library, two more of Jane & Thatcher’s cats dart at my ankles. They figure-eight between my legs, and I try not to trip. As soon as I reach the door—like they know this is a big deal for me—they scamper away quickly.
I enter.
Mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, reminiscent of stately, old collegiate libraries like Oxford. Plush chairs are pushed into a long wooden reading table. Green stained-glass lamps sit on the surface, and so does Oscar Oliveira.
Yale tee loose with gym shorts, his hair is damp like he spent 7 a.m. doing chin-ups and arm curls. Would’ve joined him. Not that he’s invited me often to work out, but I just thought maybe…
What did you think, dude?
That you were friends?
No.
That’s not it, and I boil up in multiple ways, especially as I graze his beautiful features, his masculinity that’s been fueling raw, untamed desire inside me.
Oscar looks up from his cell and his eyes sweep me from head-to-toe quickly. His brows furrow. “You forget something, Long Beach?”
His clothes.
I lock gazes, not shying away. “You said you wanted to talk,” I remind him, skirting over his question.
He nods towards the door. “Close that.”
&n
bsp; I nudge it closed with my palm.
Oscar sets the cell beside him, giving me his full attention. “We need to talk about Paris,” he says plainly.
I want to ask him which part? On the plane—when he saw my hard-on after I woke up from a sex dream about him? The time where he was hit on in front of me at the museum? Or when Charlie stripped down to his underwear in public?
Instead of asking, I just nod and let out a simple, “Sure.”
His brows knit together. “You’re not at all concerned that Charlie wants to set us up?”
That.
I lean back, resting my shoulder blades against the door, and I thread my arms loosely. I hoped we’d talk about us, but now that it’s here, I feel more unbalanced. Nerves flame my body. The only way to combat the feeling is to act cool. Calm. Chill like I’m on the beach ready to hit the water.
My chin moves from left to right. “Not really.”
He steeples his fingers at the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Of course, you wouldn’t,” he says gruffly. “This doesn’t really affect you, does it?”
I stiffen. “What is that supposed to mean?” I feel very affected by the prospect of a romantic set-up with Oscar. I’ve barely slept in the past two weeks! I keep thinking about him.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
He waves a hand at me. “Nothing changes for you, bro,” he says angrily. “You’re just happily riding this fucked-up train where I’m being set-up with the guy who rejected me. I mean—what in the ever-loving hell?”
My chest rises and falls heavily. Pressure mounting. “You think I’m happy right now?”
“You’re not exactly upset,” he counters.
“I’m not upset,” I admit. “Okay. I’m not. But I’m…” My tongue grows thick in my mouth.
“Willing to do whatever for this show,” Oscars says, thinking he’s finished my thought.
“No…yes…” I feel lost in my own head. I hold up a hand. “Can we rewind for one second?”
Oscar hops off the table. “Look, you’re a good guy, Highland. I’m willing to go ahead and put myself in an uncomfortable situation for your goals, but I just need you to know I’m not going to be playing into your flirting—or whatever you want to fucking call it—anymore.” His stride is strong as he approaches the door, the one I’m leaning against. “This is strictly professional between us.” He stops inches from me. “And I want my goddamn clothes back.”
Charming Like Us (Like Us Series: Billionaires & Bodyguards Book 7) Page 13
