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

by Krista Ritchie

  Standing among my loving family, thinking about loving friends that I’m certain now that I have, and picturing the guy I’ve fallen in love with—that helps ease some of the pressure.

  Hang onto the love.

  I reach for my phone. “I need to call Osc—” A knock raps the door. I just have a feeling it’s him. Who else would be here this early?

  I whip open the door to see Oscar’s deep, urgent concern on the other side.

  A Secret about Oscar Oliveira: He’s in love with me.

  “Are you alright?” he asks the same time I say, “I’m sorry.”

  We’re suddenly hugging in the doorway.

  I explain what happened in a soft breath against his ear.

  He cups the back of my head. I wipe leaking emotion from my eyes. Spent. Fuck, I’m so spent. We kiss, and I tell him, “I’ll introduce you.”

  Shutting the door behind us, I motion to my parents who stand up. “Mama, Dad, this is Oscar.”

  He goes to my mom first. “I’m glad I can finally meet you two. Sorry, I’m not…wearing a shirt, Mrs. Highland. I ran out.”

  He ran out for me.

  That fast.

  Partly, I feel badly that I caused him distress, but mostly, I’m just grateful I have Oscar. Even if the online hate and calls for my termination derive from being with him, I’d still do it all again.

  “Just call me Tita Len,” she says, then hugs him. I hear her tell Oscar, “Protect him, will you?”

  I feel myself smiling. This is new. I’m so used to my mom telling me to protect whoever I’m dating, and I did not think she’d switch that up.

  “No doubt, always,” he promises.

  I grin wider, and I watch my dad shake my boyfriend’s hand next. “We were just talking about ways to help Jack with the hate he’s getting. You’re in security. You have any ideas?”

  “Nothing we haven’t tried already, sadly.” He upnods to Jesse in greeting, and Jesse makes the hang-loose gesture, putting aside the walis.

  Oscar’s radio goes off.

  The air could snap as he touches his earpiece. We’re all quiet, but for different reasons. They’re curious about his job, and I’m thinking, he’s gone, dude.

  Charlie is on the move, and I can’t follow with a camera for Born into Fame. Not right now. I need to stay with my parents.

  Oscar wears his sadness, then apologizes to my parents, says quick goodbyes, but before he leaves, we wrap our strong arms around each other and hold tight for an extended beat.

  He kisses my temple, my forehead, my jaw, my lips, and against my ear, he whispers, “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

  “You don’t need to. This was enough.” It meant everything that Oscar even showed up. He could’ve been pissed that I left like I did.

  He never even brought it up. Like it was insignificant. All that mattered were my actual feelings and what I was dealing with.

  That’s…sexy. I’m attracted to emotional maturity in people, I guess.

  Once he’s gone, I shut the door and I face my parents. “What’d you think? Mama? I know he had to leave fast, but…” I trail off with a smile.

  My mom has tears in her eyes. Different kind. Better kind. She nods a lot, choked up. Approval granted.

  I expect my dad to go off about Oscar’s occupation. “You two make a good match.” He clears his throat, happy for me. I see that clearly. “He’s not what I expected for you, but I can see you love him.”

  Love. I feel it, but I also need to tell Oscar something. I tried to tell him earlier before bad timing reared its ugly head again. It may not even be a big deal—or maybe that’s just my optimism soaring in. But the longer I keep it from him, the more it’s growing into one giant secret.

  32

  JACK HIGHLAND

  Jack: wedding dress shoot with Jane and family

  The note was posted in the Google spreadsheet that’s shared with my WAC crew. My production manager did a last-minute switch, and I’m one of three camera operators filming the famous ones in the Calloway Couture boutique.

  Wedding dresses, RSVPs, bridal jubilation.

  Let the good times roll, right?

  Except the day I don’t have to attend another wedding, will be all too soon. Hell, I foolishly believed I was past wedding season.

  No more weddings for Jack Highland this year. I’ve had my fill. I hit a max.

  Being face-to-face with another one is like watching an embarrassing home video, even knowing the good outcome—me and Oscar together—exists.

  It reminds me of Anacapri where I flubbed an opportunity to kiss Oscar.

  It reminds me of Ali & Troy’s wedding and Ambrose & Cody’s where I wandered around alone and thwarted the “who’s your plus-one” question a hundred times.

  Then my RSVP came in the mail, along with a photo of Thatcher & Jane on a pastel blue couch, seven cats strewn on their laps.

  And I knew I’d make room for this wedding. In my heart and my mind. November 1st, I’ll be there. Might even be filming (if I still have a job) or I could be hand-in-hand with an actual plus-one this time.

  Every day feels good being with Oscar.

  Anyway, tabloids were shockingly sweet to Jane with articles like, Re-create Thatcher & Jane’s Quirky Cute RSVP!

  Out of the famous ones, she’s one of the least likely to elicit a positive response from the media. And as someone whose relationship is attacked and dissected daily by Oslie stans, I’m glad the media is celebrating her upcoming wedding and not tearing it down.

  Jane Cobalt deserves that.

  What do you deserve, dude?

  My job, for one. No question. No hesitation.

  I’ve worked too hard to lose it all.

  But my role as exec producer is still in “evaluation”—and the irresolution of it all is the worst part. The feeling of incompletion. Every project, every goal around me is halfway done, and no matter how much effort I put forth, it might never be finished.

  I’ve always finished what I’ve started and carved out a path to a bright future, and knowing that I could be on no path…

  That has taken a toll on me. Mentally.

  It’s made more than just my work feel incomplete. Little things like not having time to fill up my Mazda with gas. A quarter tank shouldn’t feel like a tsunami is about to sweep me under.

  And I confess, it didn’t used to.

  I miss being able to walk through my days like a sunny breeze. I told that to Oscar, and he asked me if I’ve ever seen a therapist. I have, when I was younger. I used to take medication for anxiety, and when I stopped having to take meds, I was stoked. Proud, even. Like I was stronger now.

  I know I was wrong.

  I’m not weak for needing help. It’s not a badge of shame. It’s a tool to take my life back, and I feel that today. After seeing a new therapist, after taking anxiety meds this morning, that overwhelming sense of incompletion has been hushed.

  And finally, I can focus on my work without drowning.

  I mill around the boutique (store closed to the public today) while the Calloway sisters and their daughters chitchat on chaises and cream-colored couches. Everyone waits for Jane and her mom to exit the dressing room.

  Red-headed, blue-eyed Audrey Cobalt spits a strawberry petit four in a napkin and looks directly into my camera. Like she was caught stealing.

  Won’t air that. She’d probably request to keep it on the cutting room floor.

  I smile from behind the Canon and make the hang-loose gesture.

  She blushes.

  I try not to laugh.

  Out of everyone in the families, I thought Jane’s fourteen-year-old sister would be the most upset that Oscar Oliveira is no longer single. She had an enormous crush on him, but she was one of the first to post her support on social media.

  Giselle, a camera operator, is assigned to Jane while she’s in the dressing room.

  So I walk over to a refreshment table and film Maximoff.

  He fill
s up a glass of ice water from a pitcher and sees me more than the camera. “Jack Highland survives another day.”

  “I’m hanging on,” I say lightly, shifting so no mirrors catch sight of me in footage.

  “Have you heard from the other producers?” In the lens, I see his sharp cheekbones and forest-green eyes simultaneously toughen and soften.

  “Not yet.” I stop recording for a sec. “Whatever they decide, I think it’ll come down to the integrity of the docuseries.” I explain how beyond the public outrage, they’re still saying I’m too close to the subjects and too much a part of the narrative.

  I’ve also considered how this is changing Born into Fame. What story am I telling if I leave out the Oslie rumors and my involvement? Both are a part of Charlie’s life.

  Maximoff stares off, thinking for a long beat. “If there’s anything else I can do, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Moffy.”

  “Have you told Oscar yet about what you told me?”

  That. “Not yet.” It was easier letting out my secret to Maximoff, Jane, and Sulli. I knew they could relate in a way. I’m not sure about Oscar’s reaction. I shake out my arm that’s been flexed holding the gimbal. “You see on YouTube Kingly almost broke Phelps’ record for 200m freestyle? It was sweet.”

  “Yeah. He has to be part fish or secretly Aquaman.”

  I smile more and catch sight of another camera operator giving me a stink-eye. I’m in a cutthroat field. Jealousy is behind-the-back, not to the face. A lot is directed at me because I’m young and in a high-ranking position. And now I’m shooting the shit with a subject.

  Fantastic. Give them more reason to fire you, dude.

  “Rolling,” I tell Maximoff as I switch the camera back on. I pan over the dessert spread, petit fours and chocolate turtles; I capture some of the women waiting for the bride-to-be, then zoom back on Moffy. “How do you feel about being Jane’s man of honor?”

  He’s the only guy from the famous families invited today.

  And his lips slowly lift into a wide, heartfelt smile. Before he can answer me, a collection of awed noises erupts from the couches.

  I focus the frame on Jane.

  She shuffles out in a mint-green dress, pink fabric flowers embroidered in the bust. Rose Calloway trails behind Jane with a determined, focused gaze and helps her daughter step onto a circular podium.

  Audrey places a hand to her heart. “Oh Jane, you look positively lovely.”

  Family members shout praises and opinions. Talking over each other so much that I lose track of who says what. After ten minutes, the consensus comes in: too green, even though Jane requested no white dress.

  Rose purses her lips. “I can change the color, if you like the style.”

  Jane slides her hands down the fabric. “I think…maybe let’s try another one? It needs more tulle.”

  “Then more tulle is what you’ll get.” Rose whisks her daughter back to the dressing room. Giselle follows with her Canon.

  I turn back to Moffy since he’s nearest. “Did Jane’s mom design all the dresses?”

  He nods. “All ten options.”

  We’re only on option 3.

  I struggle not to glance at my watch. Dejection, I feel it. As much as I enjoy being around Jane and being a part of a milestone in her life, I’ve been having trouble grabbing solid footage of Charlie. Ever since We Are Calloway filming started, I’ve been pulled in other directions.

  Born into Fame doesn’t have a shot in hell if I don’t have material to make a good show, but focusing on a side project is exponentially risky now. I should be 100% focused on We Are Calloway and not pissing anyone off.

  But…

  I can’t deny that being around Charlie means I’m around Oscar.

  Working on the pilot does put us back in alignment, and what can I say? I like feeling balanced.

  Just today, I’ve missed the way he looks at me like I’m distracting him. That stern and sexy I’m working face. Which is sometimes followed by Oscar offering his snacks to me. How he looks put-off whenever I aim the camera on him.

  “I’m not your subject, Highland.”

  Yet, he’ll just watch me watch him through the lens. I also revel in the hectic days and the exhausted nights curled up in his arms.

  Where we’re fighting sleep just to talk one second longer.

  Before Jane returns in dress option 4, I type out a quick message on my phone. Hey, if you’re off-duty tonight, you want to meet me at WAC Offices for some fun?

  I just hit send.

  Reading it again, it sounds like I’m asking for sex. Don’t care. I do want to fuck him. As well as talk to him. And stare at him. Jesus fuck, I’d take standing in the same room as him. Being in Oscar’s presence isn’t even a want at this point. It’s a need.

  I need him.

  My phone beeps a second later.

  Pick a time, Long Beach. I’ll be there. – Oscar

  It’s late.

  Too late for anyone to be at the production offices, so I’m not even a little concerned when Oscar and I stumble into my office, lip-locked since the elevator.

  Blinds drawn shut, Oscar sightlessly pats around the wall for the lights. As he turns to flick them on, I hip thrust against his ass playfully.

  He grins back at me. “Perfect form, Highland.”

  “You’re not that bad yourself.” I grip the back of my tee and pull it over my head. “I’d let you fuck me.”

  “Oh yeah?” Oscar rotates and catches my waist, drawing me closer. Pieces of his curly hair fall over a yellow rolled banana. “I’d do you.”

  I kick off my shoes, and my muscles contract at the look in his eye. The one that’s eating me whole. “What does ‘do you’ entail?” I ask with an edging smile.

  “Me inside you.”

  Heat ascends, like flames lick the middle of my office.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Against the desk. The floor. The wall. Anywhere…everywhere.”

  My chest caves in a breathing pattern reminiscent of bad endurance athletes in high altitude. Consistently, unsurprisingly, Oscar makes me feel like we’re at 8,000 feet above sea level.

  I let out a breathless laugh.

  Fuck.

  You’re attracted to him. How was that ever a doubt? It seems so obvious, so clear now.

  “Any more questions, Mr. Filmmaker?” Oscar asks, tugging off his Yale tee, tossing it aside, and his attention suddenly pinpoints to a shelf. “Are those…?”

  I turn around, following his gaze. Two golden statuettes of a winged woman cradling an atom rest in proud display. “Yeah, those are my Emmys.”

  His grin overtakes his face. “You say that like those are bags of Doritos.”

  I hook an arm around his shoulder and lead him backwards towards my desk. “In your world, aren’t Doritos equivalent to Emmys?”

  “Quality, yes. But the former is a little harder to come by, Highland. I can’t exactly go pick up an Emmy at the local Quickie-Mart.”

  My lips quirk. “Two is nothing. The producers who’ve been on We Are Calloway since the beginning have glass cases dedicated to their awards.”

  He shakes his head, confusion cresting his brown eyes. “Even one is a big deal, Jack.” He says my name. Not a nickname, and it sobers the mood for a second. “Don’t compare yourself to other people to minimize what that is.” He points towards my shelf. “Give yourself more credit.”

  He’s said that to me before. But before before. When we weren’t dating or barely even a thing.

  His words bring me back.

  I think of the reception for the newest season of We Are Calloway. The one that recently aired and focused on the car crash, the aftermath within the families, and the trip to Greece.

  The critical praise has been astronomical. Calling it, “masterful art in documentary filmmaking” and “possibly the best season of the docuseries in its long, outstanding history”—and the success is not all mine. It was the whole crew.


  The best footage could turn into the worst show without the right vision, without the right team.

  It wasn’t just me.

  But I know what Oscar is saying. It’s still my triumph and feat.

  He rests his ass against the edge of my desk, his hands low on my waist. Dragging down towards my back pockets.

  I keep a hand on my head and take a shallow breath. Focusing on his gaze, I reply, “I know I’ve met a lot of success, especially by twenty-seven, but there’s still more to do. More to achieve.”

  His brows furrow. “Won’t there always be more? It sounds like you’re setting yourself up to never enjoy what you have.”

  I drop my arm at my side. “Yeah, but I don’t know how to rewire this”—I point to my temple—“to be satisfied with where I’m at and not seek more, the it project that quells all desires, the white whale.” Quickly, I add, “And I’m not talking about us.” I laugh lightly. “You’re actually the first person who makes me feel like…this is enough.”

  This is enough.

  Those words quiet the air in a softness. A tranquility that draws something between him and me. His fingers brush gently against mine, and I lace our fingers in a feather-light hold.

  “I didn’t take you for a Moby-Dick reader,” Oscar says softly.

  “I took you for one,” I say back. He reads a lot of classic lit. “You got the white whale reference then?”

  “Yeah.” He nods resolutely.

  I let go of his hand to grip his shoulders. “You better watch your back, Os. One day you’ll find a couple bags of Doritos on your shelf, and I’m going to make sure you don’t touch them.”

  Oscar fights a smile. “You wouldn’t.”

  “They’re your Golden Doritos for being amazing.” I cup the back of his head and kiss the corner of his mouth. “And hot.” Our lips crush together.

  He’s grinning.

  I’m smiling.

  And after a deeper, rougher kiss, he tells me, “I get a thousand Golden Doritos for being hot, Highland.” He grabs my ass.

  My dick stirs. “A thousand then,” I negotiate. “But you still can’t eat them.”