Dating You / Hating You
Page 13
The waiter brings our drinks, bread, and a tiny notepad ready for our orders.
“My parents are both in Burbank now,” I tell Carter once the waiter leaves again, “so I see them a few times a month, but I can imagine how much my mom would worry if I lived across the country.”
“Yes, but my brother moved here when he was eighteen, and there was little to no meltdown.”
I tear off a piece of bread. “I don’t think I knew that.”
“Jonah,” he explains over his glass, “took his camera and his clothes and left. He went to a party one of his first weekends in town and ended up taking some photos that were featured in Rolling Stone.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. From there it was Elle, then People. For some reason my parents think lightning only strikes once and I am destined to flop.”
I want to remind him that all parents worry their children will struggle and that if there was ever a place where that happened a lot, it’s Hollywood, but my mind snags on something he’s said.
“Wait, is your brother Jonah Aaron?”
“He . . . is.” His eyes go wide, his hand frozen where it was lifting a piece of bread to his lips. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him.”
I cough out a laugh. “That would be a no. But for some reason I think my friend Amelia has.” I take a sip of wine, thinking. “I think she met him at a Vanity Fair party or something.”
Carter gives me a rueful half smile. “Maybe I should find her and apologize on behalf of my family.” When I laugh again he seems to realize what he’s said. “I mean no,” he corrects, brows furrowed. “Sex with the Aaron men is prime. Best sex of your life. I should clarify that . . . Let’s move on. Work is good?”
A laugh trips out of me, and I press my napkin to my lips. “It’s really good. I’m putting together a package right now and it could be pretty big.” There’s something about Carter that diffuses my usual instinct to keep everything close, and it’s a struggle to not spill every detail.
But if he notices how I’ve reeled myself in, he’s polite enough not to let on, and instead knocks on the top of the table.
“Superstitious?” I ask, but he’s kept from answering as the waiter arrives with our entrées.
Carter washes his first bite of steak down with his beer and then sets the glass back on the table. “In answer to your question, I would never say that I’m superstitious, because that would be bad luck. But it has been suggested to be one of my less charming traits.”
I grin up at him, spearing a piece of broccoli.
“Mostly, I consider them quirks,” he says. “It’s possible I have a lucky tie. The old knock-on-wood one is a favorite. I throw spilled salt over my left shoulder. I’ve been known to frequent wishing wells, and I have to let the phone ring twice before answering.”
“Those are so adorably minor,” I say.
“You have some better ones?”
“I’m sure my friends would tell you I am quirks galore.”
Carter leans back in his chair and motions for me to proceed.
“I’ve already illustrated my knack for recalling random movie details.”
“I don’t know if that counts—maybe more of an asset, considering your line of work. I’m going to need a bit quirkier from you, Evil.”
I smile. “I can’t eat at buffets—a snag when so many catered events are the serve-yourself variety. It’s like I see that innocent serving spoon and all I can think about is how many unwashed hands have touched it. I always watch the twenty-four-hour Christmas Story marathon, and I’m an obsessive hand-creamer.”
He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “That can’t possibly mean what just popped into my head.”
I move to gently kick him, but he traps my foot, keeping it there between his shoes.
“It means that when I’m on a call or sitting at my desk thinking about something, I tend to reach for my lotion, sort of instinctively. The longer the call, the more lotion I’ll use, and by the end I can barely grip my phone.”
“Okay, that’s pretty great.” Carter rubs his palms together, thinking. “I’m going to give you another one of mine so you don’t feel all insecure about your germ phobia or cream-filled hands: I can barely inhale before I’ve had coffee. I know people say that all the time, but in my case I almost feel like it’s a medical condition. I’ve brushed my teeth with shaving cream on more than one occasion and once relieved myself in my mom’s favorite potted palm.”
“I’m not sure you should share that last part,” I whisper.
Carter wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table in front of him. “You’ve got a very mischievous smile there, Evil.”
I point to my chest. “Me? You should see yours.”
He leans forward. “It’s because I like being around you. It’s like the same buzzy feeling I get when one of my clients posts a grammatically correct tweet.”
This makes me laugh because I can absolutely relate. “That’s pretty buzzy.”
He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and sucks it, watching me.
I don’t remember Carter being this overwhelmingly sexual when we first met. Maybe it was because I wasn’t showing shoulder, or because we were both dressed as preteens, but it’s definitely overwhelming right now.
Carter sips his beer, looking out through the foliage of the indoor-outdoor space to the sidewalk. It’s a busy neighborhood anytime, but it’s cooled down a bit tonight and the streets seem full of people out walking, headed somewhere, headed nowhere.
“It’s so warm here in the fall,” he says, tilting his glass up to his mouth again. I watch him swallow, feeling this tight, creeping anxiety, because dammit, I like him. “It surprises me every time.”
I might really like him.
“Our summer always comes late,” I say. “June and July are pretty nice. The summer really hits in August through October.”
He turns back to me and smiles. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Was it a hard decision to leave New York?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I’d thought about it for a few years, but always hesitated because it sort of felt like Jonah’s territory.”
“I could see that, I guess.”
“But as my career progressed, LA became an obvious option.” He spins his spoon on the table, absently staring down at it. “There’s only so much for talent agents in New York—theater is huge, obviously, but . . . I don’t know . . .” Taking a deep breath, he seems to grow more contemplative, until he exhales and turns his face up to me, smiling again. “I needed to do something different. I like TV-Lit but would like to be more film-based. Baby steps.”
The degree to which he’s genuine throws me again and again. Everything about him seems so up front and frank, but there’s a complexity, too. No wonder he’s good at this job.
“Have you ever considered leaving California?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m too much of a movie fanatic to give it up.”
“Where did you grow up?”
I hook my thumb behind me, as if he can see it from here. “Not LA proper. In San Dimas.”
“My parents are both in Burbank now,” I tell Carter once the waiter leaves again, “so I see them a few times a month, but I can imagine how much my mom would worry if I lived across the country.”
“Yes, but my brother moved here when he was eighteen, and there was little to no meltdown.”
I tear off a piece of bread. “I don’t think I knew that.”
“Jonah,” he explains over his glass, “took his camera and his clothes and left. He went to a party one of his first weekends in town and ended up taking some photos that were featured in Rolling Stone.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. From there it was Elle, then People. For some reason my parents think lightning only strikes once and I am destined to flop.”
I want to remind him that all parents worry their children will struggle and that if there was ever a place where that happened a lot, it’s Hollywood, but my mind snags on something he’s said.
“Wait, is your brother Jonah Aaron?”
“He . . . is.” His eyes go wide, his hand frozen where it was lifting a piece of bread to his lips. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him.”
I cough out a laugh. “That would be a no. But for some reason I think my friend Amelia has.” I take a sip of wine, thinking. “I think she met him at a Vanity Fair party or something.”
Carter gives me a rueful half smile. “Maybe I should find her and apologize on behalf of my family.” When I laugh again he seems to realize what he’s said. “I mean no,” he corrects, brows furrowed. “Sex with the Aaron men is prime. Best sex of your life. I should clarify that . . . Let’s move on. Work is good?”
A laugh trips out of me, and I press my napkin to my lips. “It’s really good. I’m putting together a package right now and it could be pretty big.” There’s something about Carter that diffuses my usual instinct to keep everything close, and it’s a struggle to not spill every detail.
But if he notices how I’ve reeled myself in, he’s polite enough not to let on, and instead knocks on the top of the table.
“Superstitious?” I ask, but he’s kept from answering as the waiter arrives with our entrées.
Carter washes his first bite of steak down with his beer and then sets the glass back on the table. “In answer to your question, I would never say that I’m superstitious, because that would be bad luck. But it has been suggested to be one of my less charming traits.”
I grin up at him, spearing a piece of broccoli.
“Mostly, I consider them quirks,” he says. “It’s possible I have a lucky tie. The old knock-on-wood one is a favorite. I throw spilled salt over my left shoulder. I’ve been known to frequent wishing wells, and I have to let the phone ring twice before answering.”
“Those are so adorably minor,” I say.
“You have some better ones?”
“I’m sure my friends would tell you I am quirks galore.”
Carter leans back in his chair and motions for me to proceed.
“I’ve already illustrated my knack for recalling random movie details.”
“I don’t know if that counts—maybe more of an asset, considering your line of work. I’m going to need a bit quirkier from you, Evil.”
I smile. “I can’t eat at buffets—a snag when so many catered events are the serve-yourself variety. It’s like I see that innocent serving spoon and all I can think about is how many unwashed hands have touched it. I always watch the twenty-four-hour Christmas Story marathon, and I’m an obsessive hand-creamer.”
He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “That can’t possibly mean what just popped into my head.”
I move to gently kick him, but he traps my foot, keeping it there between his shoes.
“It means that when I’m on a call or sitting at my desk thinking about something, I tend to reach for my lotion, sort of instinctively. The longer the call, the more lotion I’ll use, and by the end I can barely grip my phone.”
“Okay, that’s pretty great.” Carter rubs his palms together, thinking. “I’m going to give you another one of mine so you don’t feel all insecure about your germ phobia or cream-filled hands: I can barely inhale before I’ve had coffee. I know people say that all the time, but in my case I almost feel like it’s a medical condition. I’ve brushed my teeth with shaving cream on more than one occasion and once relieved myself in my mom’s favorite potted palm.”
“I’m not sure you should share that last part,” I whisper.
Carter wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table in front of him. “You’ve got a very mischievous smile there, Evil.”
I point to my chest. “Me? You should see yours.”
He leans forward. “It’s because I like being around you. It’s like the same buzzy feeling I get when one of my clients posts a grammatically correct tweet.”
This makes me laugh because I can absolutely relate. “That’s pretty buzzy.”
He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and sucks it, watching me.
I don’t remember Carter being this overwhelmingly sexual when we first met. Maybe it was because I wasn’t showing shoulder, or because we were both dressed as preteens, but it’s definitely overwhelming right now.
Carter sips his beer, looking out through the foliage of the indoor-outdoor space to the sidewalk. It’s a busy neighborhood anytime, but it’s cooled down a bit tonight and the streets seem full of people out walking, headed somewhere, headed nowhere.
“It’s so warm here in the fall,” he says, tilting his glass up to his mouth again. I watch him swallow, feeling this tight, creeping anxiety, because dammit, I like him. “It surprises me every time.”
I might really like him.
“Our summer always comes late,” I say. “June and July are pretty nice. The summer really hits in August through October.”
He turns back to me and smiles. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“Was it a hard decision to leave New York?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I’d thought about it for a few years, but always hesitated because it sort of felt like Jonah’s territory.”
“I could see that, I guess.”
“But as my career progressed, LA became an obvious option.” He spins his spoon on the table, absently staring down at it. “There’s only so much for talent agents in New York—theater is huge, obviously, but . . . I don’t know . . .” Taking a deep breath, he seems to grow more contemplative, until he exhales and turns his face up to me, smiling again. “I needed to do something different. I like TV-Lit but would like to be more film-based. Baby steps.”
The degree to which he’s genuine throws me again and again. Everything about him seems so up front and frank, but there’s a complexity, too. No wonder he’s good at this job.
“Have you ever considered leaving California?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m too much of a movie fanatic to give it up.”
“Where did you grow up?”
I hook my thumb behind me, as if he can see it from here. “Not LA proper. In San Dimas.”
