Dating You / Hating You
Page 47
Oh, no.
I’m softening toward him again, which can mean only one thing: my defenses are down. It would probably be wise for me to make a list of all the ways he offends me on a personal and professional level.
1. He’s too overtly sexy for the workplace.
2. He clearly can’t button his shirts. Deleted b/c hypocritical.
3. He
I look up and stare blankly at the fingers flipping the pen back and forth across his hand.
I’ll compile the rest of the list later.
I’m also—and I loathe saying it because I despise the cliché of two girls pitted against each other for the boy—slightly annoyed by Kylie. She’s sitting at the end of the table near Brad’s perch, waiting like all of us for the boss man to appear, but she isn’t even trying to be subtle about staring at Carter. She may or may not be having an affair with Brad, but she definitely wants to bang Carter. I am zero percent on board with this plan, because just before I light his tight pants on fire, I’d like to actually have sex with him.
Maybe that’d get him out of my system.
“How was the Vanity Fair shoot?” Brad asks, strolling into the room, and both Carter and I jump.
“Great!” we exclaim in unison.
Brad narrows his eyes at us, and Carter grins. “It went off without a hitch.”
I nod. “No bumps.”
“Or grinds,” Carter adds, and stifles a grin.
I stare at the table, trying to strangle down my laugh. The giddy thrill of having Carter acknowledge what we did on Friday makes me want to jump on the table and start channeling Missy Elliott.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brad sit up. “Yeah?”
“They got all the shots they needed,” Carter says. “Everyone left happy.”
“On the whole, I was very satisfied,” I add.
Carter coughs, and the room falls into a heavy silence.
Brad’s steely gaze narrows and he glances back and forth between me and Carter, who are very pointedly not looking at each other. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing,” we say in unison again.
“I don’t want to know any more,” Brad says, turning to Ashton.
Everyone is awkwardly shifting in their seats, looking at each other in silent What do you know about this? communication. No one cares about the photo shoot; there’s drama all the time at those things, but it’s rarely between the agents. Now they’re pigs sniffing for truffles. Our colleagues are either dying of curiosity or convinced they know something, but no one is oblivious. Not in this business.
I glance over at Kylie and catch her sullen pout directed at Carter. He seems to catch it at the same time, doing a tiny double take before busying himself with something on his phone.
But I don’t miss the way he peeks up at me, eyes shining.
“Ashton,” Brad says, “have you heard back from Joe Tierney over at Paramount?”
“He moved to DreamWorks last week,” I say absently, tearing my attention from Carter.
Everyone goes silent.
It’s an unspoken rule that any correcting of the boss is done way more subtly than that. Brad is top dog here. Brad is the first to know everything. That’s the rule, did I forget about that?
“No. I don’t think so,” Brad says, pulling his glasses lower so he can peer at me over the rims. “He’s there until March.”
I wince, shaking my head, inwardly telling myself to shut the hell up. The last thing I need to give Brad is another reason to dislike me.
“He left early. Wiggled out of his contract.” I try to lighten this with a little smile, but Brad just stares blankly at me for several silent seconds.
“Getting out of a contract. What an interesting idea.” The room is as silent as a grave. “Thanks for the clarification,” he says, slow-blinking back down to his notes and writing it down.
My good mood vanishes. What have I just done?
• • •
Despite the flirtation of the Monday meeting, for the rest of the week Carter and I really do put our heads down and bust our asses. It’s the end of the year, when we’re all scrambling to wrap up the last few contracts before Hollywood essentially shuts down for a month around Christmas. It seems as though every time I’m in the office, Carter is at an off-site. We don’t even pass each other in the halls or parking deck.
To be honest, it’s better this way. Having that random tension-release hookup on Friday doesn’t really change anything, as Brad so aptly reminded me on Monday. Looking back, I missed the beginning of the shoot while I was getting pleasured by Carter, and lost some of my professional traction by being punny with him in front of the entire Features department. Not to mention this little game we’ve been playing. Thank God we both pulled our heads out of our asses before someone lost a client, or worse.
I’ve never put a guy before my career, although the impact of that decision sometimes needles my thoughts: if you always put career first, you will only have your career to put first. Unfortunately, in this case, it really is a choice of the job or the guy.
By Friday afternoon, everyone is in the rising phase of cocktail hour. Every November Brad hosts a tree-lighting party at his house; this year’s party is tonight, which adds extra oomph to the office drinking. The atmosphere outside my door is cheerful if not yet booming. I can feel everyone’s giddiness, the relief of being able to let their proverbial hair down. Unfortunately, I have about seven calls to return and three contracts to pore through before I can call it a day and join the pre-party.
With my door closed, I tap the space bar to wake up my computer and try not to groan out loud at the seventy-five new emails since I last checked, only an hour ago.
A quiet knock lands on my door, and Carter pokes his head in.
My heart takes off running, and a heavy ache builds beneath my ribs, and just maybe between my legs, too. I missed him this week more than I wanted to admit.
“We’re all out here, hanging . . .” he says, tilting his head back a little and then giving me a tentative smile.
I’d rather have him sit down and just . . . hang with me.
“Come in,” I say, and he steps inside, nudging my door mostly closed behind him.
He looks around my office for a few quiet seconds. “How are you?”
“Good.” I feel like he can probably see my heart punching me from the inside. “How are you?”
Carter nods. “I’m good. Are you going to come out and join us?”
“I was out with a client most of the afternoon and have a few things I need to do before I can call it a day.”
“Do you want me to bring you a beer?”
As if to remind me what I’d be facing out there, Brad’s voice booms down the hall, causing me to grimace. The last thing I want to do is be with Mr. Team Token when I’m already stressed and buried under a to-do list the size of California.
“I’m good,” I say. “But thanks.”
Carter sighs, glancing over to the door. “Okay.” His jaw is tight, and even his frustrated profile looks amazing.
Wait. Why is he frustrated?
“ ‘Okay’?” I repeat, mimicking his tone. “What’s wrong?”
He looks back at me, and his expression softens a little. “Everyone else is out there. And you’re in here.”
“I’m working,” I say gently. It’s surprising in an awesome way that he wants me out there, but he seems more irritated than sweet about it. “I’m swamped.”
I’m softening toward him again, which can mean only one thing: my defenses are down. It would probably be wise for me to make a list of all the ways he offends me on a personal and professional level.
1. He’s too overtly sexy for the workplace.
2. He clearly can’t button his shirts. Deleted b/c hypocritical.
3. He
I look up and stare blankly at the fingers flipping the pen back and forth across his hand.
I’ll compile the rest of the list later.
I’m also—and I loathe saying it because I despise the cliché of two girls pitted against each other for the boy—slightly annoyed by Kylie. She’s sitting at the end of the table near Brad’s perch, waiting like all of us for the boss man to appear, but she isn’t even trying to be subtle about staring at Carter. She may or may not be having an affair with Brad, but she definitely wants to bang Carter. I am zero percent on board with this plan, because just before I light his tight pants on fire, I’d like to actually have sex with him.
Maybe that’d get him out of my system.
“How was the Vanity Fair shoot?” Brad asks, strolling into the room, and both Carter and I jump.
“Great!” we exclaim in unison.
Brad narrows his eyes at us, and Carter grins. “It went off without a hitch.”
I nod. “No bumps.”
“Or grinds,” Carter adds, and stifles a grin.
I stare at the table, trying to strangle down my laugh. The giddy thrill of having Carter acknowledge what we did on Friday makes me want to jump on the table and start channeling Missy Elliott.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brad sit up. “Yeah?”
“They got all the shots they needed,” Carter says. “Everyone left happy.”
“On the whole, I was very satisfied,” I add.
Carter coughs, and the room falls into a heavy silence.
Brad’s steely gaze narrows and he glances back and forth between me and Carter, who are very pointedly not looking at each other. “What am I missing?”
“Nothing,” we say in unison again.
“I don’t want to know any more,” Brad says, turning to Ashton.
Everyone is awkwardly shifting in their seats, looking at each other in silent What do you know about this? communication. No one cares about the photo shoot; there’s drama all the time at those things, but it’s rarely between the agents. Now they’re pigs sniffing for truffles. Our colleagues are either dying of curiosity or convinced they know something, but no one is oblivious. Not in this business.
I glance over at Kylie and catch her sullen pout directed at Carter. He seems to catch it at the same time, doing a tiny double take before busying himself with something on his phone.
But I don’t miss the way he peeks up at me, eyes shining.
“Ashton,” Brad says, “have you heard back from Joe Tierney over at Paramount?”
“He moved to DreamWorks last week,” I say absently, tearing my attention from Carter.
Everyone goes silent.
It’s an unspoken rule that any correcting of the boss is done way more subtly than that. Brad is top dog here. Brad is the first to know everything. That’s the rule, did I forget about that?
“No. I don’t think so,” Brad says, pulling his glasses lower so he can peer at me over the rims. “He’s there until March.”
I wince, shaking my head, inwardly telling myself to shut the hell up. The last thing I need to give Brad is another reason to dislike me.
“He left early. Wiggled out of his contract.” I try to lighten this with a little smile, but Brad just stares blankly at me for several silent seconds.
“Getting out of a contract. What an interesting idea.” The room is as silent as a grave. “Thanks for the clarification,” he says, slow-blinking back down to his notes and writing it down.
My good mood vanishes. What have I just done?
• • •
Despite the flirtation of the Monday meeting, for the rest of the week Carter and I really do put our heads down and bust our asses. It’s the end of the year, when we’re all scrambling to wrap up the last few contracts before Hollywood essentially shuts down for a month around Christmas. It seems as though every time I’m in the office, Carter is at an off-site. We don’t even pass each other in the halls or parking deck.
To be honest, it’s better this way. Having that random tension-release hookup on Friday doesn’t really change anything, as Brad so aptly reminded me on Monday. Looking back, I missed the beginning of the shoot while I was getting pleasured by Carter, and lost some of my professional traction by being punny with him in front of the entire Features department. Not to mention this little game we’ve been playing. Thank God we both pulled our heads out of our asses before someone lost a client, or worse.
I’ve never put a guy before my career, although the impact of that decision sometimes needles my thoughts: if you always put career first, you will only have your career to put first. Unfortunately, in this case, it really is a choice of the job or the guy.
By Friday afternoon, everyone is in the rising phase of cocktail hour. Every November Brad hosts a tree-lighting party at his house; this year’s party is tonight, which adds extra oomph to the office drinking. The atmosphere outside my door is cheerful if not yet booming. I can feel everyone’s giddiness, the relief of being able to let their proverbial hair down. Unfortunately, I have about seven calls to return and three contracts to pore through before I can call it a day and join the pre-party.
With my door closed, I tap the space bar to wake up my computer and try not to groan out loud at the seventy-five new emails since I last checked, only an hour ago.
A quiet knock lands on my door, and Carter pokes his head in.
My heart takes off running, and a heavy ache builds beneath my ribs, and just maybe between my legs, too. I missed him this week more than I wanted to admit.
“We’re all out here, hanging . . .” he says, tilting his head back a little and then giving me a tentative smile.
I’d rather have him sit down and just . . . hang with me.
“Come in,” I say, and he steps inside, nudging my door mostly closed behind him.
He looks around my office for a few quiet seconds. “How are you?”
“Good.” I feel like he can probably see my heart punching me from the inside. “How are you?”
Carter nods. “I’m good. Are you going to come out and join us?”
“I was out with a client most of the afternoon and have a few things I need to do before I can call it a day.”
“Do you want me to bring you a beer?”
As if to remind me what I’d be facing out there, Brad’s voice booms down the hall, causing me to grimace. The last thing I want to do is be with Mr. Team Token when I’m already stressed and buried under a to-do list the size of California.
“I’m good,” I say. “But thanks.”
Carter sighs, glancing over to the door. “Okay.” His jaw is tight, and even his frustrated profile looks amazing.
Wait. Why is he frustrated?
“ ‘Okay’?” I repeat, mimicking his tone. “What’s wrong?”
He looks back at me, and his expression softens a little. “Everyone else is out there. And you’re in here.”
“I’m working,” I say gently. It’s surprising in an awesome way that he wants me out there, but he seems more irritated than sweet about it. “I’m swamped.”
