My Charming Rival Read online

  I was greeted by silence. Dead silence, and my heart dropped for a second. Had I pissed off J.P.? I hoped to hell not. I needed this man on my side.

  “Seriously?” he finally said, his voice doing a fantastic impression of the adjective irritated. I could practically see him rolling his eyes.

  “Well, yes,” I said. “Seriously.”

  “Her PR firm puts out an alert for her. She wants to be shot. That’s why the photo is only worth a few bucks. Now send that bad boy to me, and stop asking questions that make you look like a noob.”

  Noob.

  As he ended the call, I fired up my photo software, downloaded the pics, and sent them off to J.P. I was tempted to add a line to the email that said, “I was just kidding. Of course I knew that.”

  But then I really would look like the noob I was. And who wants to be a noob?

  Besides, I had other masters to answer to, like the name blasting now on my phone. Uncle James. Grabbing my iPad, backpack, and phone, I scurried out of the Starbucks and back onto the street. A woman in red high heels walking a miniature poodle with a black-and-white polka-dot collar glared at me for nearly knocking into her.

  “Sorry,” I muttered to her, as I answered the phone. “Hey, James.”

  “Give me the good news,” he said, not bothering with hello. The man really took crassness to a new level. “Are you getting the intel?”

  “I’m working on it,” I said. “I’m getting some good shots.”

  “Shots? I need more than shots. Shots aren’t good enough, kid.”

  “Yes, of course. That’s all part of the plan. More than shots,” I added, bristling at the condescending name he used for me. Kid. For some reason, it bothered me more than noob.

  “When will these ‘more than shots’ be coming? Because you did fine managing the records, but if you expect anything more from me, I’m going to need more from you,” he said. “That’s the way it goes here.”

  James, an American, had married my mum’s sister many years ago, a pairing that sent her out of merry old England and setting up home here. He’d been running his firm for more than a decade and had built a respectable business in Southern California. But even though I’d been in the States for nearly two years and wasn’t just job-hungry—I was job-starving—he’d refused to send me work for the longest time. I didn’t want to beg him for help; I wanted to be my own man. But finally, Matthew called our mum, who called her sister, who narrowed her eyes and told James to stop being a prick and help out her nephew. After all, James was in the rare position of being in charge of hiring for an American company, so that made him a prize as far as my American job-hunting connections went. He begrudgingly hired me for a little work here and there doing computer maintenance, then handling the databases, then managing a long list of names for an upcoming project, and I’d been fortunate enough when he moved me into field work. I crossed my fingers that the field work would turn full-time, and that he’d sponsor me for a visa. But there were no promises. There never were with James. He’d always been a bit of a dick. But he was family, so he was the family dick. At least he wasn’t a Harrigan. Some small solace.

  “Soon, very soon. I promise,” I said.

  “I am a fan of very soon. I am not a fan of soon. That clear?”

  I bit back my annoyance. “Very soon it will be,” I said.

  He said goodbye and I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, the warm California sun reminding me of all that I loved about this town.

  Every day, every second, the clock was winding down on days like this.

  I paced down the block, then back again, then once more as I pondered my options.

  But it came down to this—Jess was my only in. I ran a hand roughly through my hair, racking my brain for the limited information I had on her. I had to try again to see her, but to do so, I’d need to break down those walls she had.

  I snapped my fingers when it hit me. Though I barely knew her, she’d already given me the necessary clues.

  * * *

  Jess

  * * *

  When my final class ended for the day, I caught up with Anaka and walked to the scooter parking.

  “I have a plan to get some wedding deets for you,” Anaka said, brushing her nearly black hair off her shoulders. “My mom emailed earlier to remind me about a charity dinner thing we have tonight that the studio is sponsoring. They want me with them to present the whole perfect family united front—”

  “But it’s not a front. You are the perfect family,” I pointed out.

  She nodded. “True. It’s kind of ridiculous that I actually like my parents.”

  “And it’s equally ridiculous that I like mine.”

  “We will remain ridiculous together. Anyway, so I’m going to weave in the wedding questions while we’re driving to dinner.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Right? It’ll be casual, car chatter, blah blah blah. It won’t seem like I’m angling for something.”

  “Again, why have you not shown your father any of your fabulous screenplays?” I asked as I turned on my phone to see if J.P. had an assignment for me. I had it powered down during the day so I wouldn’t be tempted. If I knew there was an assignment coming through at noon, a chance to snag proof of a clandestine lunch date or to catch a midday shopping trip, I’d race out of class and chase a picture, and Tuesdays were my busiest days for classes. I had to avoid the tease, and I did that by going dark.

  Anaka gave me a quizzical look. “What does planning to talk to my mom about the Bowman and Belle wedding have to do with screenplays?”

  “Because this is my point. You plot everything. You plan everything. You’re always mapping out the next scene, the next thing, the way to solve the problem. You’re like the bald guy who ran mission control in the aborted Mars landing movie,” I said.

  “But I have better hair.”

  “You have hair. And it is way better.”

  My phone dinged like a church bell. A message from J.P. I touched the screen and scrolled: Up for a pedi patrol late afternoon? Should be some TV beauties from that LGO hooker show getting toes done in the usual spot.

  J.P. must have gotten a tip from one of his very many assistant sources. That was where most of his out-and-about assignments originated. The assistants got a little thank you from J.P. in the form of extra cash.

  “Hey, I gotta go,” I said, and strapped on my helmet.

  “Ooh, what’s the assignment today?”

  I told her and her eyes lit up. “I need a mani-pedi. Can I come?”

  “What? And cramp my style? Love you. I’ll see you later. Besides, you have your dinner thing.”

  “Get me a good shot.”

  “Always.”

  As she walked off, I double checked the message from J.P. Then I spotted a new one. From HBG.

  HBG: Did you know that Sullivan West will be outrunning Nazis tomorrow evening at the Silver Screen Theater on Wilshire? First time in more than a year that Bandits of The Forgotten Crown is being shown on a big screen in LA. I’d love to take you.

  Damn. My heart started tap-dancing on my brain.

  Then I read a second text from him.

  HBG: P.S. Did you know the Silver Screen Theater has…wait for it…air-popped popcorn? You probably knew that but I have a hunch you might be a fan of air-popped popcorn. You are, aren’t you?

  As I re-read the note, the tap dancing sped up, my damn heart beating out a staccato rhythm so quickly that all logical brain cells were quashed. The rational lobes shut down, and I was left with only the emotional, hormonal ones that took control of my fingers and made me reply with a You’ve got your yes.

  Because movies, air-popped popcorn, and the Silver Screen Theater on Wilshire formed my trifecta.

  As I headed for the strip of street with the best mani-pedi salons in town, I found myself looking forward to seeing the movie with him.

  But when I arrived at manicure row, I wasn’t happy to spot William Harrigan parking his m
otorcycle down the street, too.

  That fact that he was here could only mean one thing.

  9

  Jess

  * * *

  “Tell me I’m not paranoid. Tell me you’re not phasing me out.”

  “You’re not paranoid,” J.P. said. “I’m not phasing you out.”

  I ducked into the doorway of a juice cleanse store, pressing my back flat against the brick wall so the pair of mommies pushing strollers could exit. “Tell me why he’s on the same stakeout two days in a row, then. You used to send me solo.”

  “Competition is good for the soul, Jess. Either that or I’ll just tell you now I’m secretly practicing for the matchmaking business I’m going to open soon, and you and Criminally Handsome are my first test,” he said, and I could hear the tease in his tone, like a cat playing with a mouse. He was toying with me, and he was having a damn fine time.

  “Well, you’re failing because I don’t like him,” I said, patently lying, as I stepped out of the doorway and paced down the block, far away from the hot guy who I’d stupidly agreed to a date with. Next up on my to-do list? Cancel the date.

  “Ah, that’s just how you feel now. He’ll grow on you.”

  “Doubtful. But seriously. Why are you doing this? Why are you sending him out on the same jobs?” I asked, and there was the slightest quiver in the way the words came out of my throat. I crossed the street, putting distance between William and me. I thought I’d beat him yesterday, but he was back for more. There was no way I was letting him win this little turf battle, no matter how sexy his accent was or how charming his texts were.

  “Jess, you’re not my only shooter,” he said in his no-nonsense voice. “You think I close operations when you’re in class? Ha. The stars of the world are out and about twenty-four seven, and so are my shooters. Besides, it’s his second job of the day. He already got a picture of Monica Tremaine drinking an iced latte down on Melrose. Two pics actually. One I sold to my purple-haired friend, the other to Star Sightings. Cha-ching,” he added, making a sound like a slot machine.

  “Monica Tremaine,” I said, smacking my free hand on my forehead. “Everyone takes pictures every day of Monica Tremaine drinking iced soy chai lattes on Melrose. She’s a reality show star! She sends out press alerts when she goes to the grocery store!”

  “Sometimes a man’s gotta go for the low-hanging fruit.”

  “Just don’t phase me out, please. I need this job,” I said in a desperate voice as I pictured the tuition due notice perfectly on my table. Taunting me. Mocking me. “Please, J.P.”

  “Jess, we’re all good,” he said gently. “Go get me some pedi shots, and I’ll pretend I never heard that little hitch in your voice when you sounded like you were about to cry.”

  “‘There’s no crying in baseball,’” I said, quoting a famous sports movie line as I recovered to my usual, hardened self.

  “That’s what I like to hear. Now go take your pissed-off-at-the-world attitude and let it fuel a little photo shoot.”

  I ended the call, slid the phone into my back pocket, and marched back to the three-block stretch full of boutiques and cafés and yoga studios and yoga-clothes-selling studios and pilates places and places selling pilates things, each one bookended by a nail salon. It was like shooting fish in a barrel sometimes on this street if you showed up at the right time. At other times, it was a ghost town when it came to famous faces. Today I assumed my best casual afternoon stroll demeanor as I ambled past the stores, perused the entryways, and scanned the pedi chairs as if I were simply looking for a good leather seat complete with massage roller and remote control. I didn’t see Evangeline Harris or anyone else from the LGO show J.P. was talking about—Stacked, a series about hookers that left all the viewers hot and bothered every Sunday night.

  As I conducted my recon, I did my best to avoid William. I pretended I didn’t see him on the other side of the street. I acted as if I didn’t notice that he was doing the same thing I was doing. I made believe he wasn’t mirroring me, and that I didn’t agree to a date with him, either. I certainly hadn’t engaged in any flirty texting with him.

  But I couldn’t fake it any longer, because a few minutes later, he was crossing the street and walking towards me, all six feet and then some sexiness of him. He had the look, all right. The jeans, the loose and sexy tee that hinted at his abs but didn’t reveal too much, the nicely toned arms on display, those eyes like a stormy sky, and that lopsided grin that I wanted to lick and kiss and smack the hell off his too-fine face.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, and then flashed a smile. I wanted to arrest him for the smile. It was the sort of grin that should be outlawed for being impossible to not adore.

  “Yes, I’m so surprised to see you here that I’m about to faint of not surprise,” I said as I stepped onto the next block.

  “How was your day?” he asked, as he helped himself to walking next to me.

  “It was great,” I said, emphasizing the past tense.

  “And it no longer is, I take it?”

  “No, actually it just got eons worse,” I said, hoping the lie I’d just spun would shoo him away because I’d spied Evangeline, the biggest-breasted of the big-breasted stars of Stacked, and she was suckling an iced coffee and talking on her phone while wearing short shorts and a red T-shirt and having her toenails polished a shade of purple. One of her co-stars, the pushing-forty veteran lady of the night, sat next to her.

  I didn’t want William to see the pirate’s booty I’d discovered, and I knew how to get him out of the way. He was a gentleman, and I would use that in my favor.

  I smacked my palm against my forehead. “Crap. I think I forgot to lock my scooter. I better go check it.” I swiveled in the other direction, and then very deliberately stepped on my right foot with my left, as if my feet had gotten tangled up, and I proceeded to trip on the sidewalk. I braced myself with my palms. Even though I knew what was coming, it still hurt when my hands met concrete. But I didn’t care about a scrape if this ruse worked out.

  “Ouch,” I said and winced. The wince wasn’t fake.

  He knelt down next to me. “Are you okay? Can I help?”

  I shook my head bravely, putting on my best game face. “I’m fine,” I said, and pursed my lips together. I tried to stand, but moaned as if it hurt too much. “My scooter,” I muttered. “Someone’s going to steal it. I have to go lock it.”

  “Let me go check for you, Jess,” he said, and then trotted down the block, his back to me, on his way to my scooter. I jumped up, unzipped my backpack, grabbed my camera, and popped into the doorway of the salon to snap several zoom-in shots of the actress with the larger-than-life breasts, then a few more of her companion.

  A short woman with a white lab coat ran to the door and held her palm up, the official sign for get your damn camera out of my store/face/life.

  “Get away,” she said in a thick voice, and motioned down the street.

  With a quick smile and a nod, since I’d gotten what I came for, I turned away from the shop. Off in the distance was William, checking out my scooter, tugging on the lock as if to verify that my ride was indeed safe. It was. It was as safe as the second I’d left it. Which gave me another minute or two to send in the shot. I grabbed my laptop, downloaded the photos, and hit send as he walked back to me with a curious, but knowing look on his face.

  He pointed to my laptop, then to my knee, then my scraped hands.

  “Quick recovery?”

  “Seems I made one.”

  “Your scooter’s safe.”

  “So’s my job. For today at least.”

  “You played me,” he said, but he didn’t sound mad. He sounded impressed.

  “It worked,” I said, pride suffusing my tone. “But the scrapes are real.”

  “Yeah, I feel terrible. Shall I go hunt down a Band-Aid for you now? Oh wait. You carry them with you. You’re always prepared.”

  “You never know when you might have to take a fa
ll to be first,” I said, and rooted around in the front pocket of my backpack for a Band-Aid. I found one, peeled off the wrapping, and started to press it onto my palm.

  “Let me help,” he said in a soft voice, laying the ends of the Band-Aid onto my skin. He stepped closer, his body now officially in the zone of supreme nearness—the zone that would allow for hands to explore chests, and arms to be wrapped around necks, and lips to lock again. I held my breath. My hands tingled under his touch. “This is the part in the script where the reformed bad boy touches the heroine for the second time,” he whispered.

  I wanted to close my eyes and linger in the moment. But I had to be stoic. I couldn’t say what I wanted to say. That this was the moment when the heroine’s skin raced from the barest touch. So I lied. “This is the part where the heroine doesn’t even notice.”

  He raised an eyebrow. He held my gaze. I didn’t look away in enough time. My breath caught, and my lips were parted. “Hi,” he whispered in a voice that was getting under my skin.

  “Hi,” I said against my better judgment, against my brain.

  “Are we still on for the movie tomorrow?”

  “You’re just asking me out because I’m the competition, right? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

  “I’m asking because I want to go out with you. Not because you’re the enemy.”

  I scoffed. “At least you admitted I’m the enemy. That’s why you’re asking me.”

  He raised his hand, reaching gently for a strand of my hair. My feet felt wobbly with him so near to me. The earth was suddenly operating at a bizarre angle. I pressed my palm against the brick wall behind me to steady myself as he ran a finger along my hair. So softly. “I swear,” he whispered, pinning me with his gaze. “I truly want to see the movie with you. Say you’re still going with me.”

  Wanting to believe him, but knowing better, I grabbed onto that kernel of self-restraint, and slipped away from him. “I don’t know. I need to stay focused on school and work,” I admitted.