Page 41 of My Sexy Rival (Stars In Their Eyes 2)
“Or maybe you just felt an instant kinship?” I offered. “Countryman and all.”
“Right. That must be it,” he said, then flashed a quick grin that didn’t seem quite natural. He tucked the publicist cards in the middle of the stack, and returned them to the nightstand. “Let’s talk about something besides publicists. Tell me more about your non-celebrity photography.”
We spent the next few hours talking, and then exploring each other’s bodies once again. There was no question it was the best night of my life.
SUNDAY
SUNDAY
Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny
16
Jess
* * *
William left my apartment shortly after the sun rose to shower and prep at his place for his meeting. Swatting away my temptation to sleep for another glorious hour, I forced myself out of bed so I could spend the morning studying before I saw him. After tackling biochemistry, I was ready to tackle William, so I showered, dressed, and rode over to the promenade, arriving five minutes early.
After I locked my scooter, I checked my phone and found a new text message from William.
Crap. My meeting is running late. Can you give me 30 min?
Like I was going to say no.
Besides, my good mood from falling in love had me walking on cloud nine, so I replied with a yes, then made my way to the nearest bookstore to see which shots my colleagues and competitors had landed in magazines last week. When I finished my perusal, I headed to the coffee shop, passing the brunch crowd at Rosanna’s Hideout on the way. I scanned the tables on the deck in case I spotted a familiar face, and could whip off a few quick shots for J.P. to cheer him up. He was still sorely depressed over the wedding fiasco. I unzipped my backpack to reach for my camera, when I saw someone I knew.
Avery Brock.
With his publicist.
The smarmy-looking guy with the mane of wavy gray hair.
Avery was wearing shades, drinking a cup of coffee, and looking exceedingly irritated.
His publicist was drinking tea.
He was seated next to an older guy with a bald spot that was shiny in the morning sun.
There was a fourth person at the table, and that person wasn’t drinking anything. That person was talking animatedly. That person was the person who’d made love to me less than twelve hours ago.
I blinked several times, trying to wish the tableau away. But every time, the players remained the same and so had the played—me. Because William fucking Harrigan was working for Avery fucking Brock.
All along. Throughout all our efforts. During the stakeout. As I passed him information. He was working for the scumbag, two-timing, cheating director and he never told me.
I burned.
No wonder William seemed fake when I showed him Trevor’s flash card last night—the bastard knew him. Because the bastard was on his payroll, passing my intel onto the philandering toad.
Fire licked my insides, coating me in righteous anger. If William would lie about that, how on earth could I trust him about anything?
Every nerve ending in me snapped, every muscle in my body tightened, and every survival instinct from living in this town of liars and actors and fakers kicked in. Walking away was not an option. He needed to know I’d seen him. I left the camera safe and sound at the bottom of my backpack, and marched to the tables on the deck, claiming my post by the railing. This was our spectator sport in LA and it was one anyone could play—the spotted-someone-on-the-street game.
“Oh my God, William, is that you?” I said in my best over-the-top blond and bubbly California girl impression.
The guy I’d foolishly fallen in love with glanced at me, blinked twice, and swallowed hard. Like a deer in the headlights, he looked the same as when I marched up to him in Manhattan Beach and busted him for following me.
“I haven’t seen you in, like, forever,” I said, dragging out the last word. “How are you? How’s school? How’s your dog? You remember me, right? Claire Tinsley.”
“Hi, Claire,” he said in a strained voice.
“I have to tell you this story about a dog I was training. You gentlemen don’t mind, do you?”
Avery said nothing. He crossed his arms, and slinked down further in the chair. The publicist affixed a fake smile that he probably flashed twenty-five times a day on his phony face. The guy with the bald spot grumbled go ahead.
“So I had this celebrity client—I can’t say who he is, but I’m sure you understand, William, how important it is to not reveal who you work for,” I said, giving him a sharp look as I went for the jugular with the reminder that he’d once said he could never tell me who his client was. “But his dog was being so naughty. His dog was literally humping all the lady dogs in the neighborhood.”
