#mind you in other photos Jamie was originally wearing a light blue shirt

[humbugtrack3]

the total difference in their outfits between these two photos is CRAZY to me

[isitgintimeyet]

Just a Friend

Hope you enjoy the next chapter of this story. Thanks to you all for reading this. You comments are lovely to read.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Previous

AO3

Chapter 5: From Facebook to Friends

When I was a little girl, Uncle Lamb would sometimes take me into university with him. I would creep into the lecture theatre and sit at the back watching him as he enthused about Phoenician trade routes, or long gone military strategies. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but I loved it anyway. The passion he had for his subject matter thrilled me.

And once the lecture was over, I would join him in his office and we would squeeze together in an old armchair, drinking hot, sweet tea while he tried to explain the principles of a three thousand year old civilisation in words a seven year old would understand.

The armchair is now in my office at the hospital. It looks more than a bit incongruous amongst the standard NHS furniture. The rich green velvet fabric has faded to a shabby eau de nil colour and years of shuffling bottoms have left a large depression in the seat cushion. But I won’t have it reupholstered. I love it as it is. It’s a great reminder of my wonderful uncle. I sit in it and somehow it comforts me, like a soothing hug.

**********************

I glance at the clock as I walk into my office, paper cup of hot, sweet tea in hand, and head straight for Lamb’s chair. Gratefully, I sink into its depths and take a tentative sip of the steaming liquid before closing my eyes for a moment. The surgery was long; much longer than anticipated—having taken all morning and most of the afternoon, in fact. It had also been far more complicated—my original plans for keyhole surgery had to be changed, but, eventually, we completed the operation successfully. I’m always proud of my theatre team, but never more so than in situations like this.

And now, after hours of concentration, I feel in need of some light relief. I can go home, have a wonderfully reviving shower and then what? I know that Dougal is taking Geillis out for a meal tonight, so she’s not available. Mary and Anna are both working nights this week, so no joy there. Other friends live too far away for an impromptu midweek activity.  I could go to the gym. I should go to the gym. Or… more likely, I’ll go home, have cheese on toast, a glass of wine and watch ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ for the fifteenth time instead.

I reach for my phone to check for messages.  A notification for a Facebook friend request appears on my screen. I very rarely get new friend requests—other than the odd random gentleman hoping, I presume, to make some sort of connection. I always delete immediately.

And, yes, the request is from a gentleman—one Jamie Fraser. The profile picture is definitely Samsonite Jamie, even wearing the Scotland rugby shirt I fingered whilst foraging through his suitcase. I click accept. Why not? I don’t think I have anything too embarrassing on my posts. In fact, I don’t use it very often at all.

Neither, it seems, does Mr. Fraser. His cover photo shows a very youthful bunch of Scottish rugby supporters and his recent timeline seems to comprise mostly of being tagged in photos by Laoghaire Mackenzie. Is it my imagination, or does he have a resigned look on his face on each of their ‘selfies’?

My tea is cool enough to drink now without scalding my tongue. I put my phone down and take a large gulp whilst considering tomorrow’s workload. My job is a series of highs and lows. Today, for example, started as routine, slumped to a worrying low, before peaking at a very relieved high. Tomorrow appears to be an easier day, certainly—a review of patients’ case notes in the morning followed by an outpatient clinic in the afternoon. All follow up patients, and all doing well as far as I know, so tomorrow is shaping up to be a very good day.

I open up my phone again. Facebook messenger is encouraging me to ‘say hi to your new Facebook friend.’  Without thinking, I send a little waving hand emoji to Samsonite Jamie.

I have no sooner put the phone down than it pings. Waving hand returned. I smile. What are we… thirteen years old? Next I’ll be asking him out for an Irn Bru and a bag of chips.

Ping again.  

You owe me…

Shit! The stain on his t-shirt, no doubt. I watch the dots on the screen. Perhaps he’s calculating the cost of a dry cleaner, or a new t-shirt.

You promised me an ice cream.

You up for buying one for me tonight?

I hesitate for a moment. I hope Jamie doesn’t think I’m after him or anything like that. I mean, he’s not really my type. As I’ve said before, I’ve always been attracted to academic, cerebral kind of men like Uncle Lamb, rather than Viking marauders.

And I’ve never subscribed to the idea that men and women can’t be friends. One of my closest friends at university was a man—Joe Abernathy.  If it wasn't for the fact that he is currently three thousand miles away, working in Boston, I would be arranging platonic ice cream outings with him.

So, deciding I have nothing to lose, I type my response.

If you can get to the kiosk by 6:30, it should still be open

A brief pause, then the response.

Great. See you there?

****************

Even at a distance, I recognise him sitting at a table next to the kiosk. No white t-shirt today, it looks like some sort of check lumberjack shirt. I breathe a sigh of relief. Not what I would call ‘first date’ clothing. Which is handy, seeing as I’m wearing ripped jeans and an oversized Aran jumper. I’m clean, presentable and fresh-smelling but definitely not dressed to impress.

He stands up when he sees me and greets me formally with a handshake. His hands are warm and dry—no nervous, sweaty palms here, which is another good sign. His shirt is blue, red and cream flannel and actually quite hideous.

“I hope this ice cream lives up tae ma expectations,” he says with the merest hint of challenge.

I crane my neck and look him straight in the eye. “No doubt at all. Cherry bakewell, is it? Double cone?”

“Aye. With a flake too. Compensation, ye ken.”

He stands aside to allow me to make the purchases. Before accepting the cone, he picks up half a dozen or so paper napkins and stuffs them in the pocket of his jeans.

“I’m prepared fer ye now. Do yer worst, Ms Beauchamp.”

I ignore his clear inference and follow him to a nearby bench.

“I can manage to eat and walk at the same time, you know,” I say in mock indignation.

“Hm,” he replies. “All the evidence sae far suggests the contrary. I need proof afore I believe it.”

There’s a moment of silence as we both focus on our ice creams. I lick neatly all the way around, trying to prevent any rogue drips trickling down the cone. Jamie pulls the flake from his cone and consumes it in two mouthfuls. He looks at me and laughs.

“Caught me. I’m a bit of a bugger fer chocolate,” he mumbles before swallowing.

“Right,” he continues, much more clearly now. “I suggest we get all the boring stuff out of the way. Ye ken, name, age, family, job, blah, blah blah. I’ll go first, if ye like.”

I nod my agreement.

“Sae, I’m James or Jamie Fraser. I’m thirty years old. Since our last conversation I am most definitely single. I live in Glasgow, obviously, but grew up on a farm near Inverness. My parents still run the farm. I have one sister, Jenny, who’s married tae Ian, my childhood friend. I have one nephew—a grand little lad known as Wee Jamie and a wee baby niece, Maggie . And I dinna think it’ll be long afore they’re joined by others. They all live here in Glasgow. My job, weel, I have a business—FraserFood—recipe boxes delivered tae yer door.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that. ‘From farm to fork.” That’s you, is it?”

He smiles proudly. “Aye, it’s me and ma family. Looks like ma marketing manager is doing a fine job, then.”

“Oh, forgot tae say, after the blah blah, ye have tae tell one confession. Only a wee one, mind.” He takes a large mouthful of his ice cream.

I purse my lips. “Really, and what if I’ve nothing to confess?”

Jamie snorts with laughter and does a funny sort of blink, screwing up his face and closing both eyes. Is he trying to wink? If so, he’s failing miserably. I try to look angelic and sin free. Judging by the look of scepticism on his face, It doesn’t seem to be working.

“Sae, my confession is, dah-dah-daaaah,” he does a fake fanfare, trying to build suspense. “I wanted tae be yer friend on Facebook because I wanted tae see if there were any photos of ye in Barcelona, with all yer...er… accessories.”

I feel myself redden. I’ve just remembered catching Geillis on Facebook the other day at work and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next.

“Verra interesting… in particular, the one with ye and six penis shot glasses. How d’ye manage tae get two of them in yer mouth at the same time?”

I inwardly curse Geillis and her desire to live her life through social media.

“Excuse me,” I reply somewhat primly. “I don’t think we’re at the Q and A stage yet.”

“So,” I continue in a lighter tone. “Me. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. I’m thirty two and I’m a paediatric  orthopaedic surgeon, here at the children’s hospital. I love my job so much, I can’t begin to tell you. As of two weeks ago, I am thankfully single. I was born in Oxford and moved up here when I was twelve, when my Uncle Lamb became a professor at the university. He brought me up, you know. Raised me when my parents died in a car accident... I… er...I was four at the time.”

I can feel Jamie looking at me, but I can’t raise my eyes. Telling people about my parents never gets any easier, no matter how many times I say those words. I concentrate on picking bits of wafer off my cone and throwing them to the ducks loitering nearby, waiting for some sort of treat.

“So it always was just my uncle and me.” I carry on talking. “Then he died… seven...seven years ago…” I can hear my voice start to crack as I fight back tears. A hand creeps into my vision and I gratefully accept the proffered paper napkin and wipe my face.

“Och, lass.” He says softly.

I clear my throat. “I'm sorry. We were having a nice conversation and then there I go, getting all teary. It’s just, well, we were a team, Uncle Lamb and I… the two musketeers. He was my hero.”

Blowing my nose in a most unladylike way, I toss the napkin into the neighbouring bin.

“And that’s pretty much me. As for a confession, well… I suppose it’s kind of one.”

He raises one eyebrow quizzically, making a better job of that than the whole winking lark, I think.

"Ok, well,  when I had your case, I tried to ring before I emailed you. I called the number in your case… twice. A woman answered and told me I had the wrong number—"

"Laoghaire."

"I know that now. But she obviously knew how to get onto your phone."

"Why did ye no' tell me?" He smiles as he says this. It's not a reprimand.

"I would have but you seemed to be coming to a conclusion anyway. No need to add more fuel to the fire."

"Happen ye're right."

He notices me shivering and gets to his feet. “Aye, there’s a bit of a chill. Fancy a wee walk tae warm up and we can carry on wi’ round two. It’s a quick fire round.”

I stand up and we move away from the pond. The ducks have already lost interest in us since they realise that we’ve nothing more to offer them. It’s pretty quiet in the park now, the cooler evening air seems to have kept people at home. The gravel crunching loudly under the soles of our shoes, I glance down and notice Jamie’s doing a sort of awkward stuttering movement with his feet. He’s clearly trying to match his stride pattern to mine. Which isn’t easy when his must be a good few inches longer than mine. Nice, considerate gesture, though.

“Sae, quick fire questions and answers. Ye can go first,” he says generously.

It only takes me a moment to think of a question that I have been wondering about ever since I explored the contents of his suitcase.

“What were you doing in Barcelona? I mean the contents of your case weren’t really fun-weekend-away stuff.”

“Nah, ye’re right. It wasna a holiday—flying visit only. I was there on business—talking tae a food wholesale company. Serrano ham, chorizo, saffron, that kind of thing,” he explains, a look of excitement on his face. “We’re expanding our range, starting with Spanish influenced recipes. A full three courses ready tae prepare, plus wine delivered straight tae yer door. Dinner party FraserFood style.”

He can’t stop smiling as he talks about these plans. And his hands move animatedly as he continues to elaborate on his new venture. His business is obviously his passion. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t got the desire for a relationship with a girlfriend—FraserFood seems to be his one love. No girl could compete.

He stops talking for a moment. “And here I am, boring ye.”

I shake my head. “Not at all, it’s really interesting.” I don’t have to lie. It’s the truth. My mouth is watering at his description of albondigas and flavoursome chicken and chorizo with cannellini beans. I’m ready to sign up for this delivery service any time.

“Sae, ma turn tae ask a question. Tell me, d’ye like this shirt?”

I try to stifle a laugh. The question is so unexpected and the shirt so awful. Trying to be diplomatic, I search for the right words, evading the actual question. “I’ve only seen you in white tops before, no colours.”

He sighs. “Ye’ve only seen me twice afore... anyway I dinna think ye need tae say any more. I ken ye’re being polite, but ye’re a terrible liar. I can tell by yer face ye dinna like this shirt. Laoghaire hated it, always made me change it. I did wonder if that was jes’ her being difficult. But apparently no’.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Ye dinna need tae apologise, Claire. Being honest is a good thing, is it no’? And friends should always tell each other the truth. And that’s what I think we’re going tae be, Claire— friends. D’ye no’ agree?”

I crane my neck  and look Jamie straight in the eye. “Yes, I do… friends.”

[anavoliselenu]

Claim me chapter 6

She follows me into my bedroom and perches at my desk in front of my laptop. It’s open, and the screensaver is a slideshow of pictures of Justin that I took in Santa Barbara. Justin with so much light and humor in his eyes that I can’t ever look at those photos without smiling. Between that screensaver and the exquisite, original Monet painting Justin gave me that now hangs between my desk and my dresser, I cannot enter this room without feeling cherished. It’s a nice feeling, and one that I am not used to. In college, my apartment was simply a place to live. With my mother, my room was the place I wanted to escape. But here, there is Jamie and my newfound freedom. There is excitement. There is potential.

Most of all, there is Justin.

This room is proof that I really have moved on, and that where I am going is where I want to be.

At my desk, Jamie is typing away. “Raine,” she finally says.

I’m standing by my closet, debating between a blue skirt and a gray one, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s not talking about precipitation.

“Bryan Raine,” she says, when I turn to face her, as if that will make me understand. Since my face apparently continues to register complete cluelessness, she shakes her head in mock exasperation, and taps the laptop screen. “My guy is Bryan Raine.”

Despite my rush, I’m curious enough to forgo my wardrobe analysis to see what she’s doing, and when I reach my desk, I see that she’s pulled up a series of images. They’re all of the same man. Gorgeous, mostly shirtless, with a well-fucked quality and the kind of eyes and facial structure and that dirty blond hair a camera loves. Most of the images, in fact, are from advertisements. Cars, men’s cologne. Jeans. I have to confess that the man could definitely sell a pair of jeans.

“That’s him,” Jamie says proudly.

“That’s the guy you were out with last night?”

“Yup.” She grins mischievously. “Though we stayed in most of the time. Pretty hot, huh?”

“He’s incredible,” I say as I move to my dresser and rummage for panties and a bra. For a moment, I hesitate. In the game I’ve been playing with Justin, I’ve had to follow his rules. And for the last two weeks, I’ve worn neither bra nor panties. It was odd at first, but undeniably sexy, especially when I was with him, knowing that at any moment he could slip a hand under my skirt. That he could touch me, tease me, even fingerfuck me.

There’s something desperately erotic about being naked beneath your clothes, and even when Justin wasn’t around, my body was keyed up, and I was aware of every brush of material over my rear and every whisper of a breeze that stroked my sex.

But this isn’t a game, it’s the first day of a new job and the Elizabeth Fairchild Rules for Living are too ingrained in my life. I might have spent my entire life trying to escape from my mother, but she has still soaked in through the cracks. And in my mother’s world, the thrill of sexual freedom doesn’t override the necessity of panties at work.

I slip on my underwear, sigh, and return to the closet to continue debating my outfit.

I glance at Jamie to see if she has an opinion, but she’s still gazing dreamily at the screen. “Don’t get drool on my keyboard,” I chide. “So how did you meet him?”

“He’s my co-star,” she says, referring to the commercial she’s about to start shooting. “He mostly models, but he’s also done a few television guest appearances and he was even one of the bad guys in the last James Bond movie.”

“He was?” I’d actually seen that movie, and I don’t remember him.

“Well, he stood around with a gun and looked hot,” she amends. “But he was on the bad guy team.”

“But you guys haven’t started to shoot yet,” I say, because I’m still confused. “So why did you go out with him? Which one?” I add, holding up the two skirts I’m considering.

“The blue. And he called me. He said that since the commercial’s basically a love story in thirty seconds, we ought to go out and suss out our chemistry.”

“I take it the chemistry is good?”

“Sizzling,” Jamie agrees, and although I’m still not thrilled about the ease with which Jamie bounces from bed to bed, I can’t deny that this morning my roommate looks good. Sparkly, fizzy good, and I figure that the new job and the new guy have a lot to do with that. I feel a surge of protectiveness mixed with relief and tinged with a tiny bit of worry. Jamie’s never confided in me about it, but I’m pretty sure that before I moved in she often chose her men based not on attraction but on their willingness to help her make the mortgage. If a real relationship develops between Jamie and Bryan Raine, no one will be happier than me. But if he ends up breaking her heart, I have a feeling that my strong, self-sufficient roommate will shatter.

I glance at her and see that she’s frowning. I swallow, afraid that my fears show on my face. “What is it?”

“You’re really wearing a skirt? I thought you tech folks were all about the jeans and T-shirts with math equations.”

I scowl, because I happen to own several T-shirts with truly funny math jokes. “First day on the job, and I’m not doing the tech side, remember. I’m management. I want to look professional.”

I’ve zipped up the blue skirt, and now I slide my feet into my favorite pair of pumps, then slip on a white silk shell that I top with a darling jacket I found at one of the studio resale shops that Jamie took me to during our Selena-just-arrived-in-LA shopping spree. It has a classical cut with a muted pattern in gray and blue. The clerk told us that it was worn by one of the characters on some television show I never watched, but that Jamie assured me was great fun.

“I want to hear more about this guy,” I tell her as I move back into the bathroom to fly through my makeup routine. “But I have to get going.” She follows me and leans against the door as I finish up by carefully lining my eyes and brushing mascara on my lashes. When I’m done, I do a little spin in the tiny area between the tub and the sink. “Do I look okay?”

“When don’t you?” she asks. “And if anyone asks, Lauren Graham wore that jacket on Gilmore Girls. Trust me, it’s cool.”

I nod, taking her word for it.

“Want to meet after work? I’ll tell you about Raine and you can tell me all about your nights away from home, too. I want to hear everything.”

“Sounds good,” I say, not bothering to tell her that where Justin is concerned, there is no way that I’m going to be revealing “everything.” “Du-par’s?” I ask.

“Are you shitting me? I want a drink. Meet me at Firefly,” she says, referring to a local bar on Ventura Boulevard that we went to my first night in town.

“I’ll text you as I’m leaving work,” I say, then pull her into a hug. “I’m really glad about this guy. I can’t wait to hear more.”

“I can’t wait to see more,” she says with a wicked grin. “Trust me, I could look at that man all day.”

I leave Jamie sighing and probably replaying last night’s coital gymnastics in her mind, then hurry down the back stairs to the parking area. As I pull out, I see the limo in my rearview mirror. I keep an eye on it until I turn, but it doesn’t move from the spot, and as I turn onto Ventura Boulevard, I can’t help but smile. After all, it’s not every day I manage to outmaneuver Justin Stark.

Despite the fact that my ancient Honda has very little spunk and has lately taken to stalling out at stoplights, I manage to get from Studio City to the Innovative Resources office in Burbank in less than fifteen minutes, completely stall-free. I consider this a stellar beginning to the day. I park next to a red Mini Cooper that I eye jealously, then lock my car and head toward the ugly four-story stucco building that houses the Innovative offices along with a few subtenants.

My phone beeps and I pause in the middle of the parking lot to pull it out of my purse, then smile when I see it’s from Justin.

Thinking of you. Be good on your first day. Get along with the other kids. But don’t share your candy.

I laugh and tap out a reply. I only share my candy w/ u.

His reply makes me smile. Very glad to hear it.

I answer quickly. Heading into building now. Wish me luck.

His response is just as quick. Luck, though you don’t need it. Meeting reconvening, must go. Tonight, baby. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

I always do, I reply, then sigh happily as I slide my phone back into my purse, but not before noticing the time. It’s only 9:45, which means that I have fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to report for work.

My phone rings, and I pull it out. Justin again. “I’m imagining,” I say, keeping my tone sultry.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He doesn’t sound sultry at all. In fact, he sounds downright pissed. I grimace. Apparently, he’s just spoken to Edward.

“Going to work,” I say.

“I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now.”

“So why aren’t you?”

“Dammit, Selena—”

“No,” I snap. “I’m the only one who gets to say that. Dammit, Justin, I am perfectly capable of driving myself. And if you want to hire out Edward then ask me. It’s easy. You walk up to me and say, ‘Selena, darling, light of my life, can I have my driver take you to work?’ ”

There is a pause, and I hope that he is laughing. “And you would have said yes?”

“No,” I admit. “But that’s the way you should have handled it. It’s my job, Justin. I want to drive myself. I will drive myself.”

“I don’t want you around the paparazzi without someone there with you.”

Oh. I feel a little bit better. I don’t agree with what he did, but at least there was a reason for doing it. “Nobody’s here,” I say.

“But there could have been.”

“And I would have dealt with it,” I say, probably too sharply. I count to five. “You can’t be with me every second of every day. No matter how much I wish you could. I’m going to see them when I’m alone. It’s going to happen, and we both just have to deal with it.”

I hear him exhale. “I don’t like it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Dammit, Selena.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say.

Finally Justin speaks. “I’m going to my meeting,” he says, but what he means is, I’m worried about you.

“I’m fine,” I say. “And, Justin?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. Right emotion. Crappy execution.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that,” he says. “It is not an argument I can have from Palm Springs.”

I frown. Apparently it is an argument he can have in Los Angeles. Great.

He really does have to go to his meeting, so he ends the call, and I’m left scowling at my phone and the knowledge that I’m going to have to deal with not only the paparazzi, but with Justin trying to babysit me through my day.

I shove the problem out of my head and hurry into the building. I no longer have time to grab a coffee, but that’s okay because I don’t want to risk spilling it on my white blouse. As my mother’s voice in my head reminds me, there are better ways to make a first impression than coffee stains on your outfit.

The reception area is on the fourth floor, and I punch the elevator call button and wait impatiently for the elevator to arrive.

The doors finally slide open and I shift to one side to let the passengers get off. I’m about to step into the car when I hear a throaty, familiar voice behind me.

“Well, look at you, Texas. All dressed up with someplace to go.”

I turn and find myself facing Evelyn Dodge, a brassy broad if ever there was one, and one of my favorite people in the world. She’s wearing flowing black pants and gold sandals that look like something imported from Morocco. The pants are mostly obscured by a blustery multi-patterned shirt that, as far as I can tell, was created by stitching together dozens of Hermes scarves. She looks a bit like a gypsy with very expensive taste.

“I knew today was your first day,” she says, “but I didn’t think I’d get lucky enough to see you.”

I realize that I’m still staring at her in complete surprise—and blocking the entrance to the elevator. I step to the side so that the small group that has gathered can get on, and force myself to speak despite the grin that is plastered across my face.

“What on earth are you doing here?” I ask. Evelyn lives in Malibu, not far from Justin’s new house, and she’s not the type to make the trek to the Valley unless the apocalypse is upon us.

“Same thing you are, Texas.”

I lift a brow in amusement. “You’re going into the tech industry? Designing an iPhone app to feature Blaine’s work?”

She taps her nose and points at me. “Not a bad idea, actually, and I just may have to wrangle some advice out of you about that later. But no. I’m here to see Bruce.”

“Why?” The question is out of my mouth before I realize how completely rude it sounds.

Evelyn, however, isn’t the kind to take offense. “I need one of his keys,” she says, then barks out a throaty laugh. “But don’t worry. It’s not for a tryst. Blaine’s more than I can handle in that department—and now he’s decided he wants to touch up some of the paintings for Saturday’s showing, but apparently they’re in the gallery’s off-site storage facility.”

Now I really am confused. “Can’t Giselle let you in?” Giselle is Bruce’s wife and the owner of a few Southern California art galleries. Saturday’s cocktail party will not only feature the portrait of me—though only a handful of guests will actually know that I am the model on the wall—but also a number of Blaine’s other paintings.

“If she hadn’t hauled her ass to Palm Springs, sure. But she called me from the road. Apparently she’s on her way to get a few pieces from her gallery there, and her assistant doesn’t have the spare key to the unit. Why the hell Giselle gave it to Bruce instead of her assistant, I don’t know. Sometimes, that woman baffles me.”

“Justin’s in Palm Springs, too. He went there this morning.”

“Too bad Giselle didn’t know. She could have dumped the job of bringing the paintings back on him. Would have saved me a trip.” Evelyn shakes her head. “Frankly, I would have much rather gone to Palm Springs than Burbank, and I’m sure she knows it, but I think she and Brucey boy are having another tiff.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“With those two? Who the hell knows.” She brushes the conversation away, as if it is old news, but to me the topic of Giselle is one of unpleasant but undeniable interest. I’d been jealous of the woman for about five minutes when I’d first met Justin at Evelyn’s party because it had seemed to me that she was the girl on Justin’s arm. Once I’d learned that she was married, however, the jealousy had been shoved into a dark corner where it belonged. I wouldn’t say that the jealousy has returned, but my hope that Bruce and Giselle quickly regain a state of marital bliss is definitely more selfish than altruistic.

“And what about you?” Evelyn continues. “I keep hoping you and that camera of yours will take me up on my offer so that I can ply you with drink and wrangle some gossip, but I guess you don’t need me now that you’ve got Justin’s view at your disposal.”

“It is one hell of a view,” I admit. “But I’d still love to come over sometime.”

“Anytime. Bring your camera if you want,” she says. “Or just come for the liquor and the gossip. Both flow free at my house. Advice, too, if you need it. But from what I’m hearing, you’re doing just fine.”

“Blaine’s been telling stories on me.” I can’t help my grin. The skinny young artist and the large brassy woman don’t seem like a couple at first glance. And while Evelyn will say she only keeps Blaine around to warm her bed, I have a feeling there’s a lot more to it than that.

“Hell, yes. What’s the point of sending that boy out in the world if he doesn’t bring me back the dirt?”

“And?”

“You’re boringly dirt-free,” she says. “From what I hear, you’re swimming in bliss.”

I laugh. “I’ll go with that.”

“Good. Glad I’m not the only one getting hot sex regularly.”

My cheeks burn, and I have to press my lips together not to burst out laughing.

“But it’s more than that, I take it? From what Blaine says, it sounds like you’ve tamed the savage beast.” I don’t reply, but her words please me so much that I’m pretty sure I must be glowing. “So there’s no new dramas on the horizon?”

“No,” I say warily, because this is neither the time nor the place to tell her about Carl’s threats. From her tone, though, I can’t help but fear that she already knows. “Why? Is there something I should know?”

She waves an airy hand through the air. “Not a thing.”

I narrow my eyes at her. Evelyn may have been a good liar back in her agenting days, but she has lost the knack.

She eyes me, then snorts with laughter. “Aw, hell, Texas. I meant what I said. There’s nothing you need to worry about. Not now, anyway.”

Several groups of people have gotten on and off the elevator during our conversation, and now the car once again opens in front of us.

“Time to go to work, right?” Evelyn says.

“You are not getting off that easy,” I retort, following her on. I have every intention of interrogating her, but there’s no time during the short ride up, and when the doors open, there’s no privacy. The receptionist, a girl my age who I remember is named Cindy, immediately stands.

“Wow, it’s so cool to have you here,” she says to me, then blushes. “I mean, you’re going to fit in great. We can do lunch if you want.”

“Thanks,” I say, with a sidelong glance toward Evelyn, who only looks amused. “I think I’m having lunch with Bruce today.”

“Oh, right. Mr. Tolley’s ready for you. Just a sec, and I’ll walk you back.” She turns to Evelyn before I have the chance to tell her I’m supposed to meet first with the lady from Human Resources. “May I help you?”

“Evelyn Dodge,” Evelyn says. “I called Bruce about picking up—”

“Oh, sure thing, Ms. Dodge.” She comes around the desk and hands Evelyn an envelope that presumably contains a key.

Evelyn slides it into her humongous purse and points a finger at me. “We’ll see each other tomorrow, Texas.”

“Yeah,” I say meaningfully. Evelyn is one of the few people who knows the identity of the woman in Blaine’s portrait. “You’ll certainly be seeing plenty of me tomorrow.”

Evelyn guffaws and then steps back onto the elevator. I follow Cindy down the plain gray halls to Bruce’s office, Evelyn’s laughter still ringing in my ears.

8

We don’t even make it to the office before Bruce emerges. When we met during the interview, he’d been the picture of corporate calm. Now he looks undeniably harried. “Selena, great to see you.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. It’s firm and no-nonsense, and I think that bodes well for Bruce as a boss.

Cindy returns to reception and Bruce starts down the hallway, easing farther into the bowels of the company. He’s moving fast, and I hurry to keep up. If the fight with his wife is weighing on him, I don’t see it. He looks like a man with a work problem, not a marital one.

“If this is a bad time,” I begin. “I mean, I’m pretty sure Human Resources is expecting me.”

“I talked with Trish. She’ll take care of your paperwork this afternoon. Right now, I’ve got something I’d like you to handle.” He comes to a stop outside an office, its closed door covered with taped-on cartoons and various band logos. “I hope you don’t mind getting thrown to the wolves.”

I eye the door curiously. The truth is that I have no idea what he’s talking about, but what I do know is that the proper response to such a question from your new boss is “Not at all. What’s going on?”

“Calendaring screw up and I’m double-booked. I need you and Tanner to head downtown to meet with the IT team at Suncoast Bank. They’re interested in the 128-bit encryption algorithm we’ve been beta testing. You’ll be stepping in to head up marketing on the product anyway, but I had hoped to give you a little time in-house to get your feet wet. Sorry to bring all this down on your first day.”

“Not a problem,” I say. My voice is calm, but inside I’m doing cartwheels. Bruce told me about Innovative’s cutting-edge encryption software during my interview, and I know that it is shaping up to be the company’s gold-standard product. I hadn’t expected to actually land such a choice assignment right off the bat, but since I have, I fully intend to use this meeting as a chance to prove to my boss that I can do this job, and do it well.

“It shouldn’t be too hard a sell,” Bruce adds. “The product is exactly what they need, but we’re going to want to put our own team on-site to make sure their IT group gets trained properly and that we have eyes on and a fast response to every bug and every glitch.”

“Of course.”

“That’s why I’m sending Tanner in, too,” he adds, tapping lightly on the cartoon-covered door. “He worked on the development of the project and, frankly, I think it would be good for him to work six months in-house with a client.”

“Why?”

Bruce frowns. “If you don’t mind mixing business with pleasure, we can go into that when I see you tomorrow. Right now, I’ll just say that when I was talking about the wolves, I didn’t mean the client.”

“Sure,” I say, realizing with a mental head-thwap that of course he’s going to be at the party. The first hour will be intimate—just our friends who know that it’s me up there on Justin’s wall—but then Justin is opening the third floor to a whole slew of Blaine’s clients.

A voice filters out from behind the still-closed door. “I said ‘come in,’ already.”

Bruce pushes the door open, and a blond man with a surfer’s tan and the air of a salesman looks up at us. His desk is buried under an array of papers, and probably twice as many sheets are splayed out across the floor. He looks up at us and smiles widely. I know I should wait until I have more to go on, but I instinctively do not like this man.

“Bruce!” he says, his voice full of friendly bluster. “Just got off the phone with Phil. He’s sending up the information on the Continental Mortgage proposal. I’ll make sure he stays on top of it.”

“Sounds good,” Bruce says, but I have the feeling he’s only half-listening. “Tanner, this is Selena.”

Tanner’s smile grows even wider and for an odd second I feel as though I’m looking at a mirror of myself. That’s not a real smile any more than my practiced pageant smile. Or any more than the Social Selena smile I paste on right now.

“We’ve all heard a lot about you,” Tanner says. “Everyone’s been eager to meet the flavor of the month.” He half-laughs as his eyes dart to Bruce. “So welcome aboard and all that.”

I meet Tanner’s eyes and deliberately let my smile grow wider. “I’ll try to live up to expectations.” I shift just enough so that I’m looking at both men, then I pull out all the stops, dazzling them with my “what I really want is world peace” pageant-perfect smile.

“I’m sure you will,” Bruce says. “We’re thrilled you’ve joined the team.” The sincerity in his tone is unmistakable, and I can tell by the look on Tanner’s face that he realizes it, too.

“We really should get going,” Tanner says, then grabs a messy sheaf of papers off his desk and shoves them into a leather messenger bag.

“Here.” Bruce hands me a notebook with Suncoast embossed on the cover. “You can bone up on the specs during the drive.”

He tells us that he needs to go prep for his own meeting, promises me we’ll do our first-day lunch on Monday, then wishes us luck. Before I know it I’m standing in front of the elevator with Tanner beside me. And, yes, I’m a little nervous. Sure, I can do this job. I understand encryption algorithms and I’m more than capable of presenting a good company face to a client. It’s not my skill that’s bothering me. It’s the fact that I’m standing next to a man who, for some inexplicable reason, seems to despise me.

Bruce may not have noticed, but I’m certain I didn’t misread Tanner. Suddenly I feel a little sick to my stomach. And that queasiness turns into downright nausea when we step onto the elevator and he leans against the far wall, his eyes on me and his lip curled up as if he’s just seen something gross in the road.

I look away, intending to ignore it, but I stop, because suddenly I’m thinking of Justin. To say that he’s the most successful businessman I know would be an understatement. So what would Justin do when faced with a recalcitrant, disrespectful colleague? Would he turn away and pretend to ignore it?

For that matter, if Selena Fairchild met up with some backbiting bitch under social circumstances, would she ignore it?

She would not.

I may be well-practiced in not showing my true face to most of the world, but even Social Selena wouldn’t stand for this kind of shit. Neither would Justin Stark.

And neither will Business Selena.

I press the emergency stop button, then take a step closer to Tanner. I’m not enjoying the proximity, but I deliberately put myself in his personal space. The sneer fades, and he actually looks a little uncomfortable.

“Do you have a problem?” I ask, ignoring the bell that’s now ringing at annoyingly regular intervals.

His lips thin, and he pales a bit under the tan. For a second I think that this is it. I’ve made my point and won the alpha dog title.

Then he opens his mouth, and I see his color return. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re my problem.”

I force myself to stay where I’m standing. At least now it’s out in the open. “Me? You mean working together?”

“Working together? Together? Is that what you call it?”

“At the moment, no,” I admit. “I don’t think this is working at all.”

“We’re not working together,” he says, making air quotes with his fingers. “You’re my fucking boss now.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I am. And I suggest you think before you talk to me like that.” Seriously, what the hell is this guy’s problem?

“This was supposed to be my job. I worked this encryption package since day one. I know it inside and out. And I’ve proven to Bruce over and over again that I can head up a team. Then what happens? Some privileged little bitch decides she wants to work for pin money, and suddenly I’m booted back downstairs.”

“Pin money?” I repeat. “What century are you living in?”

“What’s the matter? Get bored with spending your boyfriend’s money? Thought you’d come here and shake things up? Do you know how many calls Cindy’s had to field? Dozens of calls from reporters who just want to know if you really work here. It’s a fucking waste of her time.”

The tempo of my pulse kicks up and I feel beads of sweat rise in my cleavage. How the hell would the press know that I work here? And why won’t they back the hell off? Even with Justin Stark in my life, I am just not that interesting.

On the upside, Tanner’s enigmatic “flavor of the month” comment makes more sense.

“And you know what really chaps my ass?” he asks, then continues without waiting for an answer. “The fact that you’re here just because the boss wants to make his wife happy.”

Now my head really is spinning. I haven’t got a clue what Giselle has to do with this, but at this point, I’m done playing games.

I reach over and start the elevator up again, then turn back to him once it lurches into motion. “This job requires a certain amount of finesse. An ability to communicate with clients and the public. And most of all a talent for smiling at people that you’d much rather spit on.” I flash my brightest Social Selena smile at him. “Tanner,” I say. “I don’t think this position is for you.”

We reach the lobby, and the doors open. I step out, leaving him to follow. I am the one in charge here, and he can damn well deal with it. I may not have a handle on everything he’s just said, but I know enough to know that if I don’t take control now, he’ll do whatever he can to snatch it from me.

As we head through the lobby toward the exit, I see a poised-looking Asian woman sitting at a table outside the cafeteria. She’s reading what looks to be a stock report, and in the brief instant when she flips a page, her eyes lift and catch mine. I’ve never seen her before, but something in her poised, confident manner inspires me. This is my job, and I got it on merit, not because of Justin, and certainly not because of Giselle. I’m in charge here, and I’m damn well going to prove it.

I march to the exit and burst through the doors—and half a second later, my bright, shiny bubble of self-assurance pops as six paparazzi with flashing cameras and rising voices rush toward us from where they were apparently lying in wait in the parking lot.

Before I can even think about reacting, I am verbally bombarded.

“Is it true that Stark is looking to take over Innovative Resources?”

“Selena, what exactly is your role at IR?”

I fight to keep my composure. To keep my Business Selena face plastered on. I hate this, but I’m not going to let them have the satisfaction of knowing it.

“Are you reporting back to Stark’s company?”

“What do you say to the allegations of corporate espionage?”

At that, I have to force myself not to clench my hands. Not because I want the pain, but because I want to smash my fist into the face of whichever one of these assholes has dared to suggest that Justin would send me in as a corporate spy.

“Is this a ploy to up your value to reality-show producers?”

“Tell us about the real Selena—is it true your sister committed suicide?”

I stumble backward, my composure knocked out of me by the force of those words.

No. No, no, no.

This time I do clench my fists. I want the pain. I need it to collect myself. To give me strength.

I need it because I have to find the will to put the mask back on. To face these people. And then to get the hell out of here.

Slowly, I square my shoulders. And though it takes every ounce of strength within me, I look at each one of them in turn. Then I flash my million-watt smile. “No comment,” I say, before I turn casually around to find Tanner.

He’s still in the building doorway, and my eyes locate him just in time to see his smug expression fade. “Hurry up, Tanner,” I say as I push my way past the paparazzi. “We need to get to a meeting.”

“Oh, my God! I can’t believe you got paired to work with such a twit!” Jamie says. We’re sitting at the polished wooden bar in Firefly Studio City drinking dirty martinis. She eats the final olive out of hers, then points the little plastic sword at me. “It’s like you’re living a sitcom. No, a movie,” she amends. “One of those screwball comedies where the spunky heroine is paired with the completely incompetent idiot and wackiness ensues.”

“Except he’s vengeful, not incompetent. And doesn’t the heroine in those movies always end up with the idiot?”

“Not necessarily,” Jamie says, leaning back and looking smug. “Not so long as there’s another love interest in the B-story.” She swipes her hand through the air. “A Day with Tanner. I can practically see the trailer.”

I grimace. “Well, you can star in it. Personally, I’d rather have another leading man.”

“You do,” Jamie says. “And as much as it pains me not to talk about either of our fuckalicious men, I want to hear the rest of this story first. How did the camera-vultures know you were there? Did Tanner tell them? Have you told Justin about the corporate espionage comment? Was he totally livid?”

“I’m going to tell him when I see him,” I say. “And yeah, he’ll be livid.” I bite back a grimace. This wouldn’t have been prevented by Edward driving me to work, but I have a feeling that simple fact isn’t going to matter when Justin hears what happened and goes ballistic.

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