Dirty Secrets Page 5

  Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. Although it would be nice to rack up some wins.

  Unfortunately, I haven’t had any wins in the finding new digs department, either. Everything affordable is too far from midtown, and everything within a reasonable commuting distance is out of my price range, even with a roommate or two. I’m going to have to either adjust my budget or my definition of what’s a reasonable commuting distance.

  My tray is empty, so I head to the kitchen for some more tartlets, or whatever equally nauseating, hoity-toity treat they load me up with. This time it’s open-faced cucumber sandwiches, with some sort of fancy, flavored cream cheese and slivers of red onion. I make the bold decision to taste one.

  Yep. Nauseating. I don’t understand why they don’t serve normal stuff like at these things. Like bacon wrapped scallops. I mean, everything’s better with bacon, amiright? Or buffalo wings. People love that shit. And it’s gotta be cheaper than the crap we’re peddling tonight, meaning more money for whatever charity this shindig is supposed to be raising money for.

  I hike up my now fully laden tray and brave the grand ballroom, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. There’s nothing worse than working an industry function, handing out cocktails or canapés to producers and casting directors I’ve auditioned for in the past and hope to again in the future.

  There’s only one familiar face I see tonight, though. And it’s not anyone in the entertainment business. It’s the face of the guy whose apartment I’m squatting in. The one who’s been avoiding me like the plague.

  I hang back in the corner, studying him from the shadows like some creepy stalker. Connor in casual dress—his usual jeans or khakis and a button down or polo, or even workout gear—is hella fine, but Connor in a formal wear? Damn. He looks like a younger, hotter James Bond—sorry, Daniel Craig—with his expertly styled hair and his strong jaw highlighted by his neatly trimmed beard and his perfectly pressed tux molded to his hard body.

  I’m still shamelessly staring, drinking in the sight of him like a dying man in a desert, when he’s joined by possibly the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Seriously, she looks like she stepped straight off the pages of Vogue magazine, blond and statuesque in a skintight, floor-length gown and sky-high slingbacks, both designer, I’m sure.

  She puts a possessive, manicured hand on his arm and leans in to whisper something in his ear that puts a smile on his usually serious face. I flinch like I’ve been slapped, almost dropping my tray.

  I recognize the feeling clawing at my gut, but that doesn’t mean I like it. My mother always said that jealousy was a disease. One that eats you away from the inside, leaving you hollow, angry, and discontented.

  Besides, what right do I have to be jealous? It’s not like Connor and I are in a committed relationship. Or any kind of relationship. We kissed. Once. Big deal. And he’s made it perfectly clear ever since that he wants nothing to do with me.

  “Lawson.” The catering manager’s bark makes me startle and I almost drop the tray for the second time in as many minutes. “What are you doing hiding in the goddamn corner?”

  “I was just, uh—” Ogling my roommate? Suffering from a bout of irrational jealousy? Trying to remember your name? Lloyd, I think Tiffany said it was.

  Possibly Lloyd cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Whatever your excuse is, I don’t want to hear it. Just get back to work. You’re not getting paid to lollygag around.”

  Lollygag? Who even uses words like that anymore? Except my eighty-two-year-old grandmother.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’d give him a mock salute, but my hands are occupied with the tray. So I settle for a crisp nod before heading into the throng of hungry socialites.

  As hard as I try, I can’t stop my eyes from searching the room for Connor and his—companion. I don’t find them anywhere. Which fires my green-eyed monster up again. I’m imagining all sorts of Showtime-After-Dark scenarios. Like them going at it in the linen closet. Or the ladies’ room. Or the—

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman.”

  A voice over the speakers cuts off my runaway pornographic thoughts. I look across the ballroom to the stage that’s been set up for this evening’s festivities, and lo and behold, there she is, microphone in hand. Connor’s—friend. And there he is, too, standing slightly behind her off to her left, looking equal parts sexy and self-conscious.

  Oh, well. They may be together, but at least they’re not in the linen closet. I suppose that’s some small consolation.

  “For those who don’t know me, I’m Elizabeth Ashby, and I’m the chairperson of this year’s Fight For Hope.”

  Great. Now I can put a name to the too-perfect face. Elizabeth. She strikes me as the type who demands to be called by her full name. No Liz. Or Lizzie. Or Beth.

  I move closer to the stage, handing out sandwiches as I go.

  “I want to thank everyone for coming tonight,” call-me-by-my-full-name Elizabeth continues. “And for opening your pocketbooks for a worthy cause. With your help, there’s hope that someday we’ll win the fight against ALS. And no one’s more invested in that fight than the man up on stage with me tonight, Connor Dow.”

  She motions for him to join her, and he does.

  “Connor lost his mother to ALS, and over the years he’s continued to donate to the search for a cure. Personally, he’s given over a million dollars. And later this year, he’s allowing us to use his nightclub, Top Shelf, for our biggest, most ambitious fundraiser yet. So tonight, we’d like to present him with this plaque that commemorates his long-standing commitment to ALS research.”

  She hands the plaque to Connor, then the microphone. He clears his throat and starts to speak.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth, and thank you to all the members of Fight For Hope’s board of directors for giving me this honor. But it’s really the health care workers and researchers on the front lines, treating patients and working toward a cure, who deserve to be up here tonight. I accept this award on their behalf and in memory of my mother and everyone who has battled this progressive, debilitating disease.”

  Okay, now I feel like a total asshat. Me and my dirty mind. He’s getting an award for philanthropy—trying to help cure the disorder that killed his mother, for fuck’s sake—not sneaking around for a quick hookup.

  The audience applauds, and Connor hands the microphone back to Elizabeth. Then he looks out over the crowd. His eyes skate past me then flick back, confused. I can tell the moment the pieces click into place and recognition sets in.

  He says something to Elizabeth before descending the stairs at the center of the stage, heading straight for me. My palms itch and the hair at back of my neck stands on end. Now he wants to talk? When I’m at work? With the crème de la crème of New York society listening in?

  No. Freaking. Way.

  My tray’s empty again, so I decide to retreat to the kitchen for another refill. I get about halfway there when the Lloyd—that’s definitely his name, I remember now—stops me. “Code Red. I need you on champagne cocktails. One of the other servers had to leave. Family emergency.”

  He says the last two words like they’re causing him actual, physical pain. And just like that, I see my my escape-to-the-kitchen plan fading before my eyes.

  “What about Tiffany? Can’t she do cocktails?”

  “Tiffany’s not standing in front of me with an empty tray. You are. So head over to Derrick—” He points to a bartender at one of the stations ringing the room. “—and have him stock you up so you can make the rounds.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Connor’s gaining on me. I need to end this conversation. Stat. Maybe I can lose him on my way to the bar.

  “Right. I’m on it.”

  I make it over to Derrick and he’s almost got my tray all loaded before Connor catches up to me. Probably because people keep stopping him to congra
tulate him on his award. He’s like a rock star to this crowd. Not that I blame them. A million dollars is pretty damn impressive. At some point, I’ll tell him as much. When I’m not pissed off at him for choosing here and now to end his self-imposed radio silence.

  “Brie,” he says, leaning on the bar rail next to me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  I don’t look at him, keeping my attention on Derrick as he adds another glass of champagne to my tray. “We’re roommates, not BFFs. We don’t have to tell each other where we’re going or what we’re doing.”

  I keep my voice light so he doesn’t suspect how much the awkwardness between us has been bothering me. Because yeah, it’s bugged me. No woman wants to be kissed by a man like he means it, then ignored like she’s yesterday’s leftovers.

  “But—I’m confused.” He pushes his sexy-but-shouldn’t-be thick-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I thought you were an actress, filming a TV show. And you’re here. Working as a waitress.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I am an actress. And a waitress. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “I realize that. It’s just that Jake said—”

  Of course. Jake. It always comes back to my big brother, doesn’t it? He’s like an omnipresent shadow, looming between us.

  I grab my tray and glare at Connor over the rims of the champagne flutes. “Whatever he had to say about my career path, I don’t particularly care. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to my job. The waitressing one, that is.”

  In my rush to end this uncomfortable conversation in the quickest way possible, I make a rookie mistake—turning around without looking first, full tray in hand. Until I run smack dab into a distinguished looking older gentleman, and it goes crashing to the floor, the sound of breaking glass almost deafening.

  Heat rushes to my face as I bend down to start cleaning up the mess I’ve made. I’m not normally so careless. Or so clumsy.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” the older man, who’s mopping champagne from his lapel with a napkin—or trying to—snaps. “See what you’ve done? This tuxedo is a Tom Ford. It will need to be dry cleaned. And you’re paying for it.”

  I don’t bother pointing out to the pompous asshole that it was an accident. Or that I’m just as soaked as he is, and you don’t see me bitching and moaning about it. Or that if he can afford a Tom Ford tuxedo, he’s clearly got more money to spend on dry cleaning than I do.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Connor insists, kneeling beside me and gingerly picking up slivers of glass, which he adds to the pile I’ve already started on my now wet, empty tray. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have distracted her.”

  “You didn’t,” I lie. “And I don’t need you riding to my rescue.”

  Again. First the kitchen, now this. It’s humiliating, how I can’t seem to hold on to cups or glasses when Connor’s around.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Lloyd is back. Yippee. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. He’s the last person I need to see right now. I was hoping I’d have all this cleaned up and be back on the floor before he heard about what happened.

  If he even heard about what happened.

  “This server—” The pompous asshole waves his damp napkin at me. “—dumped an entire tray of drinks on my designer tuxedo.”

  “Which I’ve already offered to have dry cleaned.” Connor stands, wiping his hands on his tux pants like he doesn’t care if he has to get them cleaned, too. He’s got at least four inches on the pompous asshole, who subtly takes a step back but refuses to completely back down.

  “That doesn’t change the fact that I have to spend the rest of the evening in a wet formal wear.”

  Lloyd puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure the staff can find some towels to help you dry off.”

  He looks down at me, still crouched on the sticky-sweet carpet surrounded by glass shards, and the expression on his face tells me I’m screwed even before the words leave his mouth. “Hand in your tray and go. And don’t forget to clock out.”

  “Are you firing me?” My stomach drops to my sensible, flat-soled shoes. There goes my safety net.

  “That’s above my pay grade. But I will be filing a report with the corporate office. Someone should be in touch with you shortly. And the cost of the glasses you broke will be deducted from your pay.”

  Great. There goes a huge chunk of tonight’s pay. I leave my tray on the floor and scramble to my feet, glass crunching under the soles of my aforementioned sensible shoes. The rest of the mess will have to wait. “But—”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Connor pipes up, interrupting me. “I’m the one who distracted her by striking up conversation.”

  “Fraternizing with the guests. I’ll add that to my report.” Lloyd steers the pompous asshole toward the huge mahogany double doors that lead into and out of the ballroom. “Come on, let’s get you those towels. You’ll feel better once you’re dry.”

  Connor starts to go after them, but I step in his path, blocking his way. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “If you just let me talk to him I can—”

  “Can what?” My hands ball into fists on my hips, my go-to power stance. “Give him another reason to fire me?”

  He doesn’t answer, but at least he has the good sense to look embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I continue. “I’m like your cats. I always manage to land on my feet.”

  It’s a bit of bravado, but there’s an element of truth to it, too. The life of an actor isn’t an easy one. You have to learn how to roll with the punches and come up swinging.

  He starts to say something, but full-name Elizabeth materializes out of nowhere, like she apparated from Hogwarts. She sidles up to Connor, digging her blood-red claws—sorry-not-sorry, nails—into his forearm. “There you are, darling. I wondered where you’d run off to. Some of the board members would like to speak with you.”

  Her use of the endearment stirs up all my earlier suspicions. Maybe they are more than donor/donee. And maybe it’s none of my damn business, and I’m an idiot for caring.

  “Go mingle with your adoring public. I’ll see you at home.” I throw in the last bit just to see the stunned look on Elizabeth’s face, and she doesn’t disappoint. Watching her features fall is like witnessing an avalanche. Fast and furious.

  But my perverse satisfaction in seeing her reaction is short lived. Because I know what she doesn’t.That while we might share the same address for the time being, the chances of Connor and me having any intimate, late-night chats—or even being in the same damn room for more than a few seconds—are about as slim as being struck by lightning.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Connor

  WHEN I GET HOME—about three hours later than I’d like, because I can’t exactly skip out on a reception in my honor—my apartment’s dark and the only ones stirring are the cats. I shed my tux jacket, loosen my bowtie, and undo the first couple of buttons on my shirt as I walk through the apartment, calling out Brie’s name. No response. I even knock on her bedroom door and crack it open to peek inside when no one answers—but she’s not there.

  Worry starts to creep in, but I shove it down. It’s like I told Jake. Brie’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. She’s probably out with friends, drowning her sorrows in Fireball and fried food.

  I cringe at the memory of Brie, kneeling on the floor on a bed of glass. The anger and shock in her eyes when her boss told her she was done for the night. And maybe for good. All because I had to open my big mouth. I couldn’t wait until after she was done working to talk to her.

  Stupid. Selfish. Douchebag. Just like my goddamn father.

  That last thought completely guts me. It’s bad enough I sha
re DNA with him. He’s the last person in the world I want to emulate. In my defense, I wasn’t trying to be a jerk like my dad. It’s just that I was totally taken off guard when I saw her at the fundraiser. And I was afraid if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to talk to her, I might never get another chance.

  It seems counterintuitive, I know, because, duh, we’re living together. I should have plenty of chances to talk to Brie. But we might as well be on different planets for the amount of times we’ve been in shouting distance of each other in the past seven days. Ever since that kiss. That epic, thrilling, terrifying kiss.

  I don’t know if she’s making herself scarce on purpose or if our schedules just don’t mesh. She did warn me—or promise me—that she wouldn’t be around much. But one way or another, I’m going to find out.

  I grab my e-reader, pour myself a shot of Johnnie Walker Platinum 18, and settle into my favorite armchair, which just happens to have a birds-eye view of my front door. I’m only a couple of chapters into my book and halfway finished with my scotch when I hear a key in the lock and the door swings open.

  The room is in semi-darkness, the only light from the table lamp next to me and my e-reader, so it takes a second for Brie to register that I’m sitting there. When she does, her displeasure is clearly readable even in the half-light, etched across her face and in every rigid inch of her posture.

  “I thought you’d still be out, celebrating with your fan club.”

  I set my e-reader aside and shake my head. “I haven’t got the time or patience for a fan club. I donate because it’s the right thing to do, not to have my ass kissed by strangers and sycophants.”

  She drops her purse on the couch and takes another step toward. “I dunno. You seemed to enjoy having that Elizabeth chick fawn all over you.”

  I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “Jealous?”

  She snorts. “Of what?”

  “Elizabeth is a friend. That’s all.”