There's that small detail of me being unable to stop touching her, especially since she's so responsive. The pad of my thumb is still at the base of her neck. Her pulse is, if possible, even more frantic.
"Any general house rules?" she asks, her voice uneven.
"None that I can think of. Except...I usually go to sleep very late and then wake up late in the mornings."
"Makes sense, since the bar and the restaurants open and close late."
"Yeah. I'm a light sleeper in the morning, so if you sing in the shower-"
"I don't."
An image of Clara in the shower pops in my mind. Christ, what I wouldn't give to see that, to join her. Not going there. Not going there.
Lowering my hand, I skim it down her arm. Her skin turns to goose bumps under my touch, and she sucks in a breath. Her reaction to me is intoxicating, makes it hard to keep my thoughts in line, even harder not to touch her more, see what other reactions I can provoke.
Jesus, this is escalating far too easily. We've spent time with each other before, so why is this spinning out of control so fast?
///
We're saved by the bell-in this case, the sound of a message on my phone.
"The bar manager needs me," I tell Clara, reading his message. "Have to go downstairs. When exactly do you have to move out of your apartment?"
"The end of this week."
"Okay. You can keep this set of keys, I have another one."
"Thanks."
I lean in to kiss her cheek, and because I can't help it, I linger with my lips on her skin a beat too long. She shudders lightly, her breath coming out almost on a moan. The things I'd do to this woman. I'd taste every inch of her skin, every-fuck me.
I step back right away.
"Come on, I'll walk you to your car, almost-neighbor."
As we leave the apartment, I have a eureka moment and a plausible explanation for the sudden shift in tension between us. Before we mostly saw each other at family events; we were rarely alone. As neighbors sharing a balcony, we will rarely not be alone. Turns out it's a dangerous move to ask a woman you're drawn to far too much to move next door.
CHAPTER THREE
Clara
"Clara, Quentin is asking for you." Mona motions with her head in the direction of our lunch buffet. My boss, Quentin Meyer, is hovering in front of it, loading his plate.
"Thanks, Mona."
She shudders almost imperceptibly, then heads to the buffet herself, keeping her distance from Quentin. Nearing his forties with a nasty smile and permanently wandering eyes, most of the women at the studio do their best to avoid him. But alas, he's my boss, so I'm the one person who can't do that. I make a point to never wear anything even remotely sexy at work.
"Hey, boss," I say, loading a plate for myself. "Mona said you need me."
"Yes, yes. How well do you know the Bennett family?"
I pause in the act of biting into my burger. Maybe it's because Quentin watches me with his trademark nasty smile, but I don't feel like volunteering the truth.
"Not well at all, why?"
We move toward a corner of the room because it's getting crowded over at the buffet.
"You were at Alice Bennett's wedding. Someone tagged you on Facebook." He bites into his own burger, and my stomach plummets. I take a big bite, using the excuse of chewing so I don't have to answer right away so I can form a plan. Damn Facebook. I thought I had my settings on private so only friends could see what I post or what I'm tagged in.
"Of course I went. Nate and I are good friends, but that's all."
Quentin grimaces as if he accidentally swallowed lemon juice. "Damn shame. Ran into one of the heads from Entertainment Central, Ryan Shepperd. Pitched him our show for Our Picks, but he's not giving us the time of day."
Our Picks is a show that spotlights and reviews other shows. It pulls in incredible numbers for such a segment. Truth be told, it's pulling about ten times the numbers our flailing show is. If we'd be featured on it, our viewership would skyrocket.
We're barely scraping by in the rankings, but with a lot of hard work the show will climb up the charts...eventually. It's been on air for four months, and I've been here for two.
After Nate moved to London, I kept working on his show with the new executive producer, but then he left too, and the one who took his place wanted to bring in his assistant. I wanted to stay with the network because the pay is above what I'd get somewhere else. Quentin here just had his fifth assistant quit on him in two months, so they gave me the job.
"So anyway, Shepperd said one of his people saw you tagged on Facebook in the wedding. They've wanted a scandal about the Bennett family for years for their We See You segment. Said he'd trade me: Juicy story on that family for a feature of our show on Our Picks."
My body goes cold.
We See You is nicknamed Gossip Central in the industry-a weekly evening show where they tear apart whoever is their subject, flaunting dirty laundry and scandals for the entire country to see. It pulls in even better numbers than Our Picks.
Over my dead body will the Bennett family ever be a subject on their show.
"Was hoping you'd know something about their skeletons. Have you heard anything juicy from Nate?"
He says Nate's name with disdain, and I grit my teeth. I don't know why he dislikes Nate-probably because he's made a name for himself even though he's younger than Quentin. And Nate never got ahead by selling anyone out.
"No," I say calmly. "From what he says, they're great people. No skeletons."
As if I'd tell you if they had.
///
"Please, everyone has skeletons. The press is dying for some dirt. A scandal."
Blake told me once that as time passed the press became more interested in their personal life rather than the company, and that they're always fishing for scandals.
"You sure you can't get closer to them?"
I don't think you can get any closer than living next to one and attending all their family events, but I shake my head, my hackles rising-no one is going to mess with that family.
"I have many press leads." I work as much positivity in my tone as I can muster. "We'll climb in the rankings, you'll see."
Quentin pays no attention, instead eying the ass of a passing assistant. I bite into my burger to hide my groan. I loved, loved, loved working with Nate. He was a great boss and mentor. More than a mentor, he was almost like a brother, and he accepted my crazy. That's always a bonus. Of course, lightning never strikes twice, so I wasn't dreaming I'd get another boss like him.
But is it too much to ask for a decent boss? One who does his job and doesn't look for shortcuts that involve selling people out? One who doesn't make my skin crawl?
Part of me regrets taking out the mortgage because I'll be stuck here for a long while until I can find something better. But then I think about how great it'll be to have my own place. That puts everything into perspective. When Quentin leaves, I take out my phone, pull up the Facebook app, and change my settings to private.
***
Blake
"Mr. Bennett, the earliest we can deliver is next Monday," the vendor repeats for the fifth time. Her voice is just as friendly as it was the first time but just as unhelpful. If I were at the store, things would move much faster. I work my charm better in person than on the phone. "The bookshelf version you requested is a custom-made piece, so it's not just about the delivery. We have to make it first, and we take great pride in our craftsmanship."
Time to sweeten the offer. "I'll pay double your rush fee if you deliver it on Friday."
"We have no rush fee."
Well, now that's just bad business, but to each his own. I pace in front of Blue Moon, our flagship restaurant, growing impatient. The meeting with my location manager was supposed to start three minutes ago.
"Call it a thank-you fee if you want."
"What's the rush? Birthday present?"
"No. Someone moves in on Saturday, and she wants the bookcase. I want to surprise her by having it here already."
"Oooh, a romantic gesture. Right. Hang on, let me see...Yes, I can shift another order until Monday and move yours into its slot. Then I will personally make sure it's delivered on Friday."
"Thank you. Appreciate it."
"Look out for the confirmation e-mail and message with the new delivery date. Have a nice day, Mr. Bennett."
"You too."
Hanging up, I shake my head. Ten minutes of sweet-talking and bribing got me nothing, but the assumption that it's a romantic gesture wins the game in five seconds flat? Maybe I should put more stock in romantic gestures, though I've never been one for them. I didn't correct the assumption because I suspect that explaining it's for a "friend" doesn't have the same impact, even though it's true. At least eighty percent true, anyway.