Page 24 of The Last Kind of Kiss
Right now, my nerves are running around in endless circles, screaming bloody murder while my whole world goes up in a ball of flames. Lila’s frozen, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, looking like she’s seconds away from puking all over the tabletop.
I try in vain to clear my throat, but all that comes out is a weak gurgle. “You want us topretendto date?” I rephrase.
“Precisely,” one of Ester’s associates says, hugging a classified binder to her chest. “Past campaigns have shown that sales skyrocketed when our lead models were involved with one another.”
The anxiety that Lila’s been running on this whole afternoonempties within a millisecond, and she shimmies down the hem of her skirt, halting the habitual spasm of her leg. She glares at me from beneath her lashes and runs her tongue over her teeth like she’s trying to get the rancid taste of my name out of her mouth. “Bristoldoesn’t date.”
Every eye zeroes in on me, all those Lila-specific butterflies transforming into disgusting moths that eat away at my gut. A reassuring response evades me in my moment of need, and I’m left scrambling to pick up the fallout of the giant truth bomb Lila just dropped on everyone.
Ester turns her nose up judgmentally. “Is this true, Mr. Brenner?”
I’m going to kill myself. Seriously. I’d rather drag my nut sack across broken glass than have this conversation, and theI told you solook on Lila’s face doesn’t make it any better. She’s all smug with her lips stretched into a gloating smirk. She thinks she has me backed into a corner, but if anything, this situation’s given me incentive to prove her wrong.
“It is true,” I admit. “I’m not a relationship type of person, but I am a team player, and if a relationship is what’ll drive sales, then I’ll do whatever I can to make this plan believable.”
See, Lila? Two can play this game. And four years in the NHL has taught me to never back down from a challenge. Bristol Brenner—yes, I’m referring to myself in the third person—doesn’t lose. And he’s not going to start now.
Lila sputters, searching for something to retaliate with, but Ester cuts her off with a dramatic flick of her hand. “Perfect. Then it’s settled—you two will put on a show for the cameras as long as the campaign’s still active. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I say, now flaunting the same smug smirk that’s since faded from Lila’s face.
“Ms. Perkins?”
Lila’s jaw is clenched like she’s hell-bent on uprooting acrown, throbbing veins section off her neck, and there’s this scary, crazed twinkle gleaming in her eyes—which is the equivalent of a bull pawing his hoof against the ground before charging.
“I…understand,” she grits through her teeth, refusing to glance my way. She’s probably plotting my murder as we speak.
I know I wanted to fix things in a bit of a more…natural…way, but Kitty’s Catwalk is offering me a second chance on a silver platter, and I know better than to pass it up. Lila will have no choice but to give me the time of day, and that’s when I’m going to work my Bristol magic, prove to her how sorry I am, and show her just how much she still means to me.
A little bud of hope finally sprouts inside me, planting its roots in nutrient-dense soil, and Operation How You Get the Girl is off to a wonderful, wonderful start.
9
RULES ARE JUST HEAVILY IMPLIED SUGGESTIONS
LILA
Fake dating? What is this, some poorly written Hallmark romance?
First off, I’m insulted that my acting expertise is being wasted on something so…trivial. (Two years of theater is a lot, okay?) Second off, if Bristol thinks this fake relationship is a one-way shot to the Promised Land between my legs, he’s got another thing coming for him.
And he had thenerveto try and play hero!
Oh, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault Lila acted out. I’m Bristol Brenner, and I get whatever I want. I can do no wrong because I’msucha good guy. I always take accountability for my mistakes, and I have no flaws whatsoever.
I envy Bristol. I envy how easily things fall into his lap. I envy how he has the world in the palm of his hands. He wasn’t even reprimanded during that lecture. Even when he came clean about pushing me to the brink of madness,Iwas still the one being judged for my actions. And to make things worse, I’m the one who’s supposed to play nice and make this campaign work. I’m the one who has everything to lose. He doesn’t even need this job. He has a career that will support him all the way intoretirement.
As soon as Ester dismisses us, I don’t hang around to watch Bristol gloat. I dart for the elevator, push the button for the first floor, and lean my head back against the cold wall with a deflated sigh. I need a drink. And a Xanax.
For some reason, the elevator doors screech shut comically slowly, and it isn’t until I spot Bristol making his way over to me like some horror movie killer that I frantically start to press the button to close the doors.
Shit, shit, shit! Don’t you dare come in here, Bristol. Don’t you?—
The more I jam my acrylic nail into the button thatclearlydoesn’t work, the faster Bristol’s strides become, and he slips into the narrow opening before the doors eventually wham shut.
“Were you trying to close the door on me?” he asks, playing that stupid, all-American heartthrob card with a dopey smile.
Thankfully, I don’t think he notices the way my thighs squeeze together. An elevator is a terrible place to be with your ex-fling. Close proximity, the possibility of being trapped for all eternity—that kind of shit makes people feral. And I’m no better. I’m a weak, weak woman, easily conquered by some flirtatious banter or rock-hard abs. And Bristol’s two for two.
