Chapter 15 KELSEY’S HEART SKIPS TOO MANY BEATS
Chapter 15
K ELSEY ’ S H EART S KIPS T OO M ANY B EATS
By the time Zachery comes out of the shower, looking absolutely perfect in a navy fitted T-shirt (Luca Faloni, $150) and khaki shorts (Ralph Lauren, $500), I have a plan.
“There’s a pickle festival happening this evening in a small town near Durango, Colorado,” I tell him.
He shakes his head as he carefully folds his nightclothes into his bag. “Pickle festival?”
“Yes! Isn’t that hilarious?”
He tucks his red boxers into a special pocket of the bag, and I try not to imagine them on him. Red? It’s like the Zach equivalent of lingerie.
“Pickles sound more like a hookup than a husband.”
“I’ll admit the word and the object are hookup adjacent, but still, it sounds like fun. And doesn’t it make a great how-we-met story?”
He pauses in zipping up his suitcase. “To the grandkids? ‘I met your father at a celebration of phallic food’?”
I reach for a pillow to throw at him, but then remember our earlier incident and think better of it. “Pickles don’t have to be dirty.”
“Keep saying it. It gets dirtier every time.”
There’s no stopping me at that one. The pillow sails over the bed and smacks him in the head.
He catches it neatly, and before I can make any kind of move, he’s got me pinned back on the bed, the pillow between our chests. “I’ve warned you about my pillow game.”
He’s close, and this time, on top of me. I can barely breathe, but it has nothing to do with the pressure of his body.
It’s just him.
My heart hammers, and I can’t think of anything clever to say to play off how intense this feels.
But he has no such problem. He leaps up. “Got you again. And here you are, practically half my age.”
I stand as well, sputtering at the very suggestion. “Eleven years, Zachery Montgomery Carter! That’s all! Or are you saying I act eighteen?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m saying I act fifty.”
Right. But this argument isn’t new. He likes to act all big brother on me.
Even if that moment on the bed wasn’t brotherly in the least.
He finishes zipping his bag. He’s all packed. I haven’t showered.
“We have the rest of the day to kill,” I say. “I do not want to do it here in Pitchfork.”
“Is there anything in this area you want to see?”
“How far is the Grand Canyon?”
He unlocks his phone. “Let me look.” After a moment, he says, “A couple of hours.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it. I’m not ready to leave yet, though. Did you want to drive on ahead?” I ask.
“And stand on the precipice alone? No, thanks.” He plunks down in the chair. “I have some calls to make. And I should probably be with you when you go downstairs.”
He’s right. The Pitchfork club could be assembled below.
“All right. I’ll be quick.”
He waves his hand. “Don’t rush. I have a lot of calls.”
As I lock myself in the bathroom, I wonder if any or all of those conversations are with women Desdemona sent him after. How much of it does he want to do?
Is he a scoundrel?
I can’t imagine. Not Zach. He’s so flirty and sexy. He’s impossible to resist.
I’m sure most of them are eager to fall into his bed. Zachery Carter never misses the mark. That’s why he’s Desdemona’s leading man.
It even works on me. Boy, does it.
His toiletry bag sits on the counter, and I take a moment to sniff his soap. It’s so good. I suppress a groan. So good.
In the shower, I run through the rather meager list of men I can call relationships. Joseph in high school. Daryl at LSU. Since coming to California, I’ve struck out hard on my dates. Many didn’t even last long enough to hit second base.
Not that a California baseball field is the same. In my experience, men at Hollywood parties tend to go from “hello” to “home run” in a single pitch.
Or at least, they try.
I remember the guy on Plumeria Drive a month ago, when Zachery bloodied his knuckles. The guy was an actor going by Brad, even though we suggested something else for a stage name. He thought he could do for Brad what Chris Pratt, Chris Hemsworth, and Chris Evans have done for Chris.
He was not that handsome or talented.
But he did try to get up my skirt.
Desdemona sent me after him to find out if Arista was getting him to read for a thriller she was casting.
I’d known we were in the danger zone when he steered me into an unoccupied cabana at the far end of the pool from the party.
Hollywood hasn’t cornered the market on people who think they can get away with anything. Most industries where there is a power dynamic this big, where people can make or break someone’s dream, have their players who misbehave. But in Beverly Hills, the tabloids and the glamour and the stardom up the ante like nowhere else.
It’s something I would fix, if I had the power. But the lowest rungs on the ladder never have any, particularly when somebody else thinks they already wield it. Brad was one of those.
Normally I can handle myself, but Brad was wily. He got me pinned against a wall, and I wasn’t able to pop his knee. That’s my signature move when a guy gets too handsy.
It’s hilarious watching their leg collapse from such a simple move. It’s also easy to play off as an accident. I’m always all, “Oh, my! What happened?”
But it hadn’t worked on Brad. I couldn’t get into position.
Zachery must have been watching us wander away, because only seconds into the situation, Brad was jerked away from me, and his chin was in the air from Zach’s well-placed uppercut.
Zach probably would have gone unscathed, except Brad decided to come after him, so it took a second shot to discourage him, and this one broke open the skin on four of Zach’s knuckles.
We left Brad on his butt in the cabana and went to rinse the blood off Zachery’s hand. I assured him I was all right. And I was. Brad wasn’t the first to get me in a tough position, and he probably won’t be the last, not as long as I work for Desdemona. I’m in the den of vipers, especially for those new to the game, who assume casting couches still exist, and beautiful women will do anything for a part.
They have a rude awakening when they learn most casting is done via phone footage collected by people like me and Jester, and the big decisions are made without any bit players in the room.
Even so, maybe I should take a self-defense class. Some of those moves would come in handy.
But it was better that Zach did the punching, and he said as much. He could handle the negative press, should it come about, and generally it wouldn’t. Lowlifes like Brad wouldn’t want anyone to know some other man had bested him. A story about the incident would come with the risk that Brad would look like a chump in the tabloids.
Zachery is excellent at tabloids. They love calling him a playboy and an indisputable bachelor. But always a gentleman. And always a catch.
Just not one to keep.
No, the irresistible Zachery Carter is not for me.
I go through all my prep, in case it’s in the cards that today is the meet-cute to rule them all. I won’t be looking until we get to the pickle festival, but naturally, love is always unexpected, at least in the good scripts.
Shower, shave, moisturize. I take my time afterward doing makeup that looks natural, but is anything but.
I squeeze my damp hair to make soft waves rather than blowing it straight. And I choose pale blue shorts and a flowered top. Very girl next door.
And no heels. Flat sandals only. It almost feels weird, my feet on the ground. But it’ll be good. Nobody wears heels to a national landmark.
That would peg me as high maintenance, as Hollywood. I might need to buy more flats.
When I step out, Zachery is no longer on the phone, and simply waits by the window. He smiles when he sees me. “Now don’t you look like a fresh-faced southern girl?”
I turn in a circle. “Nobody would call me California like this, right?”
“You’ve nailed the small-town look.”
“Thank you.” I tuck my toiletries into my overnight bag. “Now escort me downstairs, and don’t let any of these Pitchfork numbskulls so much as talk to me.”
He grins and opens the door to let me pass. “I’m just a boy, holding the door for a girl, asking her to let me beat up a few numbskulls.”
I try to ignore the ridiculous number of times my heart skips a beat.