8
WE DON’T SPEAK DURING THE CAR RIDE HOME. MY ANXIETY IS WORKING overtime. He found out. Who else could find out?
No one cares, I try to tell myself. Even if someone else somehow made the connection, I’m not exactly Hannah Montana. The overall population doesn’t really care about the identities of screenwriters.
Still . . . I’ve kept this secret for so long. It’s been like a security blanket around me, shielding me from things like meeting studio executives in person, or having to maintain a social media presence, or receiving angry mail from fans who hated the ending of their favorite franchise, or cyberbullying because of the end of said favorite franchise.
It’s kept me from growing up. My lifestyle is almost the same as it was in college when I wrote and sold my first screenplay. Exactly how I like it. Nothing has had to change.
When we get to our hallway, I give him the best of my fake smiles, anxiety turning my stomach into a storm, then turn toward my door. Before I can unlock it, Parker stops me.
“Be my date again,” he says.
I turn back around. Squint. “For the next dinner?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I was going to say for the entire summer.”
I sigh. “Good night, Parker.” I pull my phone out. The stupid app to open the door is frozen. Of course it is.
“Why?” he asks, while I angrily press my screen over and over.
“Why what?”
“Why do you hate me?”
That makes me look up from my screen. I don’t try to deny it. Especially not now, not when I’m still seething because he knows who I am.
I want to tell him. I want to rub what he said in the nightclub in his face.
But that would mean revealing that we’ve met before and that he doesn’t even remember, and that’s a shame I’m not willing to bear tonight.
Instead, I say, “Because you’re clearly some entitled jerk who thinks he can get whatever and whoever he wants because of his money.”
He rears back a little, like he wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt. He recovers quickly. His smile is pure malice as he says, “You really think you know me, don’t you?”
“I know everything I need to.”
I go very still when he shrugs off his suit jacket, puts it on the decorative hallway couch, and that white button-down beneath it . . . looks way too good on him. He starts to roll his sleeves up, and when did forearms become so attractive? He motions to himself. “Give it to me.”
I swallow. “Excuse me?”
His smile is entirely too wicked. “Throw all your assumptions at me. Everything you think you know about me.”
I stand up straighter. This will be fun. I like to think of myself as a good judge of character, given the fact that I literally write characters for a living. “You went to Stanford. You were a computer science major. You started your company while you were a freshman.”
“Tell me things you can’t find in my LinkedIn profile.”
My cheeks heat. Fine. “You grew up rich, or at least upper middle class. You went to a fancy high school. You started a company because you wanted to be a tech bro with a bunch of money. You sleep with models every weekend. You get anything you want when you want it.”
He smiles. His green eyes are pinning me in place. “Wrong.” “Which one?”
“All of them.”
I laugh without humor. I don’t believe that for a second. “Fine. Throw your assumptions at me.”
He looks at me. Takes a step forward. This hallway, I think, is far too narrow for the prices of these units. “You went to arts school. Your parents sent you to creative writing camps and told you to follow your dreams. You don’t date anyone because you don’t think they’re good enough for you.”
I almost choke on my laughter. “Wrong,” I say. He’s so wrong, it’s almost absurd.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
I don’t know when we got so close, but we’re only inches away, glaring at each other. I’m breathing a little too quickly. His eyes drop to my mouth. I swallow, and then he’s looking at my throat with far too much interest. I take a step back, right against the wall. I can’t think straight when he’s this close, and I don’t trust myself not to do something stupid again, like repeat what happened that night in the stairwell against this very wall.
“Look,” I say. “I know you’re probably used to women throwing themselves at you, but I’m not one of them. I’ll save you the trouble of pretending to be interested in me, because I am not, under any circumstances, going to sleep with you.” I say it with a straight face, even though, inexplicably, that is all my body wants right now.
I wonder if this attraction is one-sided. Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep with me at all. Maybe that night in the stairwell was just a fluke, one that was clearly unmemorable.
I fully expect him to walk away, to decide I’m not worth this trouble.
But Parker only looks down at me with an expression that is far too amused. “Date me,” he says. “Just for the summer.”
I stare at him, incredulous.
“Please.”
I blink, wondering when he last had to use that word. “Did you not hear a word I just said?”
“I said date. Not fuck.”
My mouth is suddenly too dry. “Why?”
“Is it so hard to believe someone wants to spend time with you?”
Yes. “It’s hard to believe you want to spend time with any one person at all, given your track record.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t usually have time to date, that’s true. I don’t have time for a relationship. Especially after this sale goes through.”
Not that I have any interest whatsoever in being Parker Warren’s girlfriend, but his statement doesn’t make any sense. “Your company will belong to someone else. Won’t you have all the time in the world?”
He shakes his head. “A condition of the acquisition is that I become Virion’s CEO.”
Oh. I’m not even sure that’s public knowledge. I don’t know why he’s telling me.
“I’ll have even less time than I had before. But this summer, while the deal is still going through, I have time—for the first time in my adult life. I want to spend it with someone who doesn’t care about my money. I want to spend it with someone I actually like .”
I say absolutely nothing, so he keeps going.
“You’re right. I’m an asshole. I’ve lost touch with how to act like a decent human being. Did you know, for the last five years, I’ve had four security guards with me at all times?”
I frown. “Are you really that important?”
He gives a rueful grin. “The board made me. The company had insurance on me. I invented the technology. My life was a commodity. The only reason I don’t have security now is because I negotiated it into the purchase agreement. I wanted a break. One summer of freedom.” He looks at me again. “Date me, Elle.”
I shake my head. I despise him. I shouldn’t even have gone with him to the dinner tonight. All he’s brought me is trouble.
“Give me one good reason not to.”
I have a million, but instead of listing them, I say, “Give me one good reason why you want to.”
“I’ve already given you two.”
“I said a good reason. A real reason.”
He looks at me for a long while before saying, “These next few months are going to be rocky for the acquisition. A relationship would drown out any negative press, to make sure it goes through.”
I laugh without humor. There. There is the real reason. “So that’s what this is? A PR thing?”
“It’s not, but if you want a reason you might actually believe, since apparently you’re incapable of trusting someone might just like spending time with you, there it is.”
His words sting. Penelope’s own words come back to me: You wouldn’t be getting this angry if it wasn’t sort of true. Is he right? Am I that untrusting? I guess I am, because I say, “No thanks,” and turn to unlock my door. Thankfully, the screen has decided to unfreeze. I’m one foot inside, when he says something I would never in a million years expect.
“You’re not writing, are you? You have . . . writer’s block?”
I stop. Turn, slowly. He lingers at my door, keeping it open but not crossing the threshold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m writing fine. I’m writing a lot, actually.” I drive the point home with the unfortunate phrase “I’m completely . . . unblocked.”
“Yeah?” he says, leaning against my doorframe, still far taller than me, and the sight is unfortunately attractive.
“ Yeah, ” I say, many shades less casually than he did.
“Right. Because pacing at four o’clock in the morning is a key sign of productivity.” He shrugs at the incredulous look I give him. “As expensive as these units are, the walls are thinner than you might think.”
We stare at each other so long, I start to see the golden flecks in his green eyes. His eyebrows are naturally straight, no arch to be seen. I start to wonder where he got the small scar on his right one, which cuts it in half. I’m pretty sure that scar has a fan-created social media account.
“Fine. I’m not writing,” I admit. “Why do you care?”
He grins, and I hate it, because it is also unfortunately attractive. “Because, Elle, you’ve just given us the other half of our rom-com agreement.”
I’m baffled the word “rom-com” has exited his mouth. “Excuse me?”
He gives me a look. “Elle. You’re the screenwriter. Tell me you know what I mean.”
“ Of course I know what you mean, ” I whisper-yell, because the last thing we need is for another resident to file a noise complaint and for Richard the doorman to think any less of me than he already does. I wave him into my apartment, and the door closes behind us. I watch him study the place quickly for the first time, eyes snagging on the three different types of cacti on my kitchen counter. I bought them a few days ago, at the Union Square Greenmarket. I love plants but hate when they die (why gift flowers when they don’t last more than a few days?). Cacti with little red spiky tops that looked flower-esque were my solution.
I snap my fingers to bring his attention back to me. “But we’re not in a rom-com, Parker Warren . There is nothing romantic or funny about this,” I say, waving frantically between us.
“I would say it’s pretty amusing I ended up living on the same floor as a woman who hates me. And I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a romantic, but if you ever change your mind about not sleeping with me, I—”
“Stop,” I say. “I get it. You need a date for the summer, for the press. You need someone to hang out with who isn’t falling over themselves to get your money. What could I possibly get out of this arrangement?”
“I saw your list, at the coffee shop. Locations in New York. You’re writing a screenplay based on them? Based in the city?”
“Among other places,” I say through my teeth, angry at myself for not doing a better job at guarding my writing.
“I’ll help you. I’ll go with you to all the locations. Talk through ideas with you. Help you act out anything you’re having trouble with . . .”
Ordinarily, the idea that this billionaire playboy could possibly help me with my screenplay would be laughable. Ludicrous.
But Penelope is right. He’s my twisted muse. Every time I’m with him, I start to feel —even if most of the time that feeling is hatred—and it’s the only thing that has gotten me writing.
I need to write this screenplay, fast.
He might be the only person who can help me get the words out.
“ If we do this,” I say, and I can’t believe that just came out of my mouth. “It would only be for the summer. Come September . . . it would all be over.”
“Come September, I’ll be back in San Francisco,” he says, confirming my previous suspicions. He doesn’t live in New York.
“And I’ll be back in LA,” I say.
He nods.
I’m really going to do this, aren’t I? “So . . . how exactly is this going to work?”
Parker blinks. He looks almost surprised. Excited? It makes me realize the gravity of what I’ve just agreed to, but before I can think better of it, he says, “I have a few work and social engagements to attend. The last one is Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons. That can mark the end of this . . . agreement.”
Normally, my blood would drain at the thought of spending an entire weekend together in close quarters. But chances are I’ll have finished my screenplay by then, and we’ll probably have already called this whole thing off early anyway.
He keeps going. “Between now and then, we’ll make our way through your list of locations. What’s the first one?”
“Central Park. Near the big fountain.”
“Perfect. We can go for a run there tomorrow morning. Does seven work for you?”
“What? Parker, I don’t run, I—”
He shrugs. “We’ll take it slow.”
Before I can protest, he’s out of my apartment.
And I’m officially fake-dating the Billionaire Bachelor for the summer.