Los Angeles Longing – by Nicole Sanchez #3
I must be ovulating because all I can think about is unbuttoning the rest of them and falling to my knees for him. I mean, even if we did make a mess, we’re both in white and no one would be able to tell.
“You’re stunning. Even London will be jealous of you tonight. You’re going to outshine her.”
I flip my hair. “Maybe it’s Maybelline.”
“It is not a drug store brand,” the head stylist scoffs.
“That’s my regular brand.” I keep my voice prim as I look away from her.
Parker coughs into his hand before offering me his arm. “Your chariot awaits.”
The drive through Los Angeles feels longer than it really is.
Each moment, I run through what I managed to learn about London Westmont through her social media and the fact sheet that Jacoby put together for me about her and her closest associates.
I can still remember the feeling of approval each time Parker practically beamed at me when I was able to call up details about his associates’ families or their businesses or personal lives.
Jacoby is the real power broker in Parker’s office, and I have to make sure he knows it.
He made sure to include references that I needed to avoid, like the fact that one woman’s teenage son accidentally sank her yacht, and ones I should be sure to mention, like the man who traveled to Turkey to get a procedure to grow his hair back.
“You’re quiet,” Parker prods, reaching out to take my hand.
“Just making sure I don’t confuse London’s two different Juliets.”
“There’s a difference?”
I scoff at him then sit up a little taller.
“Yes. While both were born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Juliet B. spent a summer in France with an aging great aunt only to return and insist that everyone use a more French pronunciation of her name, while Juliet V. takes pride in her Italian namesake and makes an annual pilgrimage to the Juliet statue in Verona.”
“And visually, how can you tell them apart?”
It feels like a test when he asks, but I’m ready to rise to the occasion.
“Juliet B. has dark brown hair and a drawn-on mole on her left cheek, while Juliet V. is renowned for her long golden locks maintained at only the poshest hair extensioners around.”
“Is that even a word?”
“It is now.” I clear my throat. “You know, if you need help figuring out who everyone is, I’m happy to be of assistance.”
He smiles at my cheeky comment and leans forward to capture my mouth in an unexpected kiss.
It takes a conscious effort to not lean in to him and deepen the kiss.
The kiss is brief, so brief it’s barely the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, but I want more of it.
He seems to remember himself and pulls away from me.
It shouldn’t hurt. This is what I wanted, after all. I wanted him to not mix pleasure with our business. I was the one who didn’t want to feel like a call girl as he made me come around his fingers.
Stupid boundaries.
It’s almost like Los Angeles has cast a little spell over Parker as well. He’s, dare I say it, almost softer. All of his hard edges and his personal reasons for not being in a relationship have vanished. Maybe it’s true. Maybe the West Coast is the best coast.
Freed from the frantic pressures of New York, Parker is flourishing, and I wonder if it’s the sunlight and perfect weather or me.
I want it to be me, even if I can’t pinpoint the reason for that.
I like Parker. I like spending time with him, and I want to kiss him and more, but he is paying me to be his arm candy until his sister’s wedding.
Besides being from different worlds, this entire experience is based on me being in his orbit.
When was the last time he went on a date with another woman, let alone spent this much time with one?
“I knew I chose my date well.” His words throw an ice bucket on me.
I hope my closed-mouth smile doesn’t give away the ache he just caused. “Now, hush you. I need to make sure I remember details of the rest of the guests.”
Parker releases my hand and I can feel the gulf between us widen.
“Of course.”
We ride in silence the rest of the way to the Getty Villa. Pulling up to a red-coated valet, I get my first glimpse of the building not from the air. It’s clear that this space functions as a working museum during the day, but it’s absent any lingering tourists this late.
When my door opens, I don’t check with Parker that we’re ready to go. I take my chance to nearly dive out of the limo. Lights flash as I do, and I hope that I haven’t accidentally flashed any goods. I haven’t even been able to steal a glimpse of myself since we left.
Parker is tight on my heels, placing his hand on my bare back as we walk the red carpet lined with photographers.
London Westmont is more than just a media darling.
Saying so is like saying that Brad Pitt is just an actor or Steve Spielberg is just some director.
London is a legend, not just because she’s the heir to the Westmont Media fortune, but because she’s one of the original influencers of our time.
Her personable videos as she walked her audience through her wardrobe and skincare routine led to her starting her own, surprisingly affordable line, one that I have a few different products from.
My body twists closer to Parker, a remembered dance from when we were at the gala in New York and the festival in Shanghai.
I mold my body to his, following the cue from the photographers when they ask me to turn and look this way or that.
They still don’t really know who I am or if they should care, but now that I’ve been on his arm three times in a row, they’re sitting up and taking notice.
It’s a level of scrutiny that I’m not excited about, but Parker promised to protect me.
I still don’t understand why there is this much interest in his life, but I guess when you’re worth billions, the world wants to take a bite out of you.
Once we’re past the photo line, I take my first deep breath.
It’s hardly surprising that there are velvet ropes and more carpet leading us the way we’re supposed to go.
Around us, all the other guests are similarly dressed in white.
I don’t have to wonder for long why the theme is what it is because I spot the guest of honor, London herself, greeting people as they walk into the outside courtyard.
She’s resplendent in a gold gown that's draped around her like she’s a grecian goddess. The sunburst crown she’s wearing only further gives the impression that she is the sun around which we all circle.
“Parker Worthington, you break my heart on my birthday,” she pouts before leaning forward to kiss both his cheeks.
“I’m afraid you must blame Holly here for stealing my heart.” The look he gives me almost sells me on the lie. There’s no way I have his heart.
I refuse to hold my breath as I meet the gaze of the birthday girl.
She twirls one finger and I do as ordered, which gives me my first chance to see what I’m wearing.
The gathering of the top scoop of the neckline manages to hide the sheerness of the fabric.
Similar draping around my hips also manages to hide my hooch, and, I sincerely hope, my bare ass.
If not, I hope my parents aren’t subscribed to any news alerts with my name attached.
I already know my sister, Tamsin, will call me about this tomorrow.
The rest of the fabric sparkles, distracting from just how much of my skin and the boning of my undergarment you can see through it. At least, I hope it distracts.
I finish my circle, coming to face London and waiting for her to pass judgement.
“Next year’s couture from my favorite designer. How did you pull that off?” She turns her gaze to Parker, a neat little quirk to her lips.
“I aimed to impress you. I know Sheera is your favorite, and I thought you might like a glimpse of her latest work.”
“You thought correct. As much as I would love to get to know your lovely Holly, that will have to wait until later in the night. I want to finish my receiving line so I’m free to mix and mingle later. Do save me a dance.”
Her attention immediately shifts to the people behind us, and I walk forward.
“Did I pass?” I ask out the corner of my mouth.
“I think we both did.”
Parker and I move about the party, chatting with people.
And while I’m usually much better about holding my alcohol, tonight I can’t seem to get a handle on myself.
Every time I get halfway through a glass, a waiter is there, swapping out my champagne so I can’t keep track of how much I’ve had to drink until I lean my body against a cold marble wall and close my eyes.
When the world spins, I realize I’ve had too much, but I think I’ve already passed the line of no return, and no amount of pigs in a blanket or water will stop the train that is barreling toward me.
I open my eyes abruptly and stare at the champagne glass before carelessly tossing the contents over my shoulder in the direction of a bush.
“Drink this,” Parker orders, placing a cold glass in my free hand before extracting the champagne glass.
I guzzle the water down, only making it through half the glass before I need air.
“Who gets people drunk like this in an art gallery? And honestly, some of these statues have eyes . Just, why?” I glance toward the fountain next to me and shudder.
“People with the net worth to cover the cost of any damage. Have you done any damage I need to know about?”
“Only if champagne is bad for plants.” I laugh at my own joke then realize how uncool that is and immediately stop.
“We just have to wait for London to cut the cake and then we can leave. I showed face and I heard her grandfather won’t be coming, so we can go whenever you want after that.”