4. Annie #2
“Hi, sorry I’m late,” I say as I reach the table and slide into the other side of the booth.
Zayn peers up from his phone and a shot of electricity runs down my spine as I stare into his dark green eyes. “I only have...” Zayn glances back at his phone before looking back at me, “thirty minutes before I need to be back on set.”
“Right, right. Again, so sorry. I can place an order for us, if you’d like? I come here quite often.” I whip around to try and find a server to no avail.
“I already ordered for us.”
“Oh.” Turning back to the table, I bite my lip involuntarily and my cheeks flush from the heat of his stare. Zayn’s eyes snap to my lips, but they’re gone instantly with a shake of his head.
I reach into my bag and rummage around, trying to find the journal that I know I put in there. I finally find it nestled under the computer, so I pull it out and place it in front of me.
With a deep breath, I look up to find Zayn staring.
His left hand palms his beard, drawing my attention to the stubble.
My clients in the past have never left me this flustered and at a loss of words.
Could it be the way he’s looking at me that causes me distress?
Does he remember me? And if he does, does he still not like me?
And if so, will that affect how he acts around me?
Who will bring Dan up first? My head spins with millions of questions, not one of them helping the tightness in my chest.
Zayn and I had a moment, which I’m not sure he remembers. I do. Vividly. A late night snack run to the kitchen turned into his hands on my waist. Nothing happened, but sometimes I wonder what would have if I was single and not with his brother. Maybe in another lifetime I would find out.
“So, I have some questions, if that’s alright.
” My gut bubbles with anticipation and nerves as I remind myself why I’m here.
Zayn answers by widening his eyes, no words escaping his mouth.
I let out a nervous giggle. “Right. So. Is there a reason why you stopped doing interviews? There wasn’t a whole lot of information in the packet I was given.
” In addition to the single piece of paper Greg gave me, Logan provided two more sheets which only told me what movies and shows Zayn acted in.
All things I could have easily looked up.
What I don’t know is why I’m needed or how I can help him.
“It’s personal.” Zayn grabs the water in front of him and raises it to his lips. He notices me as I watch his movements, his throat bobbing, then his tongue as it darts to catch a drop of water from his bottom lip.
I need to get laid. Drinking water should not be this sensual.
“Right, and I respect that, I do.” I smile, trying to keep my emotions in check before I continue. “In order for this to work, it would be great if you thought of this as a partnership.”
“Not going to happen.” He takes another sip.
God damnit. Is he distracting me on purpose?
“It needs to happen. I know what’s at stake for you.” Or at least, I have a hunch.
Zayn leans forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Well, Princess, if you think you know everything, please enlighten me. What’s at stake for me if I don’t go along with this little partnership?”
I hold back a grumble from both the nickname and the way he talks about my work. So, in response, I lean back in the booth and cross my legs.
I flip my notepad open to a new page, giving him an extra beat of silence. He thinks he’s going to be in charge? No. This is my court, my game, he’s just playing it.
“I think there’s a role you want,” I meet his glare, “and if you don’t work with me, you won’t get it. You need me, Zayn.”
“If you must know, there’s a lead role that I’m in the running for. Ed and Logan believe I need help, but what I need is for you to simply tell me where to show up, and I’ll do the rest.”
I was right, it is a role. A lead role.
“You’ll do the rest? You’ll handle the media? The interviews? All by yourself?” I scoff, annoyed that I have to deal with Zayn for the next five months. “Okay, Zayn, fine. We can try your way. And when it fails, we will try mine.”
“You’ll come with me on Saturday,” Zayn demands, taking a bite of his burger. At some point during our bickering, a nice server slid our food between us and left without saying a word. She’s smart and able to stay out of this. I, on the other hand, am stuck dealing with this grump.
“What do you mean by I’ll come with you? What happened to handling this on your own?”
He lets out an annoyed sigh like I’m supposed to already know, followed by an eye roll, which I find to be a bit excessive. “You’ll put on a dress, ride with me in the car, give me pointers on who to talk to and who to avoid, and be my date to the Summer Gala downtown.”
“I don’t need to be your date to the gala.
This is a small event. Only a few reporters will be there.
It’s only dinner and an auction.” I try to argue, try to insinuate that he would be better without me, hoping he takes the bait.
I was mistaken. Zayn is not the type of person to back down from what he wants.
“My way, Princess, remember? Wouldn’t your boss want you to help me?”
The feeling of dread hits my stomach like a fifty-pound weight.
He’s serious. Having to go to the gala never crossed my mind.
I thought I’d prep a few notecards for him to help with any media interactions.
And I hate the fact that he brought up my boss like he knows what’s at stake for me. Two can play at this game.
I grit my teeth and say, “Fine,” knowing that I won’t win this argument. Not when Zayn has a giant stick up his ass.
“Great. Glad that’s settled.”
“As long as you join me at a friend’s party beforehand.”
Zayn’s eyes narrow. “No.”
“It’s a non-negotiable. We stop by for one hour, minimum, before the gala.” I cross my arms, trying to border the line of professionalism.
His eyes drop to my chest for a moment, and I remember I’m wearing a v-neck dress, so sitting like this draws his attention to my now-raised breasts, but instead of dropping my arms, I tighten them.
A slight smirk appears on Zayn’s face before his lips form a thin line, but for that fleeting moment his grumpy demeanor drops as the slight tinge of red blossoms on his cheeks from being caught checking me out.
He clenches his jaw before sighing deeply and muttering, “Fine. I’ll pick you up. 4 p.m.?”
I nod in response, keeping my arms crossed tight.
Zayn just mumbles, or maybe it’s a growl, but he stands up, gives me one last look, and then leaves the diner.
Once I see the door close behind him, I drop my arms and gaze to the table.
He already paid, which is the least he can do after forcing me to attend this gala as his date.
I’m not sure if this goes against company policies, but it’ll be harmless.
It will be better to be by his side anyway, to see how he handles the reporters and photographers and be able to report back to Greg if necessary.
If I’m able to see him in action, maybe I’ll be able to give him better tips.
Because right now, I have nothing to go off of.
Dishes are being picked up by the server, which is my reminder that I need to leave this diner. I stand up from the booth and smile at others as I wind around the mix of chairs on my way to the front door.
I can’t tell if my irritability is from being in a packed diner or if it was influenced by Zayn’s mood. Either way, my chest hasn’t lightened. I feel like it’s going to explode any minute. The need for a quick yoga session or a moment of silence is imminent.
Besides the need to over-please the person I’m working with or for, I often find myself burnt out from overcommitment.
I say yes to everything: order catering for a luncheon, write the extra paperwork, make the decks for presentations.
Normally I can recognize the signs, snapping too quickly or feeling an immense amount of dead, and step away, but I can’t do that with Zayn.
I don’t have an option but to push through.
I wanted to have time to prep him, but no, he had to insist we do things his way and, with the way he was looking at me and how persistent he was, I couldn’t say no. I hate that he has this effect on me, but I hate that I find myself eager to get to know him even more.
Once I’m in the Uber, I dig my phone out of my bag to send a text to Marcy to meet me back at my apartment.
If I’m being forced to go to this gala on Saturday after stopping by James’ apartment, I’m going to need her help figuring out what to wear.
My day-to-day wardrobe is a simple pairing of jeans and a blouse.
Sometimes I spice it up and pair it with heels or a light blazer, but I’ve never had to dress for an event with so many watchful eyes.
The thought alone reminds me of the awful pit in my stomach.
The car slows to a stop at the curb in front of my apartment.
Marcy is standing outside near the front shrubs looking at her clipboard.
She brought her damn clipboard. Clipboards are the way they live and breathe at January Studios, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but I thought her work was slowing down since filming was wrapping up.
To her left is a giant duffle bag, full of what I can assume is dresses she’s worn to previous red carpet events she was invited to because of the studio. I’m lucky to have someone to mooch off of.
She looks up as I walk toward her, dropping the clipboard to her side. I pull her into a hug, already feeling lighter from the earlier meeting.
“I cannot wait for you to update me on your client. I’ve been waiting all day for you to text me.” Marcy heads to the building in front of me, guiding the way to my apartment.