Melrose

“How do I look, Murph?” I do a spin in front of my dog, showing off the skin-tight Herve Leger bandage dress I only reserve for special occasions.

His little round face tilts and he blinks.

“You’re right. I’ve worn this way too many times. I’ll retire it after tonight.” I head across my new room and examine my reflection in the mirror. This morning I went for a jog around the new neighborhood, which is surprisingly quaint and residential and not at all the party hub I’d expect Nick to occupy. For lunch, I met up with a couple of friends from acting class, and then I spent the better part of this afternoon curling my hair and brushing out the tendrils until they formed perfect, Hollywood starlet waves.

Reaching for a tube of look-at-me pink lipstick, I slick a coat across my full mouth before smiling and checking my teeth.

The lipstick is nothing more than a strategy. For starters, men have tragically short attention spans, especially in a city where gorgeous women are everywhere they look, so if I’ve got this eye-grabbing color on my mouth, it tends to draw their gaze in that direction.

Second, while they’re watching my mouth, there’s a good chance they might actually be listening to the words coming out of it.

Lastly, if I’m wearing a color like this, most of these men won’t dare try to kiss me. They don’t want to walk out of the Ivy and risk bumping into their friends with a girl half their age on their arm. These guys like to wear their shameless tastes at whisper-volume.

It’s in the silent Rolex on their watch. The confident way they order the perfect wine every meal. The subtle art of name-dropping. The million-dollar sports car in a normal shade like black or white or silver. The house hidden deep in the Hollywood Hills, behind windy, gated driveways.

Of course, there are the types who wear their affinity for the finer things like a badge of honor, pulling up in their yellow Ferrari and wear more bling than the average rapper for a quiet dinner for two.

I generally try to avoid those types but it never fails—occasionally one will slip in.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand, and I reach for it, swiping my thumb across the lock and tapping the message icon.

ROBERT: Still on for tonight? 7?

I reply with a smiley face and a simple “of course” and press send.

ROBERT: On my way.

Robert McCauley is local producer with ample connections. We met on the set of that Lifetime movie I worked on a few months back, and he wasted no time asking me out. Only he had to head back to LA shortly after filming began and our schedules never aligned … until now.

If my cousin, Maritza, was here, she’d be giving me shit for going on a date with a guy twice my age, but it’s nothing kinky or nefarious.

These guys tend to be a bit classier, a bit more refined. They have the kind of worldly experience the twenty-somethings around here have yet to possess.

Plus, I’d much rather dress up and be treated to a gourmet dinner than for some guy to take me to a party in Calabasas to hang out with his friends … and then proceed to ditch me when his crush shows up. Or the kind who talk about how successful they are and drive Porsches but have the nerve to ask me to “go Dutch” when the check arrives.

Amateurs.

I don’t waste my time with guys my age anymore, and I’m not even sorry about it.

I take a seat on the edge of my bed, smirking when I think about this morning and the shower incident.

I’ll admit, I’m not normally so juvenile. Waking him up with show tunes and using up all the hot water is a little beneath me, but I had to prove a point and I had to prove it as soon as possible, before things got too out of hand.

Anyway, Sutter’s the spitting image of the kind of guys my age who tend to ask me out.

And he’s the spitting image of the kind of guys I have zero problem turning down.

The front door slams and the walls shudder for a second.

Speak of the devil …

“Come on, Murph.” I pat my thigh and he hops off the bed, following me downstairs. I need to let him outside before Robert gets here, and then I’m locking him in his kennel—for his own protection.

Not that I don’t trust Sutter, but if God forbid, Murphy got lose or something, I wouldn’t count on Sutter to do me any favors and try and track him down.

Heading downstairs, I round the corner by the door and nearly smack into the man of the hour.

“Hey,” I say, tucking a blonde wave behind my ear.

His skin is a sun-kissed shade of bronze, his dark hair sporting natural highlights. His white shirt, which reads ALCOTT ELECTRIC has a giant rip down the front, exposing the taut ripple of his upper abs.

Murphy scratches at my leg for me to pick him up, but I already lint-rolled this dress for fifteen minutes earlier and I’m not about to do it again.

Our eyes hold, but Sutter stays silent.

“O … kay,” I say, stepping around him. “Come on, Murph, let’s go outside.”

He trots in step with me and we head to the back sliding door, moving out to the patio. The backyard is tiny, microscopic almost, but it’s surrounded by trees and a faded, wooden privacy fence and you can’t hear traffic or even neighbors.

Leaning against a painted banister, I wait for my dog to do his thing before checking the time.

Robert should be here any minute.

My heart skips a beat. I love dating. I love meeting new people and conversing. I love networking and making connections, especially when those connections can lead to future opportunities.

This is my jam.

Murphy trots back to the patio and we head inside. I take a seat on the cognac sofa, crossing my legs and inspecting my manicure for any chips or scratches.

All good.

Glancing out the window, I count six cars passing before I decide to run upstairs and grab my vintage Cartier bracelet—a good luck gift from Gram on my sixteenth birthday.

Robert is probably one of the most connected guys to ask me out to date. His resume is a laundry list a mile long, filled with impressive names and blockbuster hits. But aside from the professional advantage that would come with dating him, he’s handsome and kind.

Climbing the stairs, I stride to my room and close the door as I crouch beside my suitcase and search the pockets for my jewelry case.

I have every intention of getting organized this weekend, but I need to get some boxes and things to store Nick’s belongings. The guy asked me to move into his room, but he left it just the way it was—only taking with him an armful of wrinkled clothes in a giant suitcase.

All of his posters and pictures and guitar picks and coffee-stained notebooks are still littered around the room.

It only takes a few more tries, but I manage to find my bracelet and the key that unlocks it, and a moment later, I’m corralling Murphy to his kennel and heading back downstairs to wait for my date.

The scent of men’s body wash mixes with steam and fills the stairway, which tells me Sutter’s taken his post-work shower, which I’m assuming is his thing. Part of me feels the urge to apologize for this morning. I can’t imagine starting your day with a lukewarm shower courtesy of some random girl who’s living with you is the best way to kick things off …

Now I kind of feel bad, but at the time I felt vindicated.

With a hand on my hip and my heels clicking against the hardwood, I go to the kitchen, following the sound of the slamming fridge door and the pop and hiss of a bottle of beer.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry—for this morning.”

He takes a swig, eyes dragging the length of me.

“But seriously, we need to get along and respect each other,” I say. “Otherwise the next six months are going to be—”

“—you should probably take that off.” Sutter’s voice is monotone and he takes another drink.

“What?” My face scrunches.

“He left.”

“Who left?” I ask.

“That guy,” he says, nodding toward the front door. “The guy that showed up in a three piece suit, driving a Maserati.”

“Robert?”

“Didn’t catch his name. Anyway, I told him to leave.”

My eyes widen. I could punch him right now. “Do you have any idea who that was?!”

Sutter shrugs. “Nope.”

“Robert McCauley,” I say his name slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Sutter shrugs again, like the name still doesn’t register.

“He’s a very important producer,” I say, lips numb and wavy. My hands are shaking. My voice too. “We’ve had this date planned for months. Why … why would you do that? What gives you the right?”

“I did you a favor.”

“No, Sutter. You did me a huge disservice.”

He shakes his head. “You’re doing yourself a huge disservice if that’s what you call a date. Guy just wanted some pretty young thing on his arm and some sex with a woman whose libido hasn’t peaked.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that an offer?” He smirks and I could smack that perfect smile right off his handsome mouth. Sutter is almost too good looking and right now, even his face annoys me.

“Never.” My arms fold along my chest, tight. “Never in a hundred million years. And that’s a promise.”

Grabbing my phone, I decide to text Robert, but before I do, I need to know what Sutter said.

“What’d you say to get him to leave?” I ask.

His lips are pressed against the mouth of his Rolling Rock beer, but he doesn’t take a drink. “Does it matter?”

“I need to undo whatever the hell you just did, so yes. It matters. Tell me. Now.”

He heads to the sink, finishing the rest of his beer before rinsing the bottle out and dropping it in a recycling bin by the end of the counter.

I’ve never met such a civilized asshole.

“I told him he’s not good enough for you,” Sutter says, turning to face me. His hands rest on the counter behind him and he crosses his feet at the ankle, like we’re just having a casual conversation and I’m not standing here in a thousand-dollar dress in thousand-dollar heels and in hair and makeup that took my entire afternoon to perfect.

“Why would you say that?” My throat tightens. I’m so fucking confused.

Sutter straightens his posture, folding his arms across his muscled chest. “Because I know his type.”

Rolling my eyes, I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about him. You had no right, Sutter.”

“I know enough.”

Cupping my hand over my eyes, I suck in a hard breath. I can’t look at him right now, and my body is so heavy, my blood so thick and hot, I’m paralyzed into place.

“There had to have been more,” I say a moment later, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “He wouldn’t have just left because some random guy told him he wasn’t good enough for me.

Robert McCauley has an ego of steel and more confidence than George Clooney and Tom Cruise combined. It’d take a lot more than some cocky electrician telling him off to get him to blow me off.

“It doesn’t matter what was said,” Sutter says. “And stop asking because I’m not going to tell you. It was none of your business.”

I take a step toward him, hands shaking at my sides. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

My gaze burns into his.

I don’t hate anyone, but if I did it’d be Sutter Alcott.