Tori
I’M NERVOUS ABOUT this pitch.
Friday morning, I quickly shower and get dressed, practicing parts of it as I go. When I arrive at the Center City high-rise where Dreams Inferred LLC occupies an entire floor, I’ve recited the key points more than twenty times.
I check in with the receptionist, and a short while later, my only contact so far, Gary Evans, greets me with a firm handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Alvarez,” he says as we walk down a narrow hall whose walls are decorated with photographs of iconic people and places related to Philadelphia. City Hall. Benjamin Franklin. The Liberty Bell. Rocky Balboa with his fists in the air at the top of the steps of the art museum.
Mr. Evans opens the door to a room and ushers me in. He then motions for me to sit across from him at the conference room table. I place my purse in the chair beside me and settle my hands over the manila folder protecting the pages of my pitch.
“Ms. Alvarez, my partners and I have reviewed your package, and we’re impressed. The concept behind your fitness plan is simple and accessible. Many Americans don’t have access to a gym, and another subset of your target population travels extensively. The concept of using only your body to attain fitness isn’t new, but no one’s presented it in this way as far as we know, and we’re impressed with your research on differently abled individuals.”
Wait. Why is he pitching my program for me? I drop my hands to my lap. Let the hand-wringing begin.
“We have a few concerns with the proposed program, however.”
Ah. The good ole compliment sandwich. I should have known a but was coming. “I’m happy to address them if I can.”
He straightens in his chair, adopting an authoritative stance. “First, we don’t see much scaling potential. Your proposal only mentioned two locations in Philadelphia. If the program succeeds, what opportunities do you see for additional revenue? What are the synergies?”
I open my folder, pull out the relevant pages of my proposal, and hand him a summary page. He retrieves a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket and puts them on. “Go on, Ms. Alvarez.”
“As you’ll see, I envision You Are What You Move as a fitness movement of sorts,” I continue. “It’s taking the simple idea that physical activity using your own body as resistance can be more effective than expensive gym memberships or personal exercise equipment.”
His eyes flash with a hint of annoyance. “Right. The concept isn’t the problem. Talk to me about execution.”
“Okay, I’d like to build an online community that will also be an attractive demographic for advertisers. Although gyms and exercise retailers aren’t targets, other manufacturers would jump at the chance to reach this community. Think exercise apparel, including You Are What You Move apparel, exercise mats, water bottles, and so on. Also, the program relies on my personal training experience and education. Other personal trainers could design programs for clients based on the concept. Groups of differently abled people working out together in the outdoors, for example. No exercise studio needed.”
“So one could become a certified trainer?”
“Yes, like Zumba.”
“Then you’ll need a catchier name.”
I don’t want to smile at that, but I do anyway. “I’m sure I could come up with something better.”
Mr. Evans nods. “I think we’d like to see that fleshed out a bit more.”
“Sure. I can revise the proposal to include data on this aspect of the program. What are your other concerns?”
Mr. Evan leans forward and considers what he’s about to say.
Just spit it out. Please.
“As you said, the program relies on your education and experience as a personal trainer. But you don’t have extensive business experience. You’ve managed a gym for three years, but you’re not bringing any ownership experience to the table.”
My hands are sweating now. “I do have a minor in business administration.”
“That’s education, not experience. We’re interested in how you’ll run this company. What support you’ll have. We’re angel investors, Ms. Alvarez, and although we’re not investing our life savings, that doesn’t mean we’re not looking for the typical indicia of a good risk.”
“I intend to use some of the money from your investment to hire a business consultant who’ll assist me with starting the company.”
Mr. Evans doesn’t respond to this. Instead, he rolls his chair back and rises. “And finally, how do you intend to draw people to your doors? Showing a physically fit personal trainer demonstrate exercises using her own body weight isn’t as effective as using the real people who’ve used the program. You need testimonials. Before-and-after pictures. People need visuals. They want to be convinced that achieving their goals is possible.”
He’s pacing, and my stomach’s churning. I’m losing him. Where the hell’s the compliment in this sandwich? So far, it’s been bad, bad, and more bad. I could solicit people to sign up for a beta program. But I need to keep the investors’ interest in the meantime.
He pulls out his chair and takes a seat. “Ms. Alvarez,” he says as he straightens his cuffs. “I think my partners and I would be willing to overlook certain risks associated with investing in your program if you had a secret weapon.”
I stare at him with what I’m sure is a blank look, because I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“Suppose you were able to secure a celebrity endorsement, for example. That might be of particular interest to us.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, swipes left, and glances at the screen. “Do you know anyone you could convince to vouch for the program?”
His question hits me upside the head like a sledgehammer. It all makes sense now. I’m here because of my relationship with Carter, not my proposal. Dreams Inferred LLC didn’t have an “unexpected opening” in its potential portfolio of investments. No, the investors somehow learned of my connection to Carter and suddenly “rediscovered” their interest in my venture.
But even if I were willing to trade on my relationship with Carter—and I’m not, of course—the truth is that he wouldn’t be able to vouch for the program. His training and my proposed program are two different animals.
“Mr. Evans—”
“Call me Gary.”
“Gary, although the idea of securing a celebrity endorsement is a good one, Carter Stone isn’t a viable option. He hasn’t followed the program, and in fact someone like Stone actually wouldn’t be on brand. We’re trying to reach John Q. Public here.”
“You could always put him through the program or fudge the details to make it appear as if he completed it. The key point is that you’ve worked with him. It’s a golden opportunity for you, isn’t it? Given his recent weight loss, if he transforms his physique, he’ll be the ‘it’ guy in Hollywood, at least when it comes to hot bodies.”
Did he just use the term hot bodies? I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
This must be what Carter experiences on an almost daily basis: people wanting a piece of him, people assuming they’re entitled to a piece of him. I’m angry on his behalf. But Carter accepts it and presses on, because he loves acting, and he’s willing to take the bad with the good. And I’m sure for him, the good outweighs the bad.
Oh.
Oh, damn.
It pains me to be this dense.
If I really want to be with Carter, shouldn’t I, too, be willing to take the bad with the good? And doesn’t the good, in fact, outweigh the bad?
Yes, and yes.
And if I had to choose between dealing with the intrusion upon my life that follows from being with Carter or not being with Carter at all, which choice would I make? The answer is a no-brainer.
So what the hell am I doing here?
“Mr. Evans, am I right in assuming the group isn’t interested in my proposal unless I can secure an endorsement from someone like Carter Stone?”
Mr. Evans blanches, but he recovers within seconds and gives me a curt nod. “You’re correct, Ms. Alvarez.”
I stand and offer him my hand, which he takes reluctantly.
“Then I think we’re done,” I say in a clear and steady voice. “Thank you for your time.”
Keep it moving, Tori. This is a minor setback. I’ll find another way to open the studio.
For now, though, I’m going to visit my man.
AFTER A FORTY-MINUTE taxi ride, I arrive in Carter’s West Hollywood neighborhood. The driver takes a wrong turn onto a dead-end street and swings around until he finds Carter’s home, which is situated on a surprisingly quiet cul-de-sac. The exterior is midcentury modern, its first level a wall of white with a gray front door. Windows span the second level, suggesting that the house has a spectacular view. The landscaping is minimal, but I spy two palm trees flanking the end of the cobblestoned walkway, and their presence makes me smile.
The driver whistles. “Who lives there? Someone famous?”
“Not sure. I’m just a dog walker.”
A dog walker who flies from out of town and brings a suitcase with her? Ugh, Tori, your subterfuge skills are weak.
I ring the doorbell, and the sound of padded feet tells me this trip wasn’t futile. After adjusting the straps of my oversized purse, I lick my lips and smile.
The woman who opens the door scans me from head to toe and returns her gaze to the carry-on at my side. She’s young and pretty, with dark brown hair and golden-brown eyes, and she’s not unlike the women I’ve seen on Carter’s arms in gossip magazines. I don’t know what to think. But I don’t jump to conclusions. Yet.
She places her hands in the air in surrender and grins. “I’m his sister, I swear. And you must be Tori-not-short-for-Victoria.”
I like her immediately. “You’re Ashley?”
She nods and swings the door open. “The one and only. I’m crashing. You planning the same?”
“Yeah,” I say, pointing to my travel gear. “A weekend visit . . . but I guess I should have cleared this with him first.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. If anything, he’ll kick me out. Come on in. It’s so great to meet you.” Ashley picks up the newspaper outside the door before she closes it, and then I follow her past the foyer into the living area.
“Great to meet you, too.” I pull my luggage up one step, walk through the short foyer, and scan the living area. “Wow, this is gorgeous.”
It’s a study in light and space with floor-to-ceiling windows, vaulted ceilings, and hardwood floors. And sculptures. Lots and lots of sculptures. Which is the only clue I need to confidently conclude an interior decorator furnished Carter’s place.
I glimpse Ashley’s bare feet and toe off my sandals before I go any farther into the room.
“Yeah, the views are amazing,” she says. “Do you want a tour? I’m not sure when Carter will be back.”
“That would be great. Could I, uh . . . use the restroom first?”
Her eyes widen. “Yes, I’m so sorry. You must be exhausted. The powder room’s down this hall to the left. Would you like something to drink?”
“Water would be great.”
I drop my purse on a kitchen stool and walk down the hall.
I’m not sure why one would need a double vanity in the powder room, but I’m not complaining. I trail a finger against the marble counter, admiring the intricate tile backsplash surrounding the massive mirror. It’s the kind of mirror that reveals every imperfection, and I stick my tongue out at myself because I will not let this soul sucker kill my joy.
When I return to the living area, Ashley hands me a glass of water.
“Would you like me to get him back here somehow?” she says with mischief in her eyes.
I swallow and shake my head. “No, no. I don’t want him to change his plans for me. If it’s okay, I’ll just hang out here until he gets back.”
“Sure. Let’s get you that tour, then.”
We both freeze, however, when the lock on the front door clicks and Carter walks in. He has his phone to his ear, and his mouth is set in a scowl. The moment he sees me, he smiles and his eyes brighten. How I wish we were alone so I could have my way with him.
He ends the call and places his phone on the kitchen counter. “I thought you weren’t able to come this weekend.”
“I left as soon as I could. It didn’t feel right to be away from you.”
He lowers his eyelids to half-mast. “I’m glad you’re here.” His voice deepens a notch. “Really glad.”
Oh. Whatever he’s communicating, I’m here for it. Because I’m certain it involves a bed and a mind-numbing orgasm—maybe even two or three. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”
Ashley waves her hands between us like an NFL referee. “Oh my God, you two. I’m right here. Get. A. Room.”
Carter and I laugh.
“Sorry, Ashley,” I say. “We’re in the easily-carried-away stage.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just . . . he’s my older brother.” She covers her eyes. “I can’t look.” She scurries away. Seconds later, a door clicks shut.
“Come here, you,” he says as he tugs me close. I fall into his arms easily and snuggle against his chest. I breathe him in, his familiar scent clean and crisp, like a towel that’s been air-dried near the beach. I place my hands at his waist and drag my hands over him, my fingers traveling over the dips and swells of his powerful back. Someone’s been keeping up with his exercise plan.
He threads his hand under my hair, drawing my head back, and plants an openmouthed kiss on my neck. With his mouth still pressed against my skin, he bends and lifts me by my ass so that I have no choice but to wrap my legs around his waist. Okay, I have a choice, but I choose to do this. In truth, I want to climb him and rub myself against every inch of his body until we’re fused together for the next hour.
“Oh shit, you guys. Wait until I leave at least.”
I scramble off Carter, and we spring apart like two teenagers caught necking in the back of a car. Ashley gathers items in the living area, avoiding eye contact with us as she does. She slings her purse over her shoulder. “I’m out. Julian took pity on me and is letting me crash there. Says he won’t be home anyway.”
Carter swipes his hand down his face. “Ashley, you don’t have to go.”
Even I can tell it’s a lackluster protest. The man does this for a living. What happened to his acting skills?
She raises her brows. “I assure you, I do. And don’t worry about me. I have the rental.” To Carter, she says, “I’ll check in with you before I leave.” Then she waves at us from the door. “Have fun, kids.”
The front door closes, and Carter again lifts me off the ground. “I missed you.”
I thread my hands around his neck and hang on for the ride down a long hall to his bedroom. “I missed you, too.”
“I have an idea,” he says in between kisses to my neck and jaw.
“Tell me,” I say as I squirm against him.
“Let’s stay in bed for the rest of the weekend.”
“You have the best ideas. A think tank would be lucky to have you.”
He smiles against my neck, and then he deposits me in the center of his bed. I’m in an unfamiliar place, so I survey the room, just to get my bearings. It’s dominated by windows, and his furnishings are sparse. The most significant décor is the sunlight filtering through what I’m sure are ridiculously expensive blinds.
Carter toes off his shoes and unsnaps his jeans. My gaze darts to the sliver of skin above his boxer briefs before it returns to his face. Next, he dispenses with his royal blue T-shirt, pulling it overhead so that I get a first-row seat at an entertaining display of flexing muscles. I want to clap my hands and cheer, because it deserves a standing ovation and an encore. But Carter wants me to play a part in the show, too.
With his unbuttoned jeans still hanging from his hips, he pulls me to the edge of the bed. My feet hit the cold marble floor, and I spread my legs. He drops into the space I’ve created for him.
“Sit up,” he instructs.
Oh, this is different. I was usually the one telling him what to do in the gym. I like being on the receiving end of his bossiness here. He pulls up my top and lifts it over my head, but he doesn’t remove it completely, which binds my arms. With a single finger, he pushes me back down and massages my breasts until they pop out of the cups of my bra. “There they are,” he says with a smile. He traces my nipples with his index fingers, drawing circles around them, and then he pulls them gently, lengthening them. “So swollen,” he whispers.
I rock my hips in response to Carter’s ministrations, and my movements draw his gaze to the junction of my thighs. “Let’s get these pants off you. I want to see your bare pussy.”
With a whimper that shall never be acknowledged again, I raise my hips off the bed. He unzips my pants and tugs them down my body, throwing them behind him and returning to rid me of my panties next. But he doesn’t pull them all the way down my legs. Instead he pulls them off my mound and ass and leaves them around my thighs. Then he bends over and breathes me in. “You smell like you want me to fuck you so badly.”
I quiver in anticipation, already picturing his cock filling me to the hilt. In the meantime, he’s left me a mess: shirt secured around my arms; bra cups resting below my breasts; and panties binding my legs. I want to touch him, but my shirt is constricting me, which is just what he wants. It leaves me vulnerable to his desires, and I like that, too. My position should make me feel helpless, but not for a second do I worry that Carter will take advantage of me. This is just as much for my pleasure as it is his, and the continuous roll of my hips, along with my soft moans, tells him he’s succeeding.
“Carter, please,” I beg him.
He stands and steps back, admiring his handiwork. “Look at you,” he says. “I’m honored.”
“And I’m horny,” I say after taking a harsh breath.
He unzips his jeans slowly, revealing a hint of pubic hair and the underside of his rigid dick. “Do you want me to take it out?”
“Yes, that’s how this usually works.”
He curls his hand and then slides it up and down his cock. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
I can’t do anything but shift my ass and hips and squeeze my core. The pressure is deliciously frustrating. But I need more. So I lick my lips. “Carter?”
“Yes?”
“I’m warm, wet, and tight, and I’d love you to fuck me into next week.”
“I don’t think I can trust your assessment of the situation. I should confirm it with my own hands.”
He gets on the bed this time and pulls me to my knees. “Let’s see, now,” he says as he slips a single digit inside. “Oh, that’s warm. Very warm. I think we can get you wetter, though.”
I collapse against him and cry out. “Yes, please. Do whatever you want.”
Carter kisses me and draws my bottom lip into his mouth. “Do you need a second finger?”
“Oh God, yes. Please.”
He adds a second finger, and my gut clenches from the dual tension of being pleasured and having limited mobility.
“I can’t quite determine how tight you are. Two fingers aren’t a reliable guide. How about four? Can you take four?”
“I’ll take whatever you give me, damn you.”
He fills me with four fingers and twists them. “Oh shit, you are tight, Tori.”
My wetness coats his fingers as he slips them in and out of me. He groans against my ear, apparently appreciative of the slick heat between my legs. It’s not enough, though. My body tightens from the pressure of being on the brink of orgasm, and I desperately need relief. With his fingers inside me, I raise one leg and press my foot onto the bed. That tweak in our positions allows me to ride his fingers as though they’re his cock. I use his hand to feed my need to be filled—and his mouth drops open as he stares at the place where my pussy and his fingers meet.
I kiss his chest, obscuring his view. But I don’t care, because we need to move this along. “Do you feel that all over your fingers? That could be me pulsing around your cock.”
“Fuck,” he cries. “I surrender.”
He squeezes his eyes closed, groans, and pulls out his dick, fisting it tightly. For a minute, he appears disoriented, and then I realize he’s searching for something. He shucks his jeans, crosses the room, and flips open a black case filled with condoms.
“If you release me from all this, I’ll put it on for you.”
“Nope. You stay right there. You’re a devious orgasm extractor, and I have to last.”
I snicker at his earnestness as he makes quick work of putting on protection.
Once sheathed, he climbs on top of the bed and releases me from my constraints, tossing my shirt, bra, and panties on his side table.
“Turn around. Ass in the air.”
I do so without delay, using my elbows to support my upper body. Carter rubs his cock over my pussy and pushes inside. There’s a second of discomfort as I adjust to his size, and then he grinds into me slowly.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, Carter, yes. Don’t be sweet. Just fuck me hard. Please.”
He caresses my shoulders and gathers my hair in his hands, and then he tugs on my curls as he folds his body over mine. He pulls out, leaving only the broad head of his cock inside, and then he pounds into me, his breath hot and ragged against my ear. “Still okay?”
“Unless I say otherwise, you can assume I’m okay.”
My advice pushes him to action. He rises off my back, digs his fingers into my waist, and strokes me wildly. And oh, I don’t know what I love more: Carter’s groans and moans, or the way he’s filling me.
Over and over he sinks into me, his cock creating the friction that makes me teeter on a deliciously precarious edge. I’m almost there, and the push and pull between us, the tingling that fuses my nerve endings into a continuum of pleasure, is as satisfying as the climax we’re trying to reach.
He releases my waist and massages my back as he pumps. “That’s it, Tori. Tighten around me. Let me feel you.”
“Like that?”
His answering groan shoots to my achy clit. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Touch yourself, baby. I’m going to come.”
I slide my arm under me and rub two fingers against the nub. Round and round in circles I go until my arm shakes from the pressure of it. Carter spreads my ass, achieving a deeper penetration I didn’t think was possible, and plunges into me with abandon.
My mouth hangs open as he works me from behind, and it’s so intense that I can’t do anything but drop my hands to the bed, grasp the sheets, and rock my hips back to meet his thrusts. His hands knead my shoulders, and then he guides my torso lower so that my face and breasts are pressed against the mattress. Holy shit, this position tilts my pelvis just so, and each successive thrust brings me one step closer to a body-numbing orgasm.
When I reach my peak, it crashes into me without warning, and my entire body trembles in response to the waves of pleasure spreading through it. And then a deep groan rumbles from Carter’s chest, joining my high-pitched cries, followed by a stream of fuck, shit, and that’s so good.
We are loud. And I love it so much.
Carter collapses against me, and we drop to the bed in an inelegant heap.
Still on my stomach, I swallow several times. My throat is parched, and my lips are chapped, but I don’t care because that orgasm wrecked me in the best way.
Carter pulls out of me slowly, rolls off the bed, and tosses the condom in the trash. He slides back into the bed and pulls the covers over us, turning me to face him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this pretty face.” He takes a section of my hair and twirls it around his fingers.
I nuzzle his neck. “You were focused on my ass.”
He pushes me away, and I pull back.
“You’re ticklish,” I observe, my mouth agape.
He plants a soft kiss on my parted lips. “Am not.”
As I contemplate how to uncover the truth, he pins my arms behind my back. “Okay,” he says. “I’m ticklish. Please don’t use it against me.”
I drop my head to his chest. “Never.”
He takes a deep breath, his face surrounded by a cloud of my curls. “Hey, Tori.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
I lift my head and stare into his eyes. There is nowhere I’d rather be. “I’m so glad I’m here, too.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake and discover that I’m alone in Carter’s so-big-it-must-be-custom-size bed. Now that I’m not being stroked to oblivion, I can appreciate the view of the Hollywood Hills that spans the entire length of the room. What a stunning view to wake up to.
He’s rustling about in the other room, if the banging of pots and pans is any indication. I reach over to check the time on my phone just as it buzzes.
Eva: I just heard. So sorry, sweetie. Did he have an explanation?
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I suppose “he” is Carter since she knew I was traveling to California to visit him this weekend.
I could pretend all is well, but Eva’s my best friend, and I want to know what’s going on.
Me: I haven’t heard anything. What explanation?
A minute later, my phone buzzes again. Eva has sent another text, this one including a link to a website. I pull up the page and scroll through until I see a picture of Carter with his crotch against a woman’s ass in a tightly packed room. His hands are in the air, suggesting that they’re dancing, and his head is thrown back, but not far enough that you miss the big ol’ smile on his handsome face.
Maybe I’m naïve to think this, but I don’t believe Carter did anything other than dance with that woman. In a suggestive way, sure, but I’m not lying here thinking she was in his bed last night. In any case, Carter knows as well as I do that in Hollywood reality is valuable only if it’s interesting or scandalous, and if reality is boring, innuendo takes its place.
Still, the caption accompanying the photograph hurts. It reads: “Has Carter Stone found a new love interest? Hmm. This photo suggests the answer is hell yes.”
Lovely.
Welcome to life with Carter. If we’re going to have any chance of a future together, I’ll have to deal with situations like this one. And if Carter values his balls, he better give me a good explanation for that photo.
I quickly type a response to Eva.
Me: Thanks for this. It’s fine.
Eva: Fine? Not fine. I’ll cut his ass too. Just say the word.
Me: I’m going to give him a chance to explain. Check in with you later.
Carter returns to the bedroom holding a tray of eggs, pastries, and juice. He’s also grinning from ear to ear, but as soon as his gaze lands on my face, he sets the tray down on his nightstand.
I prop myself up with a pillow and toss my phone on the mattress, the screen still showing the photograph of Thursday’s festivities. “I’m having a hard time looking at that.”
His face crumples. The change in him is so swift and complete it’s as though I’m watching a sunny day unexpectedly turn into a stormy one.
“It’s a photo of a single moment,” he says. “That was a sneak attack on my crotch, I swear. I told you about the event, remember? The point of going was to show that I’m not drowning in the sea of bad reviews for Hard Times. I knew there would be paparazzi there. We were just dancing, and yeah, she got a little frisky with it.”
I trust him, and I don’t think he’s deceiving me now. More than that, he’s right that I knew about the event. In fact, if it weren’t for my meeting with the investors, that might have been my ass on his crotch in the photo. “I believe you.”
The tension around his eyes fades, and he dons a hesitant smile. “Thank you.”
“Eva’s going to kick your ass, though.”
“Shit. I’m sorry about this. All of it.” He points to my phone. “You’ll explain this to her?”
“Yeah. I’ll get you off the hook.”
“And maybe next time, you’ll be the woman in the photo?”
Great minds. “Yeah, I’m ready to try.”
He blows out a breath, and his answering smile lights me up inside.
I pat the bed. “Now come here and feed your woman.”
He sets the breakfast tray on the bed and sits next to me, his back pressed against the headboard. After planting kisses on my cheek and forehead, he nibbles on my neck, and I use my chin to shoo him away. Then he pulls the tray closer to us, so we can both enjoy the food.
“You made this?” I ask him.
“Don’t be too impressed. The pastries are from a bakery a mile away, and the eggs are probably runny.”
“I’ll stick with the muffin, then, thanks.”
“Ingrate,” he teases.
“I’m grateful. Just protective of my digestive health.”
“Tell me about the meeting with the investors,” Carter asks between chews of his whole-grain bagel. “Was it really a dumpster fire?”
I snort when I remember the text I sent Carter after I’d walked out.
Tori: Meeting over. Total dumpster fire. Guy was a pendejo. Will explain later.
I take a sip of my orange juice before answering. “It was. We were never going to be a match, and although I’m bummed that I lost a prospect, I’d rather find the right partner than get stuck with the wrong one. The guy didn’t understand key aspects of my proposal and said some crappy stuff about my lack of experience.” Laughing off Evans’s rudeness, I mimic his gruff tone. “Ms. Alvarez, you have three years of management experience but you know nada about running your own studio.”
Carter chuckles, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Yeah, I could tell immediately Evans was an ass.”
I rush to pick up a slice of apple, but then my hand hovers over the plate, my laughter petering out like a stalled engine as Carter’s comment sinks into my psyche.
I could tell immediately Evans was an ass.
A ton of bricks lands on my chest, making it difficult to breath. I’ve never mentioned Evans by name, so how does Carter know he’s an ass? “You could?” I say in a strangled voice. Somehow, I manage not to wince at the sound of it, the evidence of my own gullibility in high-definition audio. “How the hell is that possible, Carter?”
His grin collapses, and his face turns ashen. “I talked to him . . . but I can explain.”
Why would Carter meddle in my affairs? It makes no sense. “What possible reason could you have had to speak with him?”
He jumps up from the bed and runs a hand through his hair, but he’s not meeting my gaze. Instead, he paces the room and stares at the walls as though the answers to his troubles can be found in them.
Screw this. I jump up from the bed and wrap the sheet around me.
“Tori, don’t,” he says. “Give me a minute.”
Ignoring him, I scramble around the room picking up my discarded clothes. I can’t find my damn jeans. Turning away from him, I hastily throw on my top and underwear, my heart racing as though the finish line is outside my chest. No more than five feet separate us, but we’re miles apart in understanding each other. I stand there, pantsless, and put my hands on my hips. “Your minute is up.”