Pretending He's Mine Read online

  “Okay, well—”

  The condo’s intercom buzzes, and we both turn our heads in its direction.

  “Expecting someone?” I ask.

  Julian’s gaze clouds. “No.” He strides across the floor and hits the talk switch. “What’s up, Benny?”

  “Michael Hart is here to see you. Says he’s your father?”

  Julian furrows his brows. “Yeah, yeah. Send him up, Benny.” He slips into his suit jacket, and then he paces as he waits for his father to arrive.

  I met Julian’s dad once, at his graduation from Weston. Mr. Hart was personable, charming even, but I don’t know much about him. Julian’s mother, Valerie, on the other hand, visited him a few times at school when she was traveling for work, so I have a better handle on her. Not surprisingly, she adores Julian.

  The doorbell chimes, and Julian throws open the door. He and his dad fall into a bear hug, exclaiming “Dad” and “Son” simultaneously.

  I grin as I watch their display of affection. Mr. Hart is a handsome man, an older version of Julian with salt-and-pepper hair and a wiry frame.

  Julian walks backward as they enter the living area. “What are you doing here? We agreed to meet at your hotel.”

  Mr. Hart tilts his head and purses his lips. “We did?” He shakes his head. “I had it in my head that we were meeting here.”

  “Yeah, I made reservations at the restaurant there because . . . never mind. It doesn’t matter. We can walk back over and catch up. Unless you want to go somewhere else?”

  “No, that’s fine—” He spots me, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, hello. You’re . . .”

  Brows pinched together, he struggles to remember my name. I reach out a hand. “Ashley Williamson, Carter’s sister.”

  He smiles. “Right, right. Good to see you again, Ashley.”

  “Likewise.” I glance at Julian, who’s staring at me with a blank expression, and then I point at my plate. “So I’ll just finish this in my room and leave you two to catch up.”

  Julian returns to life and grabs his keys and phone off the counter. “No need, Ash. We’re heading out anyway.”

  “It’s fine,” I mumble. “Lots of errands to run before I head out. Take care, Mr. Hart. I’ll see you early next week, Julian. And thanks again for breakfast.”

  “It was my pleasure, Ash.”

  Whoa. Julian’s voice is low and soft, and heat travels down my spine in response to it. I chance a glance at his face and find his dark brown eyes heavy-lidded and trained on me.

  “Take care of yourself,” he says as he follows his father out the door.

  With my sumptuous plate of strawberry-topped waffles in hand, I rush to my room in search of my battery-operated boyfriend. After all, Julian did tell me to take care of myself, and given my current state of sexual frustration, I have plans to do just that.

  Bzzzz.

  Chapter Eight

  Julian

  “WHAT’S SHE DOING here?” my father asks.

  I hit the elevator button before I answer. “She needed a place to stay for a short time. I got her out of a jam.”

  “Is that your specialty now? Getting the Williamson kids out of jams?”

  “Dad,” I warn. “Let’s not, okay?”

  He presses his lips together as though he’s forcing himself not to speak his mind.

  If there were any aspect of my relationship with my father I’d change, it would be this. The tension that surfaces whenever we discuss the Williamsons is a continuing reminder that he’s disappointed in me—disappointed in my career choices, specifically. I abandoned our plan to work together and chose to work with Carter instead. But all I can do is show him I chose correctly and hope one day he agrees.

  “Ashley needed my help, and I gave it to her. And yes, I offered because she’s like family.”

  My father glances at me dubiously and then studies his wingtips. “She’s an attractive girl. Are you and she . . .?”

  No. The answer is no. But if he asked different questions, I’d give him different answers. Do you like her? Yes. Do you like having her in your home even though you’re big on maintaining your personal space? Yes. Do you think about her more than you should? Hell yes.

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  His face relaxes. “That’s good, I guess. No sense in getting yourself tangled with her when you’re working with her brother. Too messy.”

  The elevator dings, and its doors slide apart. I seize the opportunity to glide inside and leave this part of the conversation behind me. We’re both tending to our own thoughts during the short ride down. I can’t argue with him because he’s right. Giving in to my attraction to Ashley would be messy. After this morning’s close call, I appreciate the reminder.

  When we get to the first floor, I turn to him. “Would you like to walk back to the Kimpton? I made a reservation for ten.”

  In a rare move, I asked Marie to field my calls this morning and to forward only those she deemed an emergency or too important not to answer. Few people would get me to do that, but my father will always be one of them.

  “Sure, it’ll give us a chance to talk.”

  We exit the elevator, and I wave at Benny as we pass him. Out on the street, I pull out my sunglasses, and my dad does the same.

  He clears his throat as he cleans his shades with a kerchief. “This girl—”

  “Woman,” I say.

  “Right. What’s her name again?”

  I pull on my bottom lip as I squint at him. My father’s meticulous attention to detail is legendary, so his inability—or unwillingness—to remember Ashley’s name surprises me. “It’s Ashley, Dad. And I’m not sure why we need to discuss her at all.”

  “Okay, never mind,” he says as he puts on the sunglasses and strides down Wilshire Boulevard without me.

  I quicken my pace to catch up with him. A part of me wants to ask about the company, but it’s a tender subject between us. Still, I don’t want him to think I don’t care, because I do care, just not in the way he wants me to. “So how’s business?”

  My father started Hart Consulting fifteen years ago. HC gives products and services their identities, helping them build customer recognition and loyalty. Although not one of HC’s clients, TOMS shoes is a case in point. When it’s mentioned, most people think of the company’s philanthropy. You buy a pair of their shoes, and TOMS gives away a pair of shoes to someone who can’t afford to buy them. HC builds that recognition, devising a brand message and getting it out to the world.

  My father slows and shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’re at a crossroads. The Philadelphia office is in shambles, and I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “What about sending Nicole?”

  My older sister would covet the chance to get out from under my father’s micromanaging umbrella. She works with him in the Atlanta office, which is also why she’s quick to volunteer for business travel.

  “Nicole’s not ready for the responsibility. One day she will be. But time is the one thing we don’t have.”

  I stop in the middle of the block. “Why the hell not? What’s going on?”

  He halts and faces me. “We need a big contract to justify the Philadelphia outpost. A major player. One of the sports teams. Or the chamber of commerce. Something. Otherwise, we’re going to have to consider closing that office. My life’s work gutted.”

  “The business in Atlanta is your life’s work, and it’s not going anywhere.”

  “I guess as an outsider looking in, it’s easy for you to make sweeping statements like that. But I’ve devoted myself to this company for more than a decade. It’s not that simple.”

  I’m an outsider now? Okay. I get that he’s worried about his business, but the personal dig is beneath him. “I’m hesitant to say that everything will work out somehow, but that’s how I see it. You and Nicole will figure it out. You always do.”

  “Thanks, Son.” He opens his mouth and snaps it shut.

  “Say what you wan
t to say, Dad.”

  He places his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in close. “I didn’t mean to be so harsh. That was uncalled for. It’s just—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  We drift apart and stroll along the boulevard, each of us content to continue the way in silence. When we reach the Kimpton Hotel’s entrance, I turn in, but my father walks past it, unaware that we’ve reached our destination.

  “Yo, Dad.” I wave at him. “We’re here.”

  He looks up, shakes his head, and smiles. “Right. I’m a little distracted by everything that’s going on.”

  He’s always pushed himself too hard, and now is no different. I clap him on the shoulder and steer him through the double doors. “Let’s get you some food.”

  Once we’re inside the restaurant, the hostess motions for us to follow her, and after we’re seated, my father excuses himself to go to the restroom.

  I check my phone and find an email from Marie among the flood of messages. A colleague, Sooyin Liú, stopped by my office and wants to speak with me when I get in. I’ll check in with her after breakfast.

  A glance at my watch confirms my dad’s been gone for more than five minutes, but a few seconds later, he strides through the restaurant and retakes his seat.

  “Sorry about that,” he says. “To my surprise, it’s a single-stall bathroom.”

  I wave off the apology. After our server greets us and takes our drink orders—a black coffee for me and a mimosa for my father—we peruse the menu as we catch up.

  “Tell me about Mom,” I say.

  My father takes a visible breath, smiles from ear to ear, and stares off into the distance wistfully. “She’s great, Julian. Been making hints about wanting to travel more, but I don’t know when we’d have the time. She’s busy, too.”

  My mother owns her own jewelry-making business, and after putting in over a decade of hard work, she’s sitting on a profitable venture—with a QVC contract in negotiations.

  “And she’ll never stop wondering when one of her children will give her grandbabies,” my father adds.

  “If I ever adopt, she’ll be the first to know.”

  “You and your sister will be the death of us.”

  “With all this talk about grandbabies, I’m sure you and Mom will be the death of us.”

  My father leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and making a steeple with his fingers. I brace myself for the lecture on finding time to cultivate a life outside the office. Delaying the inevitable, our server returns with our drinks and takes our meal orders.

  When he leaves, my father asks, “Didn’t your mother and I give you something to aspire to? Don’t you want to share your life with someone?”

  “Of course I do, but I’m in no rush to get serious with any one person. Plus, when would I? Anyone who’d be understanding of the demands on my time is just as busy as I am. A relationship typically requires that the two people, you know, relate.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  As punishment for all my past misdeeds, images of the moment Ashley and I almost kissed assault me like several blows to the body. The portal’s opening again. No, get the fuck out of my head, James Earl Jones. Turn away from the light, Julian. And what’s with this line of questioning anyway? “Wait. Are you asking me about my sex life?”

  My tone is just as bewildered as I am.

  Grinning, he lowers his chin and rubs the back of his neck. “All right, forget I asked. I’ll tell your mother no children are forthcoming.”

  I grin back at him. “You do that.”

  Never mind that my stomach’s still churning as I consider the number of times Ashley’s infiltrated my thoughts this morning. It’s a problem, and I have no clue what to do about it.

  AFTER BREAKFAST WITH my father, I return to my building’s underground parking lot and jump in my car for the short drive to Sync Creative Management’s offices in Century City. When I get to my office, Sooyin is sitting in one of two guest chairs facing my desk. No boundaries, this one.

  “Please make yourself comfortable when I’m not around,” I say to her back, amusement in my voice.

  She lifts her head from the notepad it’s buried in and gives me a quick once-over. “No need to tell me something I already know. Listen, I don’t have much time today, so I wanted to catch you as soon as I could. Nice tie, by the way.”

  This is Sooyin in a nutshell: sarcastic, brisk, priceless. When she joined the agency’s Film Group a few years ago, we bonded immediately, in no small part because her arrival meant I was no longer the only person of color in the agent ranks.

  I point at the door. “Open or closed?”

  She sets the pad on her lap and lowers her voice to a whisper. “Closed. Definitely. You’re the last stop on my reconnaissance mission.”

  Sooyin’s penchant for cloak-and-dagger operations is well known. She once spearheaded a brutal prank on Milton, a cutthroat colleague who’d screwed her out of a client lead. Her revenge? Circulating false rumors about a breakout star seeking new representation. Everyone was in on it but him. Milton spent hours trying to get an introduction to the coveted celebrity and still more hours studying the actor’s TV and film credits. Through it all, Sooyin asked for updates and counseled him on his strategy. She eventually disclosed the truth to him in a staff meeting several weeks later. The main takeaway: Do not fuck with Sooyin.

  I shut the door, round my desk, and settle into my chair. “What’s going on?”

  She leans forward, her chin-length dark hair swishing across her cheeks like windshield wipers. “Did Quinn tell you what happened?”

  “Had a meeting about it a few days ago. Your group must be having a field day with this one.”

  She nods. “Word is they’re giving Manning the boot next week. Gavin and his cronies were giddy about it, the jerks. I thought for sure he was going to blow his load when he told us about it. Off the record, of course.”

  Gavin is Sooyin’s boss. He’s an asshole, and if he had his wish, every single agent in the TV Group, including my boss, would be gone. “I’m not surprised. Gavin wants to whittle our division to nothing. Manning gave him the excuse he needed.”

  “Exactly. So don’t do anything to get fired, all right? I won’t survive here without you.”

  “Awww, Sooyin. That’s two compliments in less than ten minutes. You feelin’ okay?”

  She gives me the middle finger. “That’s a fact, not a compliment. Just don’t screw up.”

  I don’t want to screw up, but I also don’t know what I don’t know, and it occurs to me that Sooyin could help. “Look, I’m hoping to strike a multiyear film deal for Carter Stone—”

  “Hang on,” Sooyin says as she rises from her chair. “The door’s been closed for too long. I don’t want anyone to think we’re banging.”

  She’s right. Closed doors at SCM spark curiosity, an unfortunate side effect of working in a cutthroat industry that thrives on secrecy.

  After she opens the door and sits again, I come around and take the chair next to her. “I need a little tutoring. Give me a primer on what I should be thinking about. The pitfalls I should be avoiding. Strategy pointers.”

  She draws back. “You do realize I’m technically your competition and I could use this to my advantage.”

  I smirk at her. “You wouldn’t. You can’t survive this place without me, remember?”

  She considers me for a moment, her lips puckered in concentration. “Yeah. If it were any other client, I’d tell you to hand him over to me, but you and Carter Stone are attached at the hip. Fine. When would you like to do this?”

  “How about we meet at my place early next week? I’ll order takeout for your troubles.”

  Crossing her arms, she slides her legs forward and regards me with suspicion. “You do know I have zero interest in you.”

  I scrub a hand over my face and grin at her audacity. “Yes, Sooyin. You’ve made that clear more times than is necessary. Truly.”<
br />
  She waggles her eyebrows and accompanies the move with a wicked smile. “All right. Let’s do it. I can’t wait to check out your bachelor pad.”

  Dammit. How could I forget I have a roommate now? Courtesy dictates that I check with Ashley first, but I’ve already asked Sooyin over, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable uninviting her. Ah, what the hell—it’s just a meeting with a colleague. I can’t imagine she’d care all that much.

  Chapter Nine

  Ashley

  IT’S GOOD TO be home. My temporary home, that is.

  I’m fresh off a four-day trip with too many destinations and long layovers in between. As a junior member of the cabin crew, I can’t control my schedule to any significant degree, and I’m questioning whether I possess the stamina to wait for the perks of seniority to materialize. It’s an exhausting job. My bed is calling and I’m answering. But not before I stuff my face, which I’ll do as soon as Julian arrives with our takeout from Ziki.

  Just when I thought things might get awkward between us, he texted last night and offered to bring me dinner tonight. How sweet.

  I throw open the refrigerator and forage for an appetizer. True to form, Julian filled it with fruits and vegetables. I gnaw on a carrot in frustration, wishing it were a chocolate-covered pretzel. Minutes later, just past seven as he promised, Julian walks through the door with two large paper bags in his hands.

  He’s wearing a light gray suit, his burgundy tie hanging loosely around his neck. His heavy-lidded gaze sweeps over me, and his eyes brighten. “Hey, welcome back.”

  I raise my hand in a weak wave as I take in the differences in our appearances.

  I’m in a pair of oversized pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt that stops midway between my thighs and knees. True lounging-around-the-house wear. Meanwhile, he looks like he’s just made a major deal and needs to make a pit stop before going back out to celebrate. The man wears a suit so well. A scenario flashes through my brain, one unrelated to our attire. In it, Julian’s come home from work, and I’ve just returned from a trip, and he crosses the room with purpose, intent on greeting me with a kiss. And once he opens his arms, I jump into his embrace and wrap my legs around his waist. With hunger in his eyes, he walks us to the nearest wall—any of them will do—and his strong hand splays against my chest, slides down to my breasts—