Page 7 of Nathan

All those months I fantasized about what I’d say to Nate O’Reilly if I ever got the chance, but those practiced conversations were moot when he’d never so much as glanced my way. Yet today, he’s touched me not once, but three times—at the office earlier, then twice in the club—and now I have the chance to say everything I’ve ever wanted, the proverbial cat has gotten my damn tongue.

“How did a girl like you end up working for Bernard Sullivan, anyway?” Nate asks, breaking the electrifying silence between us.

I bristle, then my tongue untwists itself. “What do you mean, ‘a girl like me’? One who doesn’t think fame and fortune is everything? One who isn’t pretty enough? Or one that won’t let a disgusting fat bastard like Bernard stick his dick in me in the hope he’ll get me a walk-on part in the latest sitcom to hit Tinseltown?”

Nate briefly takes his hands off the steering wheel and holds them in the air. “Whoa, mama. That’s a fucking big chip you’ve got there. Must be weighing you down. Is that why you’re so small?”

It’s a good thing Nate’s lips twitch, because if I didn’t know he was teasing me, I’d slam my elbow into his groin.

“I’m small in stature, big in personality.”

Nate throws back his head and laughs, two rarely seen dimples softening the brooding features he’s known for. “You’re not kidding.”

I can’t help myself. He might be an arrogant ass who’s far too attractive for his own good, but his humor is infectious. I start laughing along with him.

“I don’t think you understand how tough it is for someone like me. I’m not interested in being an actress, a producer, or anything else to do with the film industry. I only want to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.”

“If you’re not interested in the movie business, why live in Los Angeles?”

I graze my bottom lip with my teeth. Nate won’t care that Mom’s nursing home sucks every spare penny from me. He’ll hardly be interested in the fact I work most weekends on the checkout at my local grocery store because, as well-paid as the job with Bernard is— was—it’s nowhere near enough to pay the bills that keep rolling in. He won’t give a shit that I live on packs of ramen noodles because they’re filling and cheap. Tasteless, too, but I can’t afford to be choosy.

Instead I settle for, “My sister lives close by.”

“Is she in the business?”

“No, but her husband is. He’s a cameraman.”

“Ah, I see.”

No, you don’t.

Nate turns into a tree-lined street with grass edges so perfect, they were probably styled by a hairdresser. Not a single blade of grass is out of place. We must be in Beverly Hills. Nowhere else in the greater Los Angeles area smells of money like this place does.

I guess where we’re going, and stiffen in my seat. “Tell me we’re not going to Bernard’s house.”

Nate gives me a sideways glance. “I can if you like, but it’d be a lie.”

Covering my face with my hands, I groan. “Oh, Christ, no.”

“Relax,” Nate says. “I’ll do all the talking. In five minutes, you’ll have your job back.”

I want to scream at him, “What if I don’t want my job back?” It wouldn’t be a complete lie. I don’t want my job back. Especially after Bernard was so foul to me, never mind the image of his ass pumping up and down as he heaved over that girl being seared into my memories.

It’s true I don’t want my job back, but I need it.

I expel a resigned sigh. Reading people is a specialty. I knew Bernard was a sleaze at my interview, but I’d been confident I could handle him, and I did. Even when he propositioned me within my first week on the job, I politely but firmly turned him down while pandering to his ego. I made it all about my professionalism. Of course Bernard was attractive, I lied. Of course I’d be interested if we weren’t working together, but I made a point of never dating people I worked with. He’d lapped it up, and the wet kiss he planted on my cheek had been the last time he ever touched me. I’d scrubbed my entire body that night until my skin was raw.

Nate, though, is an interesting character. He’s a man who does precisely as he pleases. If he decides we’re visiting Bernard at midnight, nothing will persuade him otherwise. The odd thing, though, is that Nate only cares about number one. The fact he’s decided to treat me like some sort of charity case has me confused. What’s his game? He isn’t interested in me sexually, I’m sure of that. But Nate will demand some kind of payment. The form it takes is anyone’s guess.

He pulls up outside a mansion so large my apartment would fit inside the garage. The vast amount of land around it is protected by wrought-iron gates topped with the initials BS—which of course stand for Bernard Sullivan, but I think Bull Shit works much better. A paved driveway with lawn on either side leads up to the columned front door. Window boxes house a spray of colorful flowers, and if I crane my neck, I can make out a balcony which wraps around the sides and, potentially, the rear of the property.

A pretentious house for a pretentious man.

“Ready?” Nate asks as he rolls down the driver’s-side window.

I shake my head. “Not in the slightest.”

Ignoring my comment, he presses the buzzer. Five seconds later, it’s answered. “Sullivan residence. Whom may I say is calling?”

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