Page 18 of Faking It

We get to a fiberglass door that Jared knocks twice before twisting the knob. As the door opens, my eyes land on a long wooden table, then I see the cool-faced people sitting behind it. Two elderly men and a petite redhead I recognize as Cheryl Adams, the executive producer behind a blockbuster spy thriller that released a few years ago.

One by one, Jared makes the introductions. Besides Cheryl, who’s also the executive film director, there are Norman and Elliott, producers of a fantasy series that’s still trending. I regain my composure with a smile, though I’m wilding out inside. Seeing this stellar team drives home the fact that this role can catapult my career.

“James?” Cheryl asks Jared simply after I shake their hands and take a seat on the leather couch on the other side of the room.

“On his way,” Jared quickly replies, glancing at his phone. “He texted me a few minutes ago—ah, good. He’s coming up the elevator.”

Cheryl makes a face, something between an eyeroll and a sneer, and I get the feeling she didn’t sign up for Carter’s fan club either. “Why am I not surprised?” she mumbles.

The door suddenly opens without a knock, and Carter saunters in a moment later, his gaze focused right ahead as he walks past me. I adjust myself in the seat, staring at his firm-looking back as he stops in front of the execs’ table.

“Gentlemen.” His head bobs with a nod. “Aunt Cheryl.”

Aunt Cheryl?

Yeah, this confirms what I already suspect. Goddamn nepo baby. This is why he gets to call the shots.

“Before you read me the riot act for not answering your emails, let me apologize,” he says to her. “I have my reasons, as you already know.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” Cheryl points at me. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

As she speaks, Carter glances behind him, then does a double take, his brows knitting as he stares at me. I drop my eyes to my lap, my breath paused as I pray that he won’t remember me. His sharp breath pierces the silence. Tension zings through my body as his soft footsteps move toward me.

“I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” he asks, and I lift my eyes to his waist level. The tailored pants hug his thick thighs. Not too tight but just right.

“She had a supporting role onHouse of Rules,” Jared offers.

“No.” He moves closer, forcing me to lift my gaze higher, now meeting his curious stare. “I’ve never seen her on TV. My memory’s vague, but it was some time ago.” His gaze narrows. “Those eyes… I never forget a face.”

“I’m sure your memory will return at some point,” Cheryl interjects. “We’re on a tight schedule, so let’s go.”

“Please,” Jared adds. “After the day I’ve had, I could really use a drink.”

“You and me both,” Norman chips in, shaking his head at Cheryl. “I’m still gob smacked over that budget meeting—”

“This is not the time or place for that discussion,” Cheryl hisses, sliding a quick glance at me. “Let’s get this over with so we canallhave a well-deserved drink.

“Ha. Yes.” Carter snaps his fingers. “Now I remember. That bar in Santa Monica. Six years ago. Remember?”

I’m almost positive he’s hearing my pounding heartbeat. I stand with what I hope is a stoic expression, straightening my shoulders. “I’m sorry. You have me confused with someone else.” The quiver in my tone gives me away.

Cheryl scoffs. “You remember meeting someone in a bar six years ago? Hell, I can’t even recall what I had for breakfast this morning.”

Carter’s brows furrow from his concentrated stare on me. “You worked at that bar in Santa Monica. That’s where we met.”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” I reply with an attempted calmness, aware that Jared and the others are looking on with increased curiosity.

“Seriously?” The bewilderment on Carter’s face would be funny if I didn’t have the urge to turn tail and run out of here. “It was that bar at the end of the hip strip—I forgot the name—right beside the pawn shop.”

Mickey’s.

“You wore your hair a little shorter back then. In a bun or ponytail, I can’t remember which. You were a brunette back then, too.”

It was a bun, and yes, I have natural dark hair. After that night, a bottle of hair bleach from the 7-11 transformed me into an instant blonde.

“You made me a mocktail while my friends jeered me for ordering a soft drink.”

A virgin mai-tai. I remember our fingers brushing as I handed him the drink. I also remember his thick lips kissing the rim of the tumbler—

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