Page 43 of Filthy Rich

Octavia’s blush is immediate, but what gets me is how shrill her always melodious voice becomes. “No, that’s not—I mean.” Her eyes widen. “Listen, if you’ve never had ramen with kimchi before, this will change your entire life.”

“Kimchi?” I pull a face. “The cabbage stuff that tastes like carbonated onions?”

Now she looks horrified. “How could you say that?” She frowns. “Though, now that you say it, that might be right. But I like it even though it tastes like carbonated onions. You have to try it with the ramen to see what I mean. And I might have bought enough for two of us, if you play your cards right.”

I chuckle. “Fine, fine. I admire your passion for it. Go right ahead and make it, and?—”

“You’re lucky I’m kind.” She squares her shoulders. “Otherwise, you might have starved, and then they’d fire you.” She arches one eyebrow. “And then what would happen to this gorgeous apartment? Would José buy it and make it into a real penthouse?” She spins around, looking at all of it, frowning. “Did you decorate this?”

I shake my head. “The agency got it for me, and it came furnished.”

“So this place can tell me nothing about you?” She clucks. “That’s disappointing.”

“Well,” I say. “I brought my clothes, my pillow, and one decor item.” I spread my hands out. “Want to guess what it was?”

Her brow furrows and she walks around the family room, her eyes studying the black sofa, the grey armchairs, and the odd greige ottoman. She runs her finger along the top of the black-painted wooden TV table, the end table, and the strange modular lamp. “Not any of this.” She tilts her head and keeps moving, stopping in front of a black-painted bookcase. “Not this.” She leans closer. “But maybe something on it.”

She’s getting closer, but I don’t say a word. I want to see if she can figure it out.

Her eyes study the headphones resting on a stand. “These aren’t functional. It could be this.” She touches some weathered books slowly. “But I don’t think you’d cart around old works of literature. It’s too obviously pretentious.” Her hand trails downward. Her fingers are delicate and long. It makes sense—she’s tall, but elegantly willowy. She ignores the fake plants, the strange metallic-painted-wooden horse statue, and then she stops at my raku bowl. She runs her fingers over the strange finish, and then she picks it up.

She frowns as she studies it, and I wonder whether she hates it. “Do you think it’s that?”

Her eyes narrow.

“No?”

She spins around and stumbles, losing control of the bowl.

I dive over to catch it, and then I realize it was a trap. She was never going to drop it. Her smile widens, though, and her eyebrows rise. “Gotcha. Tell me about this little bowl, and tell me why it matches the style of that vase over there on the end table.” She arches one imperious eyebrow. “Because you said one thing, but this is one of two, and I think they’re connected to what I heard you telling Patrice the other day.”

I laugh. “You’re very literal.”

“I don’t like losing.”

“Noted.” I take the bowl and place it back where it goes. “I don’t make many things. As mentioned, I don’t cook, and I have no time for hobbies, but once I was doing a promotion in Japan. Don’t ask about it, because that’s a long, boring story. Or I guess you can ask, but do it when you’re having trouble sleeping. Anyway, while I was there, I saw some raku pottery—that’s what that is—on set, and I fell in love. I got stuck there for three days thanks to more boring stuff that you won’t care about. I decided to take some pottery classes, and then when I got back home, I found someone here who makes it, too.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Other than the wide range of shapes and colors, including a lot of vibrant colors in the Western raku that you don’t usually see, I love the erratic nature of it. Raku literally means ‘happiness in the accident.’” I shrug. “A lot of my life has felt like an accident, so I guess the whole element of luck thanks to quick-firing the raku, which encourages cracking, spoke to me.”

She pokes my chest with one officious finger. “I like that about you.”

And I like the feeling of her finger on my body. “Tell me that same thing again, but leave off the words ‘that’ and ‘about.’” I bite my lip.

“That just leaves. . .I like. . .you.” Her eyes fly up to meet mine, and her mouth opens just a hair, and I swear, even if I hadn’t filmed a dozen scenes that taught me what was happening here, I’d still get it. A complete moron would know what was happening.

I feel drawn to Octavia like a beetle to a light at night.

Hopefully my attempts won’t be met with zapping. I lean down, my head angling over hers, our lips drawing closer and closer until?—

Bang bang bang.

The door? Really?

Octavia straightens.

It feels like I really am filming a movie, but not a good one. A very bad one. “You’re supposed to wait until after I kiss the girl.” I shake my head. “That guy just cut his tip in half.”

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