Halfway Perfect (11 page)

I couldn't believe how fast this guy managed to get me alone and out of earshot of anyone. But the real shock came when he pinned me against the wall and leaned in to kiss me. The door flew open, and all I could see were hands grasping the back of the guy's jacket, shoving him to the side. Wes stood in front of me, looking so pissed I almost didn't follow him out of the room.

He waited until we were in the hotel elevator, on our way up to my room on the eleventh floor, to say anything. “I specifically told you not to go to that party, Eve! I'm not a babysitter and I'm sure as hell not your parent, so please don't pull this shit again.”

My legs were shaking. I'd never heard Wes yell before, and I had no idea what would have happened with that guy if I couldn't get away from him. If Wes hadn't shown up. I was usually a lot smarter than that, but sometimes my independence gave me a big head and I thought I could handle more than I actually could.

“I'm sorry,” I managed to squeak out.

Wes stomped out of the elevator and I followed. “You're
sorry
?” he yelled. “Of course you're fucking sorry. You damn near got assaulted in a foreign country. It's probably not even a crime here.”

I leaned against the wall beside my hotel room door and turned my head away from Wes, trying and failing to hide the fact that I was crying. I heard Wes sigh, and then he started digging into my purse, looking for the room key. The door finally clicked open, and Wes steered me inside, sitting me down on the end of the bed.

“Look, Evie,” he said, squatting down on the floor in front of me. “You have to realize that you're a dime a dozen right now. Everyone is waiting for you to be just like all the other hyped-up teen models they hear about. You girls come and go in a steady stream. But I think you're different, Eve. I really do. But it doesn't matter what I think.”

I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt, and Wes gave me another exasperated sigh, probably hating watching me ruin designer clothes, before grabbing and wetting a towel from the bathroom. I took it from him and started cleaning off my smeared makeup.

“He was really nice,” I said, referring to the guy model I had met at an art gallery earlier and the same guy Wes had just yanked off me a few minutes ago. “We were talking about art and music and weird American culture stuff. He didn't seem so…I don't know…
forward
, I guess.”

Wes sat beside me and took the wet, messy towel from my hands, tossing it onto the chair next to the bed. “Let me just give you some advice on guys—since I am one. You're going to have to wait a long time before you can really get someone to love you for the right reasons. Because there're too many other factors to influence people. You're beautiful, smart, soon to be famous, and you have money now. Most likely Mr. Art Gallery doesn't care an ounce about you. Trust me.”

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. It wasn't like I'd fallen in love with someone in one day, but it had seemed like a beginning to me, and hearing that I had gotten it all wrong made the situation so hopeless. And I felt like an idiot, in front of Wes. Someone I'd developed a bit of an inappropriate crush on. And now I was sobbing like a fifteen-year-old with a crush. Perfect.

I nodded and more tears spilled down my cheeks. “I get it. I should have listened to you and guys are assholes and none of them are ever going to care about me. Thanks for the advice.”

“Except me,” Wes said, his voice turning a little more gravelly. “I care about you. I shouldn't, but I do.”

My heart pounded, hearing all the intentions in his voice, and I wanted to hear them. I really did. I turned myself to face him and he reached a hand out to smooth my hair down. It had to be a complete mess. I got daring and lifted a hand to touch the fashionable stubble on his cheeks. I thought he'd stop me. I thought he'd yell at me again. I thought he'd stomp out of the room. But in a matter of two seconds, we went from sitting beside each other to kissing. Hard and intense in a way I'd never done before. And it wasn't an equal partnership. It was Wes guiding me through it like he'd guided me away from that guy and into my room. I didn't have to feel like I needed to know what I was doing. He knew I didn't. He
liked
that I didn't.

After what felt like a minute or maybe an hour, he pulled away from me, resting his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “Evie, this can never happen again, understood?”

“Okay,” I said, but even an inexperienced teenager like me knew that when anyone says it'll never happen again, that means it most likely will. And I almost smiled at the thought of kissing him again. It felt dark and dangerous, yet very safe all at the same time.

Every time I thought about that first kiss, my mind always drifted to Wes, squeezing my arm until bruises formed. Wes, yelling at me for gaining a couple pounds and jeopardizing a big job he'd gotten me. Wes, shoving me into a wall and then minutes later holding me and telling me he was sorry. Then Wes in his boss's office, glaring at me while denying I ever meant anything to him. And I could almost feel my heart breaking all over again. Where did I screw up with him? Where did it turn so bad? Because that first kiss was everything I'd ever dreamed it could be. Everything.

I wonder if Alex would listen to that story like he listened to the other one? Does he suspect the tension between me and Wes is about anything more than my abrupt departure? He couldn't possibly know it was more than that. No way. Alex would have major issues with that information, and I'd know if he knew.

And what if Wes is right? Maybe I needed to wait until I was a nobody again before someone would truly care about me?

A nobody like College Eve. Like Eve Nowakowski.

October 11, 2:30 p.m.

I'm gonna ask Eve out.

Or at least I'm going to try to. Last night, I could have sat there in that coffee shop for hours. And this morning, it occurred to me that all of our accidental run-ins and all of our conversations are directly related to this CK shoot, which is going to end on Friday and it's already Wednesday.

At least if I ask her out, she'll know that I'm not talking to her and hanging out with her just because of the shoot. Okay, I am, but I want to keep doing it after. And I want her to know that.

Of course there's the Wes issue, but he and I don't get personal, so it shouldn't be a problem. And then there's Elana. Even dorky Elliot has heard about the two of us. He mentioned something about my “girlfriend” while we were climbing today.

I keep replaying my last conversation with Eve and thinking I said all the wrong things. Why did I have to mention her pajama pants? It sounded so condescending, but in reality, her attire made me want to take her back to my place for movies and a sleepover.

My ringing phone distracts me from mentally rehearsing asking her out, or at least to hang out. We could do the friend thing. I'd take that over not seeing her at all. Maybe I need to join her running club. That could work.

“Hey, Wes,” I say as I'm waiting with dozens of tourists to cross the street on the way to today's location. “What's up?”

“Alex Evans, I fucking love you!”

I pull the phone away from my face for a second to keep my eardrum from bursting. “So it's good news?”

“Yes, good news, as in your genius intuition and a perfectly timed kiss with
the
Elana has popped up on one hundred and seventy-two websites so far,” Wes says. “My Google Alerts are going nuts.”

Oh. That. “Right. Glad I made it look convincing.”

“Convincing?” he says. “I'd say innocent and adorable come to mind. And even better…fragrance campaign.”

I freeze right in the middle of crossing a busy street until someone ahead of me yanks me onto the curb, preventing my death by taxicab. “Are you serious?”

“I've had two conference calls already this morning,” he says.

I can practically hear the squeak of his chair as he leans back in it and tosses his feet on the desk like he's Superman. As far as I'm concerned, he is fucking Superman. “So, it's a couples thing?”

Fragrance campaigns are the big bucks, and many of the bigname designers have used real-life couples before and made it a big deal to tell everyone about it. Although, given my situation, I'm starting to doubt the validity of any of those couples.

“Yep,” he says. “I knew lanky, blond guys would get to have their day eventually. I knew it the second I saw you. That's what it comes down to. Elana's face is so intense and totally take-charge-I'm-wearing-the-pants. And you've got the innocent, all-American boy look going on. Every woman in America will see those ads and imagine being able to tie you up to their bedpost and have their way with you, like Elana gets to.”

I have to work very hard not gag. “Okay, I get it. I look helpless and defenseless and she looks like the independent woman every girl wants to be. It's not all that original of a concept.”

“No, probably not,” he says. “And you won't look helpless in the ads. You'll come off as a guy who's not afraid to sit in the passenger seat every once in a while.”

I can live with that. “So when do we get to break up?”

“You did
not
just say that out loud, did you?” Wes warns.

I glance around the street, squinting into the sun. The smell of exhaust fumes and sewers fill my nostrils, but no one appears to be lurking nearby, waiting to hear that my celebrity relationship is fake. All of this makes me wonder how often this happens. Are any Hollywood relationships real? And how far do they take it? Marriage? Kids? Maybe Brad and Angelina borrowed those kids from a service or something. I rented my trumpet in middle school for three years; maybe you can rent kids for a few years. If there's a way, I can guarantee Wes will figure it out and have me and Elana signed up by next week.

“Sorry. Won't happen again,” I tell Wes. “Besides, I don't see anyone who might have been listening in.”

“Yeah, well, those tabloid creeps are pretty good at their jobs.”

This makes me think about Eve and all the rumors that were spread about her. According to the tabloids, Eve ended up in drug rehab.

I still don't believe that though. But asking her for details or trolling the Internet for old gossip headlines would risk seeing her in a different light, and I like her like this.

College Eve…
Harvard
. Or Columbia. Whatever. Same thing.

Okay, speaking of Eve.

I'm thinking it could be a bad sign that I can spot Alex from nearly two blocks away. Or maybe it's proof that I'm an excellent photographer who studies her subjects diligently. At least I have an excuse. But it's only got a shelf life of three more days.

I start walking toward him, and he hangs up with whoever he's talking to, tucking the phone away in his pocket.

“Hey, Harvard,” he says. “How was that calculus quiz?”

I think I'm already smiling.
Damn
. “Harvard is in Boston, Alex.”

He shrugs and pulls his sunglasses over his eyes, like he forgot to do this when he got off the subway. “That's what my phone calls you. Can't be too literal or people might find out about our secret affair.”

Unfortunately, I know all there is to know about secret affairs. I can feel myself blushing and I'm glad that we've turned and started walking forward again and don't have to stand face-to-face. “Well, my phone calls you Calvin Klein.”

He almost looks offended. “That's very literal. You can't do better than that?”

“It's not because of the shoot,” I explain. “I was thinking about you and…
Annie
…” I watch Alex's face to see if he's caught on to the code name I've just made up for Elana based on her Broadway aspirations. We can't exactly talk about the fake relationship using real names when we're out in public like this.

He pauses for a second and then nods. “Right,
Annie
. Okay, keep going.”

“Have you seen
Back
to th
e Future?”

His eyebrows go up above his sunglasses. “I have.”

“Well, you know when Marty goes back to the fifties? It's a year when his parents were in high school, and his mom thinks his name is Calvin Klein because it's on his underwear?”

“Still very literal, Eve,” he says, his gaze fixed on the block in front of us. “I thought you were smart.”

“Or you're just too dense to get it.” I roll my eyes. “Marty's mom is all over him, totally falling for him, but she doesn't know it's her future son. And he's totally wigged out about it, rightfully so since it's his mom, but he still has to play along and take her to the dance. The thing with him and his mom is like you and
Annie
. Except minus the space-time continuum issue and the fact that
Annie
is also playing along. It's creepy for you and maybe not so creepy for her, I guess.”

“Huh.” He opens the door that will lead us into the studio and I walk through before him. “Sorry I insulted your intelligence. And skipping over small talk to jump right to space-time continuums is kinda hot. We should do this more often.”

If I wasn't sure before, now I'm 100 percent positive he's flirting with me. And I'm 150 percent positive that I like it.

The elevator feels especially warm with both of us confined to a small space. Alex removing his sunglasses and revealing his blue eyes doesn't help my whole blushing situation.
The
all-American boy
…that's what Janessa and the producer nicknamed him. The kind of boy who supposedly will get his heart stomped on by a dark-skinned French beauty.

Alex, in real life, seems too strong to let someone walk all over him. And he also seems too decent to stomp on anyone else's heart. But then again, that's what I thought about Wes.

“So,” I say, to break the silence. “I met John and Jamiroquai this morning.”

I had, in fact, spent a whole fifteen minutes with the weird pseudodesigner this morning for a “meet and greet,” as he called it. Luckily, I won't have to run into John very often, because I'll be walking the dog when he isn't home.

Alex laughs. “Sorry you had to start your day with that.”

“It's okay. He paid me for a month up front so it was worth the suffering.” We're in the studio now and he's about to head to wardrobe. He looks like he wants to say something to me, but the stylist calls him over. I clap him on the back before he heads off. “Good luck. It's gonna be a rough day.”