Love, Chloe (34 page)

There was one benefit of the constantly affixed headgear. I could tune into the general set chatter, which was usually snooze-worthy except for today, when a PA mentioned that Victor Worth was on set. I immediately ducked into Wardrobe and hid, my butt settled down behind racks of clothes, my fingers picking absentmindedly through the fabrics. I was stuck there for the forty-five minutes it took for word to finally circulate that he’d left.

When I returned to Nicole’s trailer, there was a box for me, too big to hold just a phone, and I growled a little under my breath. I ripped at the ribbon with angry hands, the white lid yanked off to reveal the purse—a Balenciaga City Bag—black, with a card hanging off one strap. I flipped open the card, steeling myself for the message, ready for something sexual and inappropriate, as was Vic’s style.

This one zips shut. Better for not losing things.

I had to roll my eyes at that. Peeking in the bag, I spied my phone.

So he had returned it. No face-to-face meeting required, no lording the phone over me in exchange for contact.

Call me paranoid, but I didn’t necessarily want it back. Not when it had been in his hands. Not when he could have gotten his geek squad to do God-knows-what to it. Tracking software? Keylogger programs? Remote access? Probably all of the above. I opened up the lid to the trash and ditched the phone, hearing the thud of it hit the bottom. One problem solved.

The bag … I ran my hand slowly over the supple leather, its clean and beautiful lines. Then I opened an upper cabinet and pushed the bag inside, hiding it behind all of Nicole’s junk. There was a limit to pride, and it stopped at insanity.

Parents. The one word no relationship needs. Carter said it and I took my time chewing my bite of salad. Beside me, my new phone chilled on the tabletop, freshly synced, my life back in order. Or rather, it was. Until Carter brought up his parents. And dinner with them.

“Saturday night,” he continued. “They suggested a French restaurant on Park.” He speared a piece of fish and looked up at me. “Do you like French food?”

“Yes…” I said cautiously.

“You don’t have to come.” He shrugged. “I know it’s been a crazy week for you with work … and with it raining tonight…” His words got lost in another bite of food and I set down my fork. It wasn’t
that
crazy of a week at work. And what did the rain have to do with anything?

“I can come.” My curiosity spoke for me, something about the casual invite; coupled with the reluctance of his voice … I was suddenly dying to meet them. How bad could parents be? I warmed to the idea, my head nodding. “I’d love to meet your parents.”

“You would?” Carter looked wary.

“Yeah.” I stabbed at another piece of salad. “I love parents.”

“Have you told yours about us?”

I slid the fork slowly out of my mouth, chewing the bite, trying to think of the proper response. “No,” I finally said. “I—I haven’t spoken to my parents in a while.” I stared down at my bowl, picking through the mixed greens. Our last contact had been my dad’s birthday. Since then, I’d left four or five messages, all unreturned. After the last, I hadn’t had the heart to try again. And that had been almost two weeks ago.

Odd that Carter and I had discussed almost everything but our parents. I’d planned to tell him about mine.
Next week
I’d kept thinking. The
next weeks
had piled up on themselves and turned into … God. Five months. Five months since we’d first met. And now … I shifted in my seat. It didn’t seem the time. Not when I’d asked him so little about his. I knew they’d been strict. Neat freaks who withheld sustenance. Nothing else. “Your uh—parents. They’re still married?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching me. “Yours?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t like to talk about them?” he asked.

I managed a laugh. “Not really. You?”

He shrugged. “You know a little. My parents are … grouchy.” He grimaced. “To be honest, I’m a little worried that they’ll scare you off.”

I looked up, meeting his eyes. “They won’t.” I couldn’t think of anything that would scare me away from this man.

He chuckled. “You sure about that? They’ve always been difficult with anyone I’ve dated.”

I was.

Turned out, I might have underestimated the situation.

I checked my reflection for the tenth time in the mirror above my sink. Smoothing down my hair, I checked my teeth. I was dressed conservatively, but cute—a Krisa jumpsuit paired with jeweled flats. Carter called my name, and I swallowed. “Coming!” I called, running the sink for a moment to buy some time. I shouldn’t be so nervous. Parents loved me. And why wouldn’t they? Carter could have done a lot worse. I tossed some lipstick in the clutch and snapped it shut. Gave myself one last look in the mirror and then pulled open the door.

“Ready?” Carter leaned against the wall, his eyes lifting to me and he smiled. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I let out a nervous breath. “I’m a little stressed,” I confessed.

He smiled, pulling me to him and pressing his lips to mine. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to be late.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I have nothing to be nervous about,” I scolded playfully, shrugging into my jacket and following him into the hall.

“You’ll do fine,” he said, checking his watch.

Still not the words I wanted
. I took the hand he offered, and we stepped into the elevator. I blamed the drop of my heart on the quick descent, my nerves humming.

Something was off.

We stepped in the small restaurant, Carter giving our name to the maître d’, my heart sinking when I saw, seated just a few tables inside, the older couple who had
interviewed
interrogated me for the apartment. The woman’s back was as stiff as it had been in my interview, the man’s face just as dour. I grabbed Carter’s arm and hoped he’d veer right, to the bar, but he saw them too. I’d forgotten for a moment that they were his employers, him recognizing them also.

He steered me in their direction and they looked up at our approach, the woman’s eyes skipping past Carter and landing on me, a glint of recognition in her eyes. I smiled politely and looked away, to the other tables, wondering if Carter’s parents were already there, absently trying to remember the last name of the couple in front of me, in case this chat turned into actual conversation.

But then Carter hugged the woman, and I heard the word
Mom
cross his lips. And everything stopped in the heartbeat it took for my sluggish brain to put two and two together and finally understand it all.

Carter’s connection to Presa Little.

His job.

His apartment, so much nicer than mine.

He wasn’t just the super. He was the
owner
. This old couple who had barely let me rent an apartment—he was their son. I snapped to attention and put a little more into my smile, my efforts dampening under their withering stare.

Carter turned, pulling out the closest seat. “Chloe?” he offered, his eyes meeting mine cautiously.

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab his shirt and drag him outside and yell every question coursing through my mind at him until he confessed everything.

But I didn’t. I smiled graciously and took my seat. I placed my napkin in my lap and nodded a hello to his parents. I sat through the painful first moments where no one spoke and ice water settled in glasses and waiters hovered.

And then, the silence was over. Carter’s mother opened her mouth, and hell poured out.

I’d sat through a few painful dinners in my life. This was the worst. It was my interview, times five. The questions didn’t stop; they peppered at me from across the table, and I wanted to duck for cover, wanted a bathroom break, wished I smoked just for an excuse to escape.

When his father asked about my parents, I paused, glanced down at my menu, this hell not even half over, and debated about my answer. Tried to weigh truthfulness over first impressions. Knew, no matter what happened with Carter and me, they would eventually find out the truth.

“My parents?” I stalled.

“Yes. They work with investment portfolios, isn’t that correct?” Carter’s mother tilted her head and peered at me as if I was a specimen to be cut open.

I considered dodging the question. I hadn’t even told Carter about my parents and their situation. But I didn’t. “He
did
work with investment portfolios,” I said carefully. “But the SEC has suspended his license. I’m not sure what my father will do now, assuming that he avoids jail time.”

That
shut them up. His mother’s mouth fell open a little, her eyes widening. Beside me, Carter inhaled, and his father set down his drink, the glass hitting the table with a loud clink.

I didn’t stop. I told them everything, wincing a little at how cold I sounded when I spoke about my parents. I couldn’t help it. If the last year had shown me anything, it was that my self-centeredness was an inherited trait, and that every
I love you
from their mouths had been a lie.

“So…” his mother said primly. “Your parents are criminals and you are an …
assistant
.” She stretched out the final word in such a way that made my job sound as bad as my parents’ crimes.

“Yes.” I took a deep sip of wine, finishing it off. “That’s correct.”

“I see. And the chances of your parents being exonerated are…?” She raised an eyebrow at my empty wine glass, then at me.

“Pretty much nil.” I shrugged.

She sighed, and I glanced at Carter’s father, who had stopped talking about fifteen minutes earlier. His face was stiff, and I looked to his son. It was a mistake. Carter looked hurt, and I couldn’t help but glare a little in response. I wasn’t the only one who’d been secretive about my parents. I had spent our entire relationship with this image in my head of Carter’s life, his upbringing, his future. It certainly hadn’t involved a mother wearing Chanel with a four-carat diamond on her finger, her nose raised higher in the air than Nicole at a staff meeting. Everything I had envisioned … a rough youth, clawing his way to financial independence … all of that was false. The damn man had probably attended a better prep school than me.