Dean observes our exchange with a strange expression. Annoyance, I assume.
A gust of winter-chilled wind sweeps in, distracting me from Dean and the boy. I shiver and pull the cream-colored sleeves of my sweater down to cover my hands. I’ve always loved its fuzzy cashmere yarn, how the light color contrasts against the warm brown of my skin, a gift from my Nigerian ancestors. I sigh and adjust the hem of my sweater to make sure it covers my stomach.
My weight fluctuates based on a million different circumstances. It candepend on the weather, if I’m about to get my period, and, of course, on what food I put in my mouth. I work out every day, but still my body remains soft and curvy. I run my fingers over the fabric one more time, smoothing it out.
“You’re doing it again,” says Dean next to me. “Stop moving.”
“I can’t help it,” I whisper back.
His tan cheeks flush red beneath his five o’clock shadow—ridiculously named since it’s only a little after 11:00 a.m. His stubble matches his hair, both brown, so dark in color it’s just shy of being black. He wears his usual attire, a navy-blue suit and white button-down shirt. The top buttons are undone, showing off well-defined collar bones and the beginning of a muscular chest. No tie for him, yet he manages to radiate professionalism with an edge of intimidation. Not the kind of guy you want to piss off. Too bad for me. I ticked him off two years ago, and he’s still not over it. When his glower shifts my way, I avert my gaze, not wanting to get caught staring.
I try unsuccessfully to stop the twitching of my foot, the shifting of my weight, the plucking of my collar. I’ve always been like this. Unable to hold still. I’m too full of energy, with a constant need for motion. It’s as if my mind and body are set to fast forward, speeding along twice as quick as everyone else.
“You’re distracting me,” Dean says. He stands motionless. Every limb in place, exactly where it should be. The very picture of control.
“So don’t look,” I counter. Irritation zings through my nervous system, which only makes me squirm more.
Although I’m annoyed by Dean’s criticism, I do understand it. As Caleb’s lead bodyguard, he has to stay focused to do his job. Unfortunately for him, his job and mine have overlapped a lot in the past month, ever since the newspaper I work for, theLos AngelesTimes, sent me here to New York. I’m its primary reporter assigned to Caleb. Once a week, I write an article recapping all of his activities. As a famous actor, singer, songwriter, and restaurateur, everything he does is considered noteworthy.
“Do you have to come toallof Caleb’s events?” Dean swings his head my way, his gaze unflinching. Sometimes, when he looks at me, his eyes are like laser beams, designed to burn a hole right through my center.
“Yes,Dean,” I spit out, equally frustrated by our role as begrudging co-workers. “You know the drill. Don’t make me explain it to you again.”
He snorts. “All the newspaper really cares about is the wedding. They’re using your friendship with Gwen to get exclusive access. It’s no coincidence that you leave as soon as the ceremony’s over.”
He’s right. I’m under no illusion that my reporting skills landed me this job. Before the newspaper learned of my connection to Gwen and Caleb, I spent most of my time fetching the senior reporters coffee and doing their online research. I was good at that, tracking down leads and then having my co-workers take credit for them.
I’d been surprised to be called into my editor-in-chief’s office. I was even more surprised when they said I was getting a “promotion.” For a fleeting moment, my heart had soared, thinking I was being transferred to the investigative journalism department where I so desperately wanted to work. But no, it was yet another assignment in the entertainment division, the last place I want to be.
“They ask you to spy for them, and you’re totally okay with that.” Dean gives me a disgusted glare.
“I am not,” I protest. “Caleb gets approval on anything I write. He’s in control. Not me.” The newspaper editors hadn’t liked it when I said I would take this job on that one condition, but, after weeks of heated negotiations, they’d given in.
A handsome man with dark blond hair comes over to Caleb’s table. He stoops down and gathers a bunch of the gift boxes Caleb’s accumulated into his arms. Carefully, he piles them on top of each other, stacking them as high as his chin. He walks toward me. I do a double-take as he gets close. The man looks eerily like Caleb. Same coloring, but his jaw is a little less square and his eyes are wider set.
“Need help, Justin?” Dean asks.
The man smiles pleasantly and says, “I got it.” Using his shoulder, he pushes the heavy front door of the theater and walks outside, where a brisk wind makes the tower of presents sway dangerously. I hold my breath, waiting for them to topple, but the man shuffles his feet, balancing the stack until they steady.
“Where’s he taking those?” I ask Dean.
He glances at the door. Justin is no longer visible, having walked farther down the sidewalk. “He’s giving them to Janice. She’ll load them in her van to take to Caleb’s storage unit and sort them out later.”
“Storage?” I tilt my head, peering up at him. I know who Janice is, Caleb’s personal assistant. A nice grandmotherly type of woman who helps with Caleb’s day-to-day tasks. But I’ve never heard of this storage unit.
“Caleb has an entire storage unit filled with gifts that fans have sent him. Most of it gets donated to charity. Janice figures out what goes where—” Dean’s shiny dress shoe inches over to step lightly on my foot, which has been tapping the ground. With firm pressure, his shoe traps mine, halting the motion.
Darn it.I didn’t realize I was doing that.
He lets out a frustrated huff, clearly displeased.
“So sorry, Mr. Roboto,” I say sarcastically and roll my eyes. Dean does remind me of a robot, all stiff movements and very little change in his facial expressions. I’ve never seen him smile. Not once.
“Apology not accepted,Jennifer.” He says my name like it’s poison and he needs to spit it out before it kills him.
Jerk.
I turn toward him and ask, “Why do you despise me so much?”
