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More like X-rated.

CHAPTER SIX

Brie

“CANIINTERESTyou in a caviar and crème fraîche tartlet?”

They sound disgusting to me. I mean, fish eggs? Blech. But what do I know about what one-percenters like to eat? I’ve got simple tastes. I’m a pigs-in-a-blanket kind of girl, through and through.

The tuxedoed gentleman shakes his head, and I continue circulating through the crowd of similarly clad men and their elegantly dressed companions. I feel vastly underdressed in my standard issue polyester pants—black, of course—and white button-down shirt.

I’m not even sure what this fancy fundraiser is for. All I know is that when my friend and fellow actress Tiffany called and told me the catering company we occasionally work for was looking for wait staff on one of my few free nights, I jumped on it.

Some people might call me an idiot for clinging to this gig. But I disagree. I think I’d be an idiot not to. I may be a working actress today, but who knows about next month or even next week. Too many things could go wrong. The show might not get picked up for a second season. My character could get written off. They could decide to replace me with someone younger, thinner, more athletic.

If any of that happens, I need something to fall back on so I can pay my student loans. And the increase in rent I hope to have soon for my own place. Because ever since that kiss—that earth-shaking, soul-shattering, mind-melting kiss—living with Connor has been, well, awkward.

It’s not like he’s done anything overt to make me feel uncomfortable. Hell, I’ve barely seen him in the last week. That’s the awkward part. It’s like he’s dancing around me, afraid of a repeat performance. Which is too damn bad, because I wouldn’t object to an encore. But apparently the whole best-friend’s-sister thing is too much for him to handle.

Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. Although it would be nice to rack up some wins.

Unfortunately, I haven’t had any wins in the finding new digs department, either. Everything affordable is too far from midtown, and everything within a reasonable commuting distance is out of my price range, even with a roommate or two. I’m going to have to either adjust my budget or my definition of what’s a reasonable commuting distance.

My tray is empty, so I head to the kitchen for some more tartlets, or whatever equally nauseating, hoity-toity treat they load me up with. This time it’s open-faced cucumber sandwiches, with some sort of fancy, flavored cream cheese and slivers of red onion. I make the bold decision to taste one.

Yep. Nauseating. I don’t understand why they don’t serve normal stuff like at these things. Like bacon wrapped scallops. I mean, everything’s better with bacon, amiright? Or buffalo wings. People love that shit. And it’s gotta be cheaper than the crap we’re peddling tonight, meaning more money for whatever charity this shindig is supposed to be raising money for.

I hike up my now fully laden tray and brave the grand ballroom, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. There’s nothing worse than working an industry function, handing out cocktails or canapés to producers and casting directors I’ve auditioned for in the past and hope to again in the future.

There’s only one familiar face I see tonight, though. And it’s not anyone in the entertainment business. It’s the face of the guy whose apartment I’m squatting in. The one who’s been avoiding me like the plague.

I hang back in the corner, studying him from the shadows like some creepy stalker. Connor in casual dress—his usual jeans or khakis and a button down or polo, or even workout gear—is hella fine, but Connor in a formal wear? Damn. He looks like a younger, hotter James Bond—sorry, Daniel Craig—with his expertly styled hair and his strong jaw highlighted by his neatly trimmed beard and his perfectly pressed tux molded to his hard body.

I’m still shamelessly staring, drinking in the sight of him like a dying man in a desert, when he’s joined by possibly the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Seriously, she looks like she stepped straight off the pages ofVoguemagazine, blond and statuesque in a skintight, floor-length gown and sky-high slingbacks, both designer, I’m sure.

She puts a possessive, manicured hand on his arm and leans in to whisper something in his ear that puts a smile on his usually serious face. I flinch like I’ve been slapped, almost dropping my tray.

I recognize the feeling clawing at my gut, but that doesn’t mean I like it. My mother always said that jealousy was a disease. One that eats you away from the inside, leaving you hollow, angry, and discontented.

Besides, what right do I have to be jealous? It’s not like Connor and I are in a committed relationship. Or any kind of relationship. We kissed. Once. Big deal. And he’s made it perfectly clear ever since that he wants nothing to do with me.

“Lawson.” The catering manager’s bark makes me startle and I almost drop the tray for the second time in as many minutes. “What are you doing hiding in the goddamn corner?”

“I was just, uh—”Ogling my roommate? Suffering from a bout of irrational jealousy? Trying to remember your name? Lloyd, I think Tiffany said it was.

Possibly Lloyd cuts me off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Whatever your excuse is, I don’t want to hear it. Just get back to work. You’re not getting paid to lollygag around.”

Lollygag?Who even uses words like that anymore? Except my eighty-two-year-old grandmother.

“Yes, sir.”

I’d give him a mock salute, but my hands are occupied with the tray. So I settle for a crisp nod before heading into the throng of hungry socialites.

As hard as I try, I can’t stop my eyes from searching the room for Connor and his—companion. I don’t find them anywhere. Which fires my green-eyed monster up again. I’m imagining all sorts of Showtime-After-Dark scenarios. Like them going at it in the linen closet. Or the ladies’ room. Or the—

“Excuse me, ladies and gentleman.”

A voice over the speakers cuts off my runaway pornographic thoughts. I look across the ballroom to the stage that’s been set up for this evening’s festivities, and lo and behold, there she is, microphone in hand. Connor’s—friend. And there he is, too, standing slightly behind her off to her left, looking equal parts sexy and self-conscious.