Chapter 5 — A Lie With Beautiful Eyes

Jamie arrived at the restaurant carrying the expression of a man who had been summoned to judgment and decided to charm the jury.

It might have worked if Tessa hadn't kicked his chair before he sat down.

"Tell her," she said.

He looked at me.

"You called a family meeting without me."

"You're here now."

I tapped Miles's card.

"Start with him."

Jamie looked down. For once, the hesitation seemed real.

"My mother married someone who wasn't my father. I spent most of my childhood with her family abroad. Tessa's family."

I waited.

"My father was around less. That changed later. Miles has been involved for years."

Tessa didn't look at either of us.

"He's your father's friend?" I asked.

"Something like that."

"Your father works with Ashford?"

Jamie hesitated. Tessa looked as though she'd bitten a lemon.

"Miles works for Ashford," Jamie said carefully.

I made the wrong connection myself.

"Miles is your father."

The silence that followed should have warned me.

Instead, Jamie leaned back, looking unhappy in a way I had never seen him attempt for attention.

"It isn't a simple family story."

Tessa put her water down too hard.

"No," she said. "It certainly isn't."

I looked at him for another moment, then moved the card away from my plate.

"You could have told me."

"You wouldn't have minded?"

"You didn't choose your parents' relationship."

His expression changed subtly. Something wounded gave way to something worse: guilt.

I mistook it for relief.

"I'm not going to interrogate you over lunch," I said. "But don't use being upset to avoid telling me things that matter."

He nodded.

Tessa covered her mouth with a napkin. Later, she told me she'd spent the rest of that meal deciding whether to throw him into traffic.

Before we left, she caught my hand beneath the table.

"You can tell me if you're not happy," she said.

Jamie looked at her sharply.

She ignored him.

"He's my family. You're my friend. That doesn't mean you have to make something work to protect me."

I looked down at her fingers, then squeezed them.

"I know."

"And if he starts trying to charm his way out of everything, remember he can survive a closed door."

"That's an appalling theory," Jamie said.

Tessa finally turned toward him.

"Then don't give her a reason to test it."

Something serious passed across his face before he lowered his eyes.

I hadn't expected Tessa to be so protective of me against her own cousin. It made me feel less alone in the uncertainty he kept leaving behind.

When she released my hand, Jamie reached for it. I let him take it, but noticed that he held it differently now: without the little tug that usually invited me to look at him.

At the time, I thought she was embarrassed about discussing family business.

I didn't yet understand how much of her discomfort came from watching him risk something he had wanted too badly to approach honestly.

Jamie became suspiciously affectionate after lunch.

He opened my car door, took my bag, and tried to follow me upstairs at the office.

"You don't work here yet," I said.

"Yet?"

"Owen wants your résumé."

He stopped walking.

"I thought we were having a good day."

"We are. Your career is about to improve."

"My career was doing beautifully in your bedroom."

I turned toward him.

His smile widened at my reaction.

"You can't say things like that in my lobby."

"Then invite me somewhere quieter."

Owen appeared beside the elevator with three scripts, destroying the moment without visible effort.

Jamie inspected the folders as though he suspected a trap.

"You want me to audition?"

"That's usually how actors get cast," Owen said.

"I'm delicate. Rejection could harm me."

"You'll survive."

Jamie turned to me.

"He doesn't like me."

"He doesn't like anybody before coffee."

Owen handed him the scripts and walked away.

In my office, Jamie chose the role of a charming younger man with a dangerous temper and a hopeless attachment to the heroine.

"Research should be manageable," I said.

He lowered the pages.

"You think I'm hopeless?"

"I think you'll do almost anything for attention."

He came around my desk.

"Only yours."

I remained seated. That gave him the advantage of height until I caught his belt and drew him between my knees.

His hand tightened on the script.

"What are you doing?"

"Providing attention. You requested it."

I looked up at him slowly.

The man who had silenced Grant onstage suddenly couldn't decide where to put his hands.

"Vivian. Your door."

"Closed."

"Your meeting."

"In nine minutes."

I touched the inside of his wrist, where his pulse had begun to race.

"You're easily frightened for someone with so much confidence."

He put the script down and bent until his mouth was close to mine.

"Keep testing that," he whispered.

I kissed him first.

He braced a hand on the desk, then moved it behind my neck. His restraint lasted until I smiled against his mouth.

He pulled back a fraction.

"You're doing this because you know I'll forget to be annoyed."

"Is it working?"

"I don't remember."

Owen knocked at exactly the wrong moment.

Jamie closed his eyes. I laughed quietly and straightened his collar.

"Take the script. Come back tomorrow prepared."

He stared at me.

"You can't send me away like this."

"I can. Watch."

He went, but sent me a photograph of the script five minutes later.

Three pages highlighted. One handwritten note in the margin.

If I get the role, you owe me an uninterrupted evening.

I replied: Earn it.

That night, I found him in the kitchen making dinner. He had taken off his watch and rolled his sleeves up; the blue stone in his ear caught the light as he turned.

"My father sold his car to keep me in college," I told him unexpectedly.

He set the knife down.

"What brought that on?"

"Your family story. My dad isn't my biological father. It took me years to find out."

Jamie listened without turning the conversation back toward himself.

I told him about the old convertible, the tuition bills, and the day I bought my father another car.

"Blood doesn't do all the work," I said. "Showing up does."

His gaze dropped to my hand on the counter.

"You're making it difficult for me to remain dishonest," he murmured.

I thought he was teasing.

"Then stop."

He looked up, almost speaking.

My phone rang. The moment slipped away while I answered a work call, and by the time I turned back, he was smiling again.

"Dinner first," he said. "I'm taking you somewhere tomorrow."