Dating You / Hating You Read online

  I can’t stop looking at him.

  The waiter turns to me.

  “I’ll have a glass of the Preston Barbera.”

  When the waiter leaves, Carter leans an elbow on the table. “You give good shoulder.”

  “I . . . what?”

  He nods to my dress. “Your dress. Your shoulders.” Clearing his throat, he adds quietly, “You just . . . look amazing.”

  I whisper, “Thanks,” and take a long drink of ice water to cool down the boiling just beneath the surface of my skin. “So, what’s the latest in Carterland?”

  He grins at my subject change. “Work. Dodging calls from my parents. Texting a cute agent down the road. You know.”

  I blush, deflecting, “You’re dodging your parents?”

  “They want me to make more of an effort with my brother, but really it’s just their continued disapproval that I moved here in the first place.”

  “Oh, no.”

  He waves this off. “Mom is positive I’m going to end up homeless and buying crystal meth from a guy living in a box on Skid Row. I tried to tell her my apartment has a doorman and I don’t even know where Skid Row is, but she remains unconvinced.”

  The waiter brings our drinks, bread, and a tiny notepad ready for our orders.

  “My parents are both in Burbank now,” I tell Carter once the waiter leaves again, “so I see them a few times a month, but I can imagine how much my mom would worry if I lived across the country.”

  “Yes, but my brother moved here when he was eighteen, and there was little to no meltdown.”

  I tear off a piece of bread. “I don’t think I knew that.”

  “Jonah,” he explains over his glass, “took his camera and his clothes and left. He went to a party one of his first weekends in town and ended up taking some photos that were featured in Rolling Stone.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. From there it was Elle, then People. For some reason my parents think lightning only strikes once and I am destined to flop.”

  I want to remind him that all parents worry their children will struggle and that if there was ever a place where that happened a lot, it’s Hollywood, but my mind snags on something he’s said.

  “Wait, is your brother Jonah Aaron?”

  “He . . . is.” His eyes go wide, his hand frozen where it was lifting a piece of bread to his lips. “Please tell me you haven’t slept with him.”

  I cough out a laugh. “That would be a no. But for some reason I think my friend Amelia has.” I take a sip of wine, thinking. “I think she met him at a Vanity Fair party or something.”

  Carter gives me a rueful half smile. “Maybe I should find her and apologize on behalf of my family.” When I laugh again he seems to realize what he’s said. “I mean no,” he corrects, brows furrowed. “Sex with the Aaron men is prime. Best sex of your life. I should clarify that . . . Let’s move on. Work is good?”

  A laugh trips out of me, and I press my napkin to my lips. “It’s really good. I’m putting together a package right now and it could be pretty big.” There’s something about Carter that diffuses my usual instinct to keep everything close, and it’s a struggle to not spill every detail.

  But if he notices how I’ve reeled myself in, he’s polite enough not to let on, and instead knocks on the top of the table.

  “Superstitious?” I ask, but he’s kept from answering as the waiter arrives with our entrées.

  Carter washes his first bite of steak down with his beer and then sets the glass back on the table. “In answer to your question, I would never say that I’m superstitious, because that would be bad luck. But it has been suggested to be one of my less charming traits.”

  I grin up at him, spearing a piece of broccoli.

  “Mostly, I consider them quirks,” he says. “It’s possible I have a lucky tie. The old knock-on-wood one is a favorite. I throw spilled salt over my left shoulder. I’ve been known to frequent wishing wells, and I have to let the phone ring twice before answering.”

  “Those are so adorably minor,” I say.

  “You have some better ones?”

  “I’m sure my friends would tell you I am quirks galore.”

  Carter leans back in his chair and motions for me to proceed.

  “I’ve already illustrated my knack for recalling random movie details.”

  “I don’t know if that counts—maybe more of an asset, considering your line of work. I’m going to need a bit quirkier from you, Evil.”

  I smile. “I can’t eat at buffets—a snag when so many catered events are the serve-yourself variety. It’s like I see that innocent serving spoon and all I can think about is how many unwashed hands have touched it. I always watch the twenty-four-hour Christmas Story marathon, and I’m an obsessive hand-creamer.”

  He stops with his fork halfway to his mouth. “That can’t possibly mean what just popped into my head.”

  I move to gently kick him, but he traps my foot, keeping it there between his shoes.

  “It means that when I’m on a call or sitting at my desk thinking about something, I tend to reach for my lotion, sort of instinctively. The longer the call, the more lotion I’ll use, and by the end I can barely grip my phone.”

  “Okay, that’s pretty great.” Carter rubs his palms together, thinking. “I’m going to give you another one of mine so you don’t feel all insecure about your germ phobia or cream-filled hands: I can barely inhale before I’ve had coffee. I know people say that all the time, but in my case I almost feel like it’s a medical condition. I’ve brushed my teeth with shaving cream on more than one occasion and once relieved myself in my mom’s favorite potted palm.”

  “I’m not sure you should share that last part,” I whisper.

  Carter wipes his mouth and sets his napkin on the table in front of him. “You’ve got a very mischievous smile there, Evil.”

  I point to my chest. “Me? You should see yours.”

  He leans forward. “It’s because I like being around you. It’s like the same buzzy feeling I get when one of my clients posts a grammatically correct tweet.”

  This makes me laugh because I can absolutely relate. “That’s pretty buzzy.”

  He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and sucks it, watching me.

  I don’t remember Carter being this overwhelmingly sexual when we first met. Maybe it was because I wasn’t showing shoulder, or because we were both dressed as preteens, but it’s definitely overwhelming right now.

  Carter sips his beer, looking out through the foliage of the indoor-outdoor space to the sidewalk. It’s a busy neighborhood anytime, but it’s cooled down a bit tonight and the streets seem full of people out walking, headed somewhere, headed nowhere.

  “It’s so warm here in the fall,” he says, tilting his glass up to his mouth again. I watch him swallow, feeling this tight, creeping anxiety, because dammit, I like him. “It surprises me every time.”

  I might really like him.

  “Our summer always comes late,” I say. “June and July are pretty nice. The summer really hits in August through October.”

  He turns back to me and smiles. “I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it.”

  “Was it a hard decision to leave New York?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. I’d thought about it for a few years, but always hesitated because it sort of felt like Jonah’s territory.”

  “I could see that, I guess.”

  “But as my career progressed, LA became an obvious option.” He spins his spoon on the table, absently staring down at it. “There’s only so much for talent agents in New York—theater is huge, obviously, but . . . I don’t know . . .” Taking a deep breath, he seems to grow more contemplative, until he exhales and turns his face up to me, smiling again. “I needed to do something different. I like TV-Lit but would like to be more film-based. Baby steps.”

  The degree to which he’s genuine throws me again and again. Everything about him seems so up front a
nd frank, but there’s a complexity, too. No wonder he’s good at this job.

  “Have you ever considered leaving California?” he asks.

  “Not really,” I admit, scrunching my nose. “I’m too much of a movie fanatic to give it up.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  I hook my thumb behind me, as if he can see it from here. “Not LA proper. In San Dimas.”

  “Bill and Ted’s!” he sings.

  “That’s what everyone says,” I tell him, laughing. “And yes. It’s a pretty small town. I was such a nerd in high school.”

  He gives a skeptical snort.

  “Honestly,” I assure him, “I was.”

  “You couldn’t have been as nerdy as I was: the founder of my school’s Magic: The Gathering club.”

  Nodding, I tell him, “I was president and sole member of the anime club at my school before anyone else liked it.”

  “Anime is cool.”

  “It wasn’t then, trust me.”

  Carter leans in, clearly ready to bring out his big guns. “I didn’t get a date in high school until senior year because I liked show tunes and the girls assumed I was gay. No guys asked me out, either, because they assumed I was stuck-up, not straight.”

  “My first concert was Hanson.” I pause, watching him. “My worst fear is someone posting a video of me in isolation rocking my face off the entire time.”

  “Are you trying to scare me away?” He pulls out his phone and spends about thirty seconds scrolling until he turns it for me to see. “Look at this mess.”

  Carter is probably fourteen in the picture. His nose is too big for his face. His hair looks like it was cut by a distracted parent. He’s laughing, and his mouth seems completely filled with metal.

  “I can top that.” I pull out my phone and open it to my mother’s Facebook page, easily finding her Throwback Thursday post to my tenth-grade school picture. This was before my Lasik, so I have glasses thicker than an ashtray and am wearing a tie because I was trying to pull off some ill-advised skater chic.

  Carter’s eyes narrow and he leans in to look closer. “What are you talking about, Evie? You’re pretty here.”

  Wow. He is blind. “Carter.”

  “What?”

  He looks up and something—no, everything—in me melts. When he blinks, the soft expression doesn’t dissolve; it stays there, stronger now as he lets his gaze move across my face and to my mouth.

  “What?” he says again, smiling now. “You know I’m hoping to kiss you later, no matter how many dorky pictures you show me.”

  My heart takes off, a beating drum in the wild jungle beneath my ribs. “I’m older than you,” I blurt.

  He just shrugs, like this was a completely normal thing to say. “So?”

  “We’re in the same business.”

  I watch him process this for a breath, and he chews on his lip before saying, “Maybe it’s not ideal, but it’s not worth staying away from you because of it.”

  My heart seems intent on climbing up into my throat. “I’m notoriously married to my job.”

  “That’s super convenient because so am I. It’ll be like we’re cheating on our jobs with each other.” He says this as if he’s just discovered some brilliant loophole.

  I’m aware of how I’m perched on my chair, and of the woman at the table next to us watching us without any subtlety. I’m aware of the car alarm going off somewhere down the street and the waiter clearing plates at the table behind me. I have the sense that Carter can see me reacting to all of these things but isn’t fazed by it in the slightest.

  “I’m pretty bad at this,” I admit. “But I have a great romance backup plan that includes a pack of small animals in sweaters, with me as their leader.”

  His smile is warm and slow, and when it reaches his eyes, something inside my chest turns over in defeat. “That could be cool, too.”

  In the silence that follows, it seems like an enormous hole opens up in front of me and I decide to jump straight in. “Do you want to come back to my place after this?”

  This surprises him, and his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses. “Yes.”

  • • •

  Because it’s Southern California and everyone drives everywhere—alone in their own car—Carter follows me back to my place. My building is in Beverly Grove, just southeast of Santa Monica Boulevard; the area has sprawling houses and wide lawns interspersed with larger remodeled art deco apartment buildings. LA is like that: suburb and city all swirled together.

  I meet him at the front entrance and try to smile like this is no big deal, but it’s an enormous deal. The last guy I had at my place was my dad. Before that, it was Mike when he came for dinner with Steph. Before that, I can hardly remember. Probably the cable guy.

  I can tell we’re both unsure what to say, and the energy between us buzzes. He has this sexual charisma that I’m not convinced I can handle. I can’t stop replaying our hug at the front of the restaurant and how he felt against me, all long bones and firm muscle.

  I’m sort of relieved that Carter isn’t one for small talk in situations like this. Are we going to have sex? I feel like sex is imminent but would rather shove a hot poker in my ear than trust my instincts on this right now.

  He could ask me about the weather, or about traffic, or earthquake statistics, or any number of the obvious California topics, but he just follows me into my place and pauses in the living room, looking around.

  It’s a nice place, and I’m proud of it, even though I’m hardly ever home for more than sleeping. The building is modern, and my apartment is an open floor plan that includes a large main room with living room, kitchen, and small nook by the window, where I have a table. There’s a vase of flowers on top, and everything smells subtly of the peppermint candle near the stove. I can even see Carter’s eyes widen at the enormous flat-screen I inherited from my dad when he upgraded to the obscene flat-screen.

  “The guy across the alley is a juggler,” I say, motioning to the window. “Apparently it’s a clothing-optional hobby. I’m not going to lie: it’s pretty great.”

  “I was already going to say this place was cool, but that might earn an upgrade to amazing,” he says. “I can promise you that none of the apartments I looked at came with a naked juggler.”

  “It’s usually in the morning . . .” The implication of my words—sleepover!—lingers between us as he steps closer, clearly moving past the Exploring Evie’s Apartment phase of the evening and into just Exploring Evie.

  Carter is only a step away from me and his hand comes out, curling around my hip. A few beats of silence pass.

  “Are you thirsty?” I ask, jittery.

  Traffic on the street blares past, and a dog barks obnoxiously in the building next door.

  Carter shakes his head. “No, I’m okay.”

  “Okay.” I chew my lip. “Hungry? Or need to use the restroom?”

  He laughs. “No.”

  My hand is shaking when I take his and lead him down the hall.

  “Evie?” He hooks his thumb back over his shoulder. “We can stay out here . . .”

  I shake my head, and he follows me wordlessly down the hall into my bedroom.

  He pulls up short just inside the door. “It’s just that . . . I don’t think we should . . .” He glances to the bed and then back to me. “Yet.”

  “That’s okay,” I agree in a nervous whisper. “I just want to be in here. My parents gave me all the furniture in the living room, and I don’t want to be thinking about this the next time they’re over here sitting on their old couch.”

  His eyes crinkle behind his glasses when he smiles at this. “You’re a trip.”

  He says it like it’s a good thing. Like it’s a great thing. In my room we stare at each other for a few seconds. I keep waiting for the weirdness to descend, but it doesn’t.

  Carter lifts his hands, cups my face, and smiles at me.

  Oh God, my heart is going to jackhammer its way out of my c
hest. I am definitely not planning a wedding to Daryl tonight.

  “You okay?” he whispers, just an inch away from kissing me.

  “Yeah.”

  He leans in, putting his lips against mine.

  I can’t—I honestly can’t describe the way it feels to kiss him. I marvel at the smooth firmness of his lips and the contrasting sharp stubble on his upper lip and chin. I imagine it scraping the skin of my neck and down, down. I marvel at his hands, holding me right up against him, sliding around my back.

  A current runs through me when his tongue touches mine; it’s even stronger when he makes a quiet little groan and slides one hand down over my ass. I feel like a teenager the way I’m unable to get enough of his mouth, and just come at it from every angle, needing every kind of kiss he has: bigger and smaller, deeper and just these tiny little kisses like raindrops.

  I feel like I’ve been kissing him forever, and also like I’ve never really been kissed before tonight. He’s taller than me and I’m on my toes, stretching to get closer, like I need him inside me however I can.

  Gently, his hands slide to my hips, guiding me back toward the bed and down.

  He follows, helping us both toward the pillows, and I haven’t felt this hunger in so long. The consuming kind of want, where kissing like this is nearly overstimulating but my body keeps pushing for more and more.

  Carter is over me, and we’re moving together and I feel him, hard between my legs. His bare hand cups the back of my bare leg and I bring my knee toward my chest, opening myself, wanting him closer. He lets out this small grunt before telling me we seem to be really good at this.

  The way he moves, rocking just right against me, I know I’m already close because, God, it’s been so long and it’s so so good. We are good at this. And if almost-sex with our clothes on has me on the edge already, how would I survive naked Carter, Carter that has access to every part of me? I can feel that tension and warmth just there, but he pulls away. I start to tell him to come back, reaching for his hips, but his hand is there, warm and steady, up my leg, down inside my underwear, and he groans into a kiss when he feels me, slippery under his fingers.

  I feel frantic, like I’ve been twisted in a wringer, and I have to clench my teeth so I don’t cry out.