Complete Me(99)

“When has the truth ever bothered the press? Every time they’re photographed together, the London papers practically have them engaged. It’ll be more interesting this time around, now that you’re in the picture.”

“Interesting isn’t the word I’d choose,” I say dryly.

“If you can’t make them stop, at least let them entertain you,” she says. And I have to admit, that’s probably good advice.

“Speaking of speculation,” she continues, “the rumors are also flying that I’m returning to agenting.”

“Are you?”

“Fuck no,” she says, with a sound that is somewhere between a guffaw and a snort. “But my old firm’s been doing the full-court press, trying to get me back behind a phone and a desk. And you know what? Who knows. Maybe if they sweeten the pot enough I’ll reconsider. Right now I’m just amusing myself watching them run around talking up potential projects. Like yours,” she adds with a wicked grin.

“Mine? My what?”

“Take your pick, Texas. There are producers salivating to get you on reality TV. And there are at least half a dozen companies looking to hire you to do product endorsements. Want to be the face of a makeup line? I could arrange it like that,” she says with a saucy snap of her fingers.

I just shake my head. “This is the weirdest city.”

Evelyn snorts. “Hell, yes it is.”

“If they’re just looking for a face, tell them to look at Jamie’s. I look better in real life than I do on film, but Jamie was made for the camera.”

“Good point there, Texas.” I’m joking, but I’m not entirely sure Evelyn realizes that.

I’m still buzzing from sugar and conversation when Evelyn heads back to Malibu and I return to my office. I study the portfolio of Blaine’s work that she left with me and make a few notes for the app she wants me to design. I want it to stand out—to have more functionality than simply as a portable display case—and I am so engrossed in brainstorming that I don’t realize the time until the intercom buzzes and the receptionist tells me that a Ms. Reynard is in the lobby.

“Oh, right. Send her on back.” I remain seated when she comes in—I’m the boss, after all—and greet her with my Professional Nikki smile. Another perk of my horrific childhood—I am well-versed at hiding my emotions under a variety of tried and true pageant-quality smiles. So I am confident that Giselle has no idea that I’m still wary—or that tiny seeds of jealousy remain buried just below the surface, ready to sprout if she says the wrong thing or looks at Damien with the slightest hint of attraction.

The truth is, I don’t want to be wary or jealous. I don’t like that girl, and I don’t want to be that girl. But I can’t flush from my mind the simple truth that she did date Damien—and that where Damien is concerned, “date” most likely means “screwed.”

“Nikki!” she chirps as she comes through my door, and I have to force myself to up the wattage on my smile. Giselle reminds me of Audrey Hepburn—her hair, her frame, her poise. I do not usually get intimidated around other women, but around Giselle, I feel off my game, and I can’t help but think that this is a huge mistake.

If she notices my hesitation, she’s kind enough not to say anything. Instead, she focuses on the space, her eyes roving over the empty walls and the furniture before landing back on me. “It’s a great space,” she says. “Small, but airy and well laid out. This beige on the walls is hideous, so that’s the first thing we’ll want to change. Then we’ll want to hang some art. Not too much. Probably one large piece to anchor the room, and then a few smaller pieces to provide some balance. I have some artists in mind—I’ll bring a portfolio by the next time I come. And some paint chips, too. Something professional, but bright. Maybe a pale yellow,” she adds, almost to herself.