“Just making sure you wouldn’t chicken out,” he said, leaning against the car.
“How long have you been out here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. I’d received the alert over half an hour ago. Had he really just been loitering on my lawn?
He ignored my question. “Black, really? You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I glanced at him. White shirt, tie undone, looking effortlessly smug. Hypocrite. “Haven’t you heard? I’m in mourning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he hid the smile and opened the car door. I sidestepped him and closed the door only to re-open it myself. Inside, he eyed the heels at my feet.
“What’s with the shoes?”
“Fuck the patriarchy.”
“Your mom?”
“Yes.” I grinned. “Myabuelais probably rolling in her grave, too.”
He studied me for a beat. “Do you wear pants to cover your knee?”
Screeching tires went off in my brain. I whipped my head toward him, my glare sharp enough to cut. “I wear pants because I want to. Mind your business, Satan.”
My heart was pounding. My breaths came fast. I wrapped myself tighter in avoidance—the Miranda family’s favorite coping mechanism. The car wove through LA side streets, a blessedly short trip. Still, the air between us felt suffocating.
“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked suddenly, his voice casual as he looked out the window.
I didn’t buy the act. Casual meant it burned him that I’d said no. Men like Elliott didn’t hear that word. Ever. “That wasn’t an offer. That was something else.”
He finally looked at me. “Something else?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet. But I will. You fired me just to rehire me, no, something isn’t adding up.”
“You’re an animal, Nessa. The only way to get a reaction out of you is to corner you.”
I scoffed. “You make me sound rabid. I’m not your pawn. Call me stubborn, naive, whatever you want—but don’t you dare call me dumb.”
“You’re right.”
Everything in me halted. Elliott James never conceded. Ever.
“Can I record that and play it while I fall asleep?” I asked.
“Only if you touch yourself to it.”
The heel was in my hand before I even realized it, and in the air even faster, but he knocked it away easily. His grin was soft. Shy, almost. It threw me off more than anything. Something was different about him tonight. Less armor, more… nerves? It could have been a trick. It probably was. But I vowed to find out before the night was over.
The car stopped. He got out first, and I followed as we headed toward the flashing cameras. His hand landed on my lower back, guiding me.
I glared. “Remove your hand if you want to keep it.”
He grinned and put both hands up in mock surrender. We slipped past the cameras through a side door. An assistant practically exhaled in relief when he saw me, rushing me backstage. Suddenly, it was chaos—questions, bodies, lights. Then there was only him again. Elliott. Brown eyes locked on mine.
“You nervous?”
“About public speaking? No.” That part was true; I lived for adrenaline like this. “About what I’m going to say? Absolutely.”
It was the one thing we never talked about. Catherine. But he knew.
“I know you’ll figure it out,” he said, and then he was gone.
