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“TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF,” he said after we’d ordered.
“I hate being interrogated.”
He laughed when I said that, and I hated that I could sense that his laugh was genuine—and not an effort to try to disarm me into accepting the shitty offer I knew was coming my way.
Because this? This breaking of the bread we were about to have? Even though he seemed to be enjoying himself with me—for whatever reason—I knew in my gut that he had to be working some sort of angle here. Because this man? This man was so ridiculously hot, he couldn’t be interested in just having a get-to-know-me dinner with the likes of me when he could have a supermodel. He was just being all sexy and charming and interested in me in an effort to cushion the blow that was coming my way at the end of the meal. I was no fool. I knew what he was doing.
He’s pulling a tactic!
But since I couldn’t get out of this now, what the hell. Tactic or not, I had no choice but to play along. And in the meantime? Maybe I’d learn a few things about him.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked.
“On the wrong side of the tracks.”
Again that deep laugh, which fell smack under the category of ‘too sexy for your own damned good.’
“Why do I doubt that?” he asked.
“Probably because I’m wearing Tom Ford and good shoes? You really shouldn’t let them fool you, you know.”
“Noted. Now, how about if you answer my question?”
“I grew up in Connecticut,” I said. “Hartford, to be exact, which is your cue to hold up a disco ball over my head, because after spending most of my life in that boring town? I still need all the excitement I can get in my life.”
“You can figuratively consider that done. What do your parents do?”
“My mother owns a pastry shop, and my father teaches science. How about your parents?”
He paused before he said, “That’s a complicated question.”
“How can it be complicated—they gave birth to you.”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t know who gave birth to me.”
And that took me aback.
“Sorry?” I said.
“I was a foster kid,” he said. “From what I understand, the people who created me were a couple of drug addicts. The state took me away from them when I was a few months old, and then I got bounced around from family to family over the next sixteen years. If I were to psychoanalyze myself, that’s probably why I got into reality television. I saw a lot of shit when I was growing up—from the bottom of the bottom to the top of the top. I never knew when or where I was going to be displaced. When I was sixteen, I ended up with good people. Successful, kind, loving people. I call them my parents. As for the rest of them? Not so much.”
Did he come up with the idea for The Terrible Teens based on past experiences? I wondered. Had he been a troubled kid? Or by his casual admittance of what had to have been a difficult upbringing, has he come to terms with his past? Because it certainly seems as if he has . . .
I had to believe that was true, because there was nothing in Hunter’s easy demeanor that suggested he was embarrassed or ashamed by anything he was sharing with me. If anything, his willingness to talk freely about his past told me everything I needed to know—if his past had left any scars, he’d dealt with them long ago and put them to bed.
“So, who do you consider your parents now?” I asked.
“Robert and Helen Steele,” he said. “They adopted me when I was sixteen, thus my last name.”
“What do they do?”
“My father makes documentaries. My mother is a poet.”
“Robert Steele . . .” I said. “Why do I know that name?” And then it came to me. “Wait a minute.” My eyes popped. “No way. Did your father win the Academy Award last year for his documentary on the sex trade in Thailand?”
Hunter smiled when I said that.
“You see,” he said. “There’s a reason I wanted to get to know you better, Julia, because not many people could have nailed down such an obscure connection.” He nodded at me. “Yes, that would be my dad,” he said proudly. “You’d love him and my mother. Best people in the world.”
“Where do they live?”
“Here in Manhattan.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “First, I started out in Queens, then the system bounced me around the other boroughs as they saw fit until I finally ended up here in Manhattan.” He took a sip of his scotch, then clocked me with a glance. “Listen, Sad Eyes, it is what it is, so why dwell on it, right? What matters is that I ended up with the right people, and that I’m happy. I don’t think about my past unless I’m asked about it. Otherwise? Total waste of time and energy because I’m not one to live my life in the rearview. But enough about me. Who do you take after? Your mother or your father?”
“I kind of take after both of them.”
“Do you bake as well as your mother?”
“Oh, God no. I’m a horror show in the kitchen, although I am trying to improve my skills when it comes to that.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Don’t laugh, but because of Ina Garten—otherwise known as the Barefoot Contessa—let’s just say that I’m in the process of getting better. But to be totally honest with you, my best dish continues to be nuking a mean Lean Cuisine.”
He furrowed his brow at me. “So, how do you take after your mother?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “I inherited her sarcastic sense of humor.”
“I like your sense of humor—it has an edge.”
“That edge has landed me in a fair amount trouble over the years, so I try to keep it in check, even if my mouth does get the best of me sometimes.”
“No need for a filter here,” he said. “I like an edge. How about your dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’m a problem solver like he is. And I’m seriously good at math. Not as good as he is, but close.”
“I suck at math.”
“And I couldn’t run a television show,” I said. “Everyone has their gift. You’re not only good behind the lens, but you have an innate sense of what people want to watch on television right now.”
“You mean six mean-spirited, bickering girls who want to cut each other’s throats?”
“Precisely.”
“You know,” he said as he leaned back in his seat, “I asked you another question earlier, but we were interrupted. How long have you been Harper’s assistant agent?”
“Oh, that,” I said, smiling at him. “That happened this morning, when she promoted me.”
He blinked when I said that.
“You just got the job today?”
“I did. And after that, we signed Pepper, she and I met with you, and now I’m having dinner with you, waiting to see if you’ve gotten me that offer I want. Today has been kind of a whirlwind, Hunter.”
“Well, shit,” he said, raising his glass to me. “Cheers on the promotion, Julia. I mean that seriously. Congratulations.”
I lifted my martini and touched glasses with him. “Thank you,” I said as we sipped.
“Being an agent at CAA is a position coveted by many in the industry. You must have worked your ass off for it.”
Why lie? I thought. Especially after the way he’d just opened up to me about his own life? “I kind of did,” I said.
“To get that job, there’s no question that you did. And being Harper’s personal assistant is why you’re a natural,” he said. “You learned from the best.”
“Harper’s totally the best.”
“Well, she’s going to be proud of you after today,” he said.
“Why’s that?”
But before Hunter could respond, we were sidetracked as our first course arrived. I’d gone with the escargot while Hunter had chosen the lobster salad, which looked sublime to me.
“I think I might have chosen the wrong dish,” I said. “Yours looks better than mine.”
“How about if we both be the judge of that?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes as he pierced a piece of lobster with his fork. “Because I almost went with the escargot, and yours looks so good, I’m wondering whether I’m the one who made the mistake. I’ll share mine if you share yours.”
“Sharing is caring,” I said.
“Open your mouth for me.”
“Something that never should be said by a man to a woman in today’s politically charged entertainment industry.”
Again, those dimples, which I found irresistible.
“I’m talking about the lobster, and you know it,” he said. “Come on—taste it. Then let me try one of your escargots. I’m thinking I might have missed out . . .”
How was it that we were suddenly feeding one another? And why was this now feeling more like a date than a business dinner? Because it was. I mean, here we were sitting right next to one another, our knees sometimes touching when we adjusted ourselves in our seats, and in his right hand was a fork primed with a luscious piece of lobster meat I seriously wanted to eat. And I did. I opened my mouth, he gently placed the lobster on my tongue—and my God, when I tasted it, was it ever sublime.
“It’s so tender,” I said as I savored it. “And buttery and sweet. I’ve been to Maine a few times, and this is just as good as the lobster I’ve had there. It’s perfect.”
“That’s because on the menu, it said ‘Maine lobster.’ So, at least we know they weren’t lying. Now, give me one of your snails.”
“Please,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You mean one of my escargots.”
“Whatever. I want to try one of those beauties.”
“Let me try to fish one out of its shell first.” I did it with the tiny fork they gave me, swished the meat around in the butter and garlic sauce, then looked at him. “Open wide,” I said. “Votre escargot est en route.”
“You speak French?” he said.
“Un peu. I mean, I know how to say things like boeuf bourguignon, où se trouvent les toilettes, puis-je avoir l’addition—”
“What does the last one mean?”
“Check, please!”
“I’m the one who’s buying tonight, so let’s just settle that right now.”
“Done and done.”
He grinned at me. “So, how about that escargot?”
When I placed it into Hunter’s mouth, he didn’t just snag it with his teeth and let go of it at once. Instead, with those full lips of his, he bit down on the tine and slowly, sexily tugged the meat free.
I mean, come on! There’s food porn—images that portray food in a supremely appetizing or aesthetically appealing way. And then there’s food porn, which clearly can be defined by the sexy bit of full-lipped juiciness I’d just witnessed as his eyes burned into mine.
“Delicious,” he said. “And Julia?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“About the snail?”
He paused for a moment and just looked at me before he spoke.
“Are you always like this?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“‘Cheeky’ is one way to put it,” he said. “For lack of a better word.”
“Find the other word.”
“Maybe I will if you’ll have dinner with me again.”
And there it was—right in front of me. The attraction I felt toward him was indeed mutual.
Fuck my life!
“So, this isn’t about the snail?” I said, bypassing his comment.
“It isn’t.”
“What’s it about?”
“I don’t want to keep you waiting any longer when you and I really should be celebrating.”
I furrowed my brow at him.
“I don’t understand . . . ?” I said.
“I got you your deal,” he said as he handed me my martini and lifted his own drink to me. “The network caved. Eighteen episodes, $2 million dollars, $500,000 upon signing.”
I just stared at him, shell-shocked and slammed with disbelief. I’d called his bluff, the network had caved, and I’d done it.
I did it! And my first deal as Harper’s assistant agent is a major one!
“Seriously?” I asked as my heart began to race with excitement.
“Seriously.”
“Hunter, I don’t know what to say.”
“How about, ‘I’ll do whatever I can to make sure Pepper takes the deal’?”
“I will,” I said as I removed the agreement from my purse, filled in the terms, and handed it to him. After he read and signed it with the pen I gave him, he handed both back to me. “I’ll show Pepper and her mother the agreement first thing tomorrow morning. And since I know that Pepper really wants to be on your show, I’m fairly certain that the answer will be yes.”
“Good,” he said as he touched his glass against mine again. “Because I really want to work with Pepper—and if I’m being totally honest here, I meant what I said earlier, Julia. I also want to work with you.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
He shrugged at me.
“If you haven’t figured that out by now, here’s hoping that in time, you will.”
* * *
WE WERE MID-DINNER and having a great time talking about the industry, our favorite films, and hell—just enjoying one another’s company—when Hunter’s phone dinged in his pants pocket.
“Sorry,” he said. “That could be a text from the network, probably wondering where we stand. I should take a look.”
“Of course,” I said. “Business is business.”
He leaned back in his seat, pulled his phone out of his front pocket, switched it on, and read the text with a frown before he typed two letters, hit a button, and put the phone back into his pocket.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
Without answering me, he glanced over at his scotch, which was empty.
“Mind if I get another drink?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Would you like another?”
“Do I need another? Was that text about our deal?”
“No,” he said. “That was about something else.”
After he called over our waiter and ordered us another round of cocktails, I had to wonder what the issue was as Hunter ran his fingers through his hair in clear disappointment before he checked himself and smiled at me.
“Sorry,” he said. “Where were we?”
“You were about to tell me why a storm cloud just arrived above your head,” I said. “Not that you have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’m happy to listen.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he said.
“And yet your face says otherwise.”
He straightened in his seat and shrugged at me.
“Tomorrow is a big day for my father,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the socialite Tootie Staunton-Miller, but she was so taken by my father’s documentary, she’s holding this huge charity event tomorrow night at her penthouse on Fifth to celebrate him and his documentary. All proceeds will go to a fund that will help the women afflicted by the sex trade in Thailand. My date for the evening was Abby Stone, who is a producer on The Terrible Teens and a longtime friend of mine. If Pepper takes the deal, you’ll meet her soon, and I have a feeling that you two are going to become fast friends, because Abby has an irreverent sense of humor that matches yours. But since her daughter’s cold has now officially become the flu, I have to face that party alone, which is the last thing I want to do.”
“Why?” I asked.
“First, there’s my past—I wasn’t exactly born into that world, Julia.”
“What world?”
“A world filled with blue bloods. But since those people have slowly come to love my parents through their work and their accomplishments, I’ve had to move in that circle for years. And every time I have to, I feel like a fraud. I’m well aware that I’m seen as the outsider. I’m not one of them, and because my past is no secret, they also know it.”
I felt for him in that moment. Because of their lauded creative endeavors, his parents had long been a part of the celebrated elite, something Hunter clearly still struggled with, because God only knows what he’d witnessed before he’d been adopted at the late age of sixteen. From what I surmised from our earlier conversation, he’d gone from slum to slum before hitting it big with Robert and Helen. And because of their position in society, I could only imagine how difficult that transition must have been for him. I could barely imagine it—to go from nothing to everything in one fell swoop had to have been challenging.
“I can understand that,” I said.
“Have you ever been to a major society event?”
“Look into my eyes,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “What you see are years of sweat and struggle, which have no place in society. So, that would be a no.”
“Lucky you,” he said, “because those parties suck.”
“How so?”
“It’s the people,” he said. “My mother and father are used to that world and know how to maneuver their way through it to get what they want—in this case, a big check written to help women in need—but I’ve never gotten used to it. Sure, you’ll meet a few fun, decent people here and there, but almost everyone else is fake, which I hate to my core. So, for me? When I have to go to these things to support my parents, it’s always better when I have a like-minded plus-one to pass the time with.”
Best to know the answer now, I thought.
“Is Abby your plus-one?” I asked.
“As in my girlfriend? No. I’m single. But is Abby the friend who has covered my ass whenever I have to go to these things? Oh, hell yes. She’s absolutely that person.”
And then he just stopped to look at me.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Look, I know that this sounds crazy, OK? I mean, we just met today. But in Abby’s absence, Julia, would you consider going with me tomorrow night?”
“I’m sorry, how’s that?” I asked.
“I know it’s short notice, but are you free tomorrow night? Would you be willing to be my date and attend that party with me?”
“Let’s see,” I said. “Go to a shitty party filled with hateful people, or binge-watch episodes of Barefoot Contessa, which is what I planned to do tomorrow night.”
“You binge-watch the Barefoot Contessa?”
“Don’t judge, because I told you earlier that I’m trying to learn how to cook, and she’s my guru. In fact, you should taste the meatballs I made the other night, masterfully crafted due to that woman’s influence alone.”
“I’d love to try them,” he said as our drinks arrived. “If you ever want to give them a test drive on me, I’d be up for it.”
Christ, he’s disarming, I thought as I sipped my cocktail and weighed my options. And sexy as hell. And not at all what Harper had warned me against—well, at least not yet, because whatever ego she’s seen in him in the past, I sure as hell haven’t seen yet. If anything, he’s simply been a fun, smoking-hot pleasure to be around tonight. So, what do I do? Stay at home and connect with my inner Contessa, which is generally the highlight of my sorry week? Or dip my toes even deeper into the dangerous waters Hunter Steele is offering me right now? Because after our freewheeling give-and-take tonight—during which there were moments when we seriously flirted with one another—I already know those waters are fraught with danger. If I’m not careful when it comes to him, a riptide could sweep me into his arms. I’m that attracted to him—and naturally, it’s happened right at the very moment when I need to be completely focused on my career.
“Julia?” Hunter asked in concern.
I blinked at him.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—why?”
“Your eyes were starting to cross . . .”
“My eyes were starting to what?”
“They were slowing beginning to cross . . .”
Of course they were, I thought in despair. My body always betrays me whenever I get stuck in my head.
“I think I was about to sneeze,” I lied. “Sorry. But the moment’s passed and I’m good to go!”
“So, you’ll attend the event with me?” he said in surprise.
“Oh,” I said, realizing that he’d misinterpreted me. “No. Well, I mean, I’m not sure. What I meant when I said that is I was good to continue talking . . .”
He put his elbow on the table, dipped his chin into his open palm, and his eyes—two weirdly blue spheres of light that looked as if they possessed the powers of X-ray vision—cut straight through me. “You’re flustered,” he said.
You think?!
I rolled my eyes and reached for my drink. “Flustered?” I said. “What’s to be flustered about? It’s just a party.”
“And you’d be my date.”
“Oh, come on. If I went, I’d just be your plus-one.”
“Call it what you will,” he said.
“How about if we just settle on two new friends going out on the town?” I said. “Me serving as your antianxiety medicine.”
“You know what? To be fair, it actually would be something like that . . .”
“I’m assuming that this is a black-tie kind of thing?” I said. “And that you’ll be in a tux?”
“It is black tie and I will be wearing a tux, yes.”
“And that I’d have to wear a drop-dead gorgeous evening gown that’s so ridiculously expensive, there’s no way I could ever afford it because I’m poor?” I said.
“Julia,” he said at once. “I’ll pay for the gown.”
“That’s not happening.”
“But I’d be happy to do so—”
“Not necessary,” I said as I placed my hand over his. “Because believe it or not, I actually have the gown thing covered. A couple of years ago, Harper took me to the Met Gala. My bonus that year wasn’t just attending the event, but also the killer evening gown Harper bought for me. It’s a Carolina Herrera, I’ve only worn it once, it’s in pristine condition—and it’s to die for.”
He smoothed the tip of his index finger along his lower lip and looked at me for a long moment before he placed his free hand over my hand. And when he did that? I felt for certain that my panties were about to dissolve in a bubbling puddle of lust.
“What color is your gown?” he asked.
“Red.”
“Like your cheeks are right now?”
He did not!
But why deny it, because I could feel my cheeks burning as if someone was blowing a torch on them.
Once again, my body betrays me . . .
“Maybe even redder than them,” I said.
“I want to see you in that dress,” he said.
And I want to see you in a tux . . .
“Will you go with me?” he asked.
“Tonight, you came through with the deal I wanted, Hunter. So? I owe you one. I’d be happy to go to the party with you.”
“But only because you owe me one?” he asked.
He’d just seen me flustered, and he’d also just called me out because I flushed when he drew a line along his sexy bottom lip.
There is no way I’m giving him more than that.
So?
My only response was a smile.
