Keeping London (The Flawed Heart Series Book 2) (17 page)

Georgia is already working her magic on Black Shirt Number One. Honestly though, she doesn’t ever have to work too hard. Paige is chatting with another guy in the group as well.

“Why the frown?”

It takes me a second longer than it should to realize that the cute guy is talking to me.

I quickly take him in. He’s freaking Brad Pitt from
Legends of the Fall
but with short hair.

What’s up with the people of LA? Are they all freaking models?

And he’s wearing a white shirt. I love a guy who stands out from the crowd.

“I’m sorry?” I question for lack of anything better to say. I might be taken, but I still have eyes and hormones. I’d be lying if I said my body wasn’t reacting to the dude.

“You don’t look too happy, standing here. Everything okay?”

And he’s sensitive and sweet.
Of course he is.

“I’m fine. Just thinking.” I smile.

“I’m Brad,” he says, holding out his hand.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I laugh. Shaking his hand, I say, “London,” through a chuckle.

He turns his head to the side. “Didn’t realize my name was so comical.”

“Sorry, inside joke. Just something I was thinking. It’s not you.”

He seems to accept my explanation. “London’s a cool name.”

“Thanks.”

“So—” he begins.

But I cut him off, “Look, Brad, I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but I’m not interested.”

He appears momentarily shocked before recovering. “Not interested in talking to me?”

“Talking or basically anything else. I have a boyfriend,” I say by way of explanation.

“Okay? So, you can’t speak to people if you have a boyfriend?”

“Well, you know how it is. No one in these places is here to make friends. It’s just better to be up-front. Sorry if I’m coming off as rude, but I just don’t want to deal with it.”

“Deal with a decent guy talking to you because you were standing here, looking sad?”

“Yeah,” I say bluntly.

I’ve come to realize that I’m kind of a bitch, and I’ve accepted this fact.

Brad does the last thing that I expected him to do. He laughs, like all-out, head-thrown-back laughter.

When he faces me again, he says, “You’re hilarious.”

“Um, thanks?” I peer up to his bright blue eyes.

“Listen, London, I’m not interested in hooking up with you or anything else that would come in between you and your boyfriend.”

“You’re not?” I tilt my head to the side, examining the sincerity in his features.

“No, I was just trying to be nice.”

“Oh,” I answer sheepishly.

“Last time I checked, talking isn’t cheating.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay then.” He smirks. “Do you live in LA?”

He’s right. There’s no harm in talking to someone. It beats standing here, brooding in my own misery.

“No, Michigan actually. My sister lives in Palo Alto. She’s in her senior year at Stanford.” I motion toward Georgia, who has her hands on Black Shirt’s chest.

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you live in LA?”

“Yeah, I live in the Hill Section of Manhattan Beach.”

“Oh, nice,” I attempt to say nonchalantly though I’ve been to one of my dad’s business associate’s homes in that neighborhood and know how upscale it is.
Cute and rich? Totally not fair.

“So, London, what do you do in Michigan?”

“Well, I’m a journalist. I write freelance articles for a local online news outlet, but I’m looking for another job.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“I love my job—don’t get me wrong—but I need more. I’m a little bored. I’m applying to bigger newspapers and news stations. In my line of employment, you have to work your way up from the bottom, you know? I mean, I’m sure I could have used some of father’s connections to get a better first job, but I liked starting out small. I’ve learned a lot. Now, I’m ready to learn more.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. So, what do you do out here?”

“Well, I’m a senior editor for the
Los Angeles Times
.”

My mouth falls open in what I’m sure is a very unattractive way before I snap it shut. “You are not!”

“I am.” He smiles.

“How old are you?” I question.

He doesn’t look old enough to be a senior of anything.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Huh,” I let out.

“Yeah, too bad you don’t live out this way. I might have a job for you.” He winks, grinning wide.

I’m momentarily stunned at just how attractive he is.

“No way!” I shriek as I grab his arm.

Wait, I can’t live out here.

I release my grasp. “Well, I have to stay in Michigan.” I sigh.

“The boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why isn’t he here?”

“He’s in the military. He’s overseas in Afghanistan right now.”

“Ah,” he makes a sound of understanding. “That must be hard.”

“It is,” I agree.

“You have to drill me!” I exclaim louder than necessary.

“I’m sorry?”

“Drill me with questions. Like, if I were in an interview with the paper, what would you ask me? I might not be able to work at your paper, but you could help me with what to say in my interviews with others. You know, show me what you people are looking for.”

“Us people?” He chuckles. “Okay, let’s order some drinks and talk shop, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s!”

“All right, we have a table reserved over there.” He points to a table in the corner of the VIP section. It’s surrounded by a semicircular cushioned bench.

I tell Paige and Georgia where I am going to be. Each girl seems interested in their make-out buddy of choice for the evening and barely care that I’m stepping away. I follow Brad to his table, and a waitress comes to take our order.

“Can we have a bottle of Dom Perignon Rose?” he asks the server.

She smiles politely before leaving the table.

“You didn’t need to order that,” I say, knowing that the particular bottle of champagne usually costs around four hundred dollars in a place like this.

“You don’t like champagne?”

“No, I do. But I would have been fine with a glass of something else.”
Less expensive
, I think to myself.

“It’s fine. We need to celebrate.”

“We do?” I question.

“Of course. We need to toast to the New Year, for one. And to new friends.”

I have to stop myself from saying the rude comment hovering on the tip of my tongue about how he’s awfully presumptuous to assume that I want to be his friend. After all, he does seem like a sincerely nice guy who just wants to talk. And I could learn a lot from him. I suppose if I can’t make out with Loïc at midnight, the next best thing is to talk to Brad and get tips on how to advance my career.

The champagne comes, and Brad keeps filling my glass. I’m so glad he ordered it. It’s so delicious. He really did help turn this horrible night into a positive one.

Brad’s so smart. I don’t think I’ve ever had such an enjoyable and informative conversation with someone about my line of work before. We talk about everything from what I should put on my résumé to how I should answer interview questions to the types of pieces that the paper loves to print and the experience they like to see in the journalists they hire.

My head is starting to feel a little fuzzy, so to make sure that I won’t forget any information Brad is telling me, I type it all out in my Notes app on my phone.

“Let me see what you’ve put.” He reaches out for my phone, and I give it to him.

He starts typing something.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You forgot a few key pieces of information,” he answers but doesn’t look up from the phone.

After a minute, he hands it back to me, and I look down to what he typed. His name, Brad Abernathy, is spelled out, followed by a cell phone number, a work number, an email address, and an address.

“Why did you give me your address?” I peer up from my phone to find his bold blue eyes focused on me.

He seems closer, our faces only a foot apart.

“In case you ever need it.”

“Why would I need it?” My stare darts from his eyes to his lips before I close my eyes tight and drop my face toward my lap, trying to center myself.

His warm fingers press against the bottom of my chin, lifting my face up until our eyes meet again. “London, call me anytime if you have any more questions. Feel free to use me as a reference on your résumé. Whatever you need, okay?”

“Okay, thank you,” I whisper, still thrown off-balance with his slight touch.

I raise my hands to grab his and pull it down away from my face. His free hand covers both of mine, and we’re a jumbled pile of hands in his lap. I try to pull away, but he holds my hands tightly in his grasp.

“London?” he asks quietly, his voice low and raspy.

“Yeah?”

“Your boyfriend’s a lucky guy.”

I swallow the lump in my throat that seems to be stuck, and I’m finding it hard to breathe.

“London?” he asks again, this time rubbing his thumb across the skin of my hand.

“Yeah?”

“Happy New Year,” he says before closing his eyes and leaning in toward me.

Suddenly, my hazy mind is sharp. My surroundings, which were previously muted, are coming in crystal clear.

The confetti.

The music.

The celebration.

Brad’s lips, so close to mine.

I shake the remainder of fog from my brain before shouting, “No!”

I scoot back across the bench before Brad’s lips can touch mine. In a beat, I’ve distanced myself from Brad, like he’s a fire about to engulf me in its flames. And, in a way, he is.

I will not succumb to the flames because I know I will be left with nothing but smoldering ashes.

“I’ve gotta go!” I cry, panicked.

I feel his fingers close around my wrist, and I vaguely register his pleading words of apology, but I shake him off me and exit the booth. I spot Georgia and Paige right away. Both of them are standing to the side of the dance floor where I left them earlier, lip-locked with Black Shirt One and Two.

I don’t want to ruin their evening, but I have to get out of here. I jog toward the exit as best I can in my heels and enter a waiting taxi.

On the short drive to the hotel, I text both Paige and Georgia, letting them know that I’m all right but that I headed back to the room early. I caution them to stick together and be careful before telling them to have fun.

Back in the room, I start up my laptop, which I take everywhere with me so that I can connect with Loïc every day in some way or another.

I pray that he’s online. I look to the time. It’s just before twelve thirty LA time, so it’d be almost noon his time.
Maybe he has a break after lunch, and he’s on his laptop?

I begin to cry when the little circle next to his name doesn’t pop up green. He’s not online, and there’s something so devastating about that because I need to see his face now more than ever.

My tears fall harder. Bending my face to my hands, I sob. My body shudders with sadness as my tears continue to fall.

As I cry, I try to make sense of the last hour and a half. I feel so incredibly guilty. Yes, I found Brad attractive, but I didn’t want to do anything with him. I truly didn’t. I never want to hurt Loïc, and I can’t think of anything that would hurt him more than me cheating on him.

I didn’t kiss Brad, but he almost kissed me.
Is that my fault? Was I sending out the wrong signals? Was it wrong of me to get work advice?

So many questions are bouncing around within my skull, and I can’t think clearly enough to answer any of them.

All I know is that I love Loïc. I want Loïc, and I don’t want anyone else. Not now, not ever. I don’t care if Brad does look like a hot actor and he has my dream job. I don’t want him.

Maybe it’s a blessing that Loïc isn’t online to see me like this. It would just upset him and make him worry.

Opening my email, I find a new one from him. At least I have that.

When I attempt to read it though, I get nauseous, and the room starts to spin. Too much champagne, too many emotions, and not enough Loïc make for a shitty night.

I drink a huge glass of water before plopping into bed. Maybe I’ll get to chat with Loïc in the morning. Until then, I’m going to dream about my beautiful warrior. He’s the only one for me.

I know, without a doubt, that he’s the only one I want.

Just Loïc.

Just Loïc.

Just Loïc.

To: Loïc Berkeley

From: London Wright

Subject: Question 27

Hello. I hope everything is going great and that you’re staying safe. Not much going on here. I’m just spending the day writing some articles, and Paige is working late.

To answer your latest question, my favorite cereal is Fruity Pebbles.

Question 27: What’s your favorite number? Mine’s sixteen. I’m not sure why. I’ve just always liked it.

I love you. Stay safe.

Love,

London

I read the email over, debating on whether or not to add more to it, but I don’t know what else to put. Sighing, I hit Send. It will have to do. I’ll do better on my email tomorrow.