The Catching Kind (22 page)

"We don't have broom closets. In a house this size we have pantries." The deep voice broke between us and had Connor stiffening before he straightened.

"Mr. Johnson." He unwrapped his arm from around me and offered it to Mr. Johnson. "Thanks for having us, sir."

"And, if I'm not a complete idiot, you'd like to be just about anywhere besides here." His gaze drifted toward me. "Can't say as I blame you. Looks like this one has brains and beauty. About time."

He didn't even ask for an introduction. Just wandered away.

Connor went lax, letting out the most relieved sigh I’d ever heard from an adult male. "We could probably leave now that we've been seen and spoken to."

"I haven't gotten my absurdly expensive glass of champagne."

"I'll buy you a bottle."

"Or to mingle."

"We'll go to a club."

"Or let the other girlfriends tell me horrible stories about you."

"I'll buy you last week's People Magazine."

You'd think he was four years old and stuck at his grandparents’ house for the weekend.

I took his hand, forcing him to look at me and take me seriously. "It took three hours to look like this. We're not leaving yet."

"I don't see how
that
could possibly have taken three hours." 

I considered smacking him. Who says stuff like that?

"I mean," he continued. "You look dressed up and everything, but you don't look much different than normal. You know. You don't look...airbrushed. You just look like you, but with fancy clothes on."

“Oh.”

“I’m not saying this right.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “You don’t need all this to look pretty.”

He sounded like he meant it. Like I was just me and just me wasn’t too bad now.

"But, I thought you thought..."

“I thought, what?”

"Ugly." I tried not to blush, not to worry as I said it. “I thought you thought I was ugly.”

Connor's arm tightened around me and he pulled me into him. "I never thought you were ugly. I thought you were...I don't know. Different."

"Great." Just what every girl wants to be. Forget glamorous or dazzling or even cute.
Different
.

I braced my hand against him, trying to push back but not getting anywhere.

"Hold still." His voice was low and tight. "Here’s the thing. I’m not going to apologize again. But, I want you to understand, because…well, you deserve to see the whole picture.”

“I’m not angry. I swear. I—”

“Hails, you obviously think that how I behaved that day is how I feel. I don’t blame you, so here’s the deal.” He ran down my back and up again. Down and up. I began to wonder if the motion, the touching was for me or for him. “When I walked in there, Dex blindsided me. I knew something was coming, but I didn't know what. I was planning on finding a way out no matter what and there you were. I said the first thing I could think of that might get him off my case. Even though you were standing there looking like Miss Girl Next Door. Granted, an annoying and messy Girl Next Door, but still. If I'd said the first thing I thought..."

I waited, looking up into his face as he stared out over my head.
What
? I wanted to shout.
What had you thought?

Connor cleared his throat. "Anyway. I was used to these women who couldn't leave their rooms without hair, makeup, three wardrobe changes. One girl I know changes her nail polish twice a day. Once for her daytime look and once for her evening look. We might have had a bet going on as to when her nails are finally going to fall off."

I laughed, turning my head down into his shoulder to not accidentally do something tacky—like spit in his face.

"Now." He eased me away, straightening his cuffs before dropping his hands to his sides and stepping back. "We have a party to impress. Half of them have already noticed we're here, but now we get to really go wow them."

His hand dropped to the middle of my back and he led me toward the main room where everyone mingled in an elegant dance of casual conversation.

"Con, it's about time you showed up." A man slightly shorter and a whole lot broader than Connor slapped him on the back.

If he'd slapped me like that, I'd be face down and unconscious. But, Connor barely noticed it.

"Crowded rooms aren't exactly a favorite for me, you know." Connor ran his hand down my arm until he could slip his fingers through mine and pull me forward. "Hailey, I'd like you to meet Marcus Holder. Marcus, this is Hailey Tate. Hails is a writer."

He sounded so darn proud of the fact. 

I just couldn't figure him out. Part of me liked the idea that
he
liked the idea that I was a writer. Another part worried that this was just part of the plan. That my writerliness was one more way to show people he wasn't stupid.
See? I'm smart enough to date someone who's smart enough to be a writer.

Marcus stuck out his hand. It was huge. I wondered if they had to have special gloves made for him. My hand was basically hidden in his. 

"I know," he said, surprising both of us. "My daughter was really excited when she saw the news online. You're one of her favorite writers, Miss Tate."

"Oh. That's so sweet.” It never got old hearing that I wrote something someone enjoyed. That’s the entire point, to give people a few hours of pleasure. “How old is your daughter?"

"Thirteen." Marcus pulled out his phone and started showing pictures. He let me know how much his daughter read and her favorite topics in school. After a few minutes, he glanced at Connor a bit embarrassed. "I don't mean to be rude, but...Stacia sent me with a copy of her favorite book. If you have a minute before you leave, I was hoping you could sign it for her."

"Of course! Let's do it now so we don't miss each other at the end of the night."

Marcus looked so relieved I almost laughed. "Oh, thank you. If I'd come home without it, there would have been a special kind of daddy torture planned I'm sure. I considered forging your signature. The book’s with my wife.”

Connor just shook his head when I motioned for him to join us. “I’ll grab you that champagne you wanted. You can drink it in the car.”

With a quick kiss on my cheek before I could figure out if he was joking or not, he gave me a little push after Marcus. I followed him toward the far side of the room, glancing over my shoulder to see Connor watching us go. He raised his hand, a little smile playing about the edges of his lips. 

In an alcove, several very comfortable—not to mention expensive—looking couches crowded around a coffee table, a fireplace lit off to one side contrasting to the open French doors that led to a terrace.

"Chantelle, this is Hailey Tate."

"Oh,” Her perfect features relaxed so quickly it was almost comical. “Thank goodness." 

"Wow. I guess from hearing that reaction twice we know who runs the Holder house."

"You aren't kidding." The woman rose, coming toward me with an outstretched hand. Talk about former models. She was gorgeous, tall, and elegant. I felt frumpy at best standing next to her. She looked like a young Lena Horn. But, when she smiled you couldn't help but feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. "I'm Chantelle. Yes, that's my real name. I lucked out and became a model or I would have had to go by Sandy."

How could you not like someone who introduced herself like that? 

After I signed the book, Marcus started eyeing the guys in the corner. 

"Chantelle..."

"Go ahead. I'll keep Hailey company." She smiled my way. “Don’t worry. I won’t throw you to the wolves.”

I felt myself relax, not realizing how stressed I’d been after I lost sight of Connor. "How did you know?"

"Honey, I've been doing this for sixteen years. Marcus and I have been together since high school. When those recruiters came around, I was already doing magazine shoots and making sure I was home so they weren't hooking my man up with some college coed to get him thinking the wrong way. Even after all that,
I
have no interest in navigating one of these parties on my own."

"Really?" I found it difficult to believe that someone as polished as Chantelle wasn't completely at home at these things by now.

"And anyway, this is better than the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy. Half the group is cheating, half the group is fighting to keep his job, half the group is clueless."

I may not be great at math, but even I saw the problem there. "That's an extra half." 

"Oh, trust me. There's a lot of overlap. Especially in the clueless one."

Chantelle kept me company, pointing out the who’s who of the team, staff, girlfriends, and wives.

"I love watching the new crop come in. They're either hopeful, eager or, manipulative. The best are the ones who are manipulative trying to play hopeful but come off eager in the worst possible way. At this point, most of the girls are here to stay. At least till the next season."

I glanced away. I was officially New Crop. But even worse than that, I was Fake New Crop.

"Oh, honey. I didn't mean you. You're totally a different caliber. You're in the Has A Brain And Isn't Using It For Evil category."

I was about to say something witty—or, I'm pretty sure I was—when a glance across the room caught Connor with another tall blond. Her arm was draped across his shoulder and it looked like she was running her hand through the back of his hair. Connor, for his part, was standing there smiling at her.

Smiling. At her.

My whole body went hot. There he was, flirting with some hot woman right in front of me. I didn't know if I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear or walk across the room and stab him in the eye with those little spears they put my drink's cherry on.

"Oh." Yeah. Clever, that's me.

Chantelle turned toward where I stared at my supposed boyfriend being fondled by a bombshell.

"You better get over there."

"What?" Why should I get over there? If he wasn't going to step away, then I wasn't going to cause a scene and drag him away. That was the one deal breaker. That he didn't embarrass me. This was going to be pretty embarrassing anyway you looked at it.

"That's Trish. Trish is on the prowl for her next Nighthawk."

"Well, if she can sway him that easily, she can have him." I wrapped my hands around one another so they’d stop shaking.

Chantelle slammed her drink down on the table, her smile turning less friendly. "I don't think you get how it works here. It's not like out in the normal world. Right now, she's setting Connor up to be the center of attention in the worst possible way. Guys are already probably noticing that he's over there with her instead of here with you."

"Yeah. I'm kind of noticing that myself."

"Only, the problem is, she's got him and she knows it. If he just turns and walks away or if he's rude, he's disrespected one of the senior guy's girlfriends. If he doesn't, he's trying to steal her." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "You seem less than surprised to see him with someone else.”

I wasn't sure if it was an accusation or a question. I just know it was true. I wasn't surprised. What surprised me was that Connor had made it weeks without us having this problem before.

"I'm not exactly his typical type."

Chantelle was shaking her head before I was even done talking. "That's a good thing. First, because his typical type is airheads he goes out with once. And also because when a guy diverts from type, it's for a reason. Now, get your butt over there."

There was no way I could just sit in the corner and stew. I had to go fight for “my man” against the technologically tampered with beauty wrapped around him.

I could feel the stares as I wound my way through the room, smiling, and nodding to people who Chantelle had introduced me to. Some of the women wore Cruella de Vil smirks and were waiting for a scene or for me to just plain embarrass myself. Others looked at me and did everything but high-five me as I went by.

"Hey, Connor." I ignored the woman's hand still on him and wrapped my arm around his waist. I nearly jumped when he lashed his arm around my shoulder and pulled me into him. "Want to introduce me to your friend?"

"Hails, this is Trish. Trish is McPhee’s girlfriend. She works at Vogue."

Vogue. Bummer. Another writer. There go all my originality points. 

"Oh, you're a writer?" I smiled my most welcoming smile as I fought to not push the hand still touching Connor away.

"A writer? What a waste of time they are. I do layout designs for our cover story pages."

"That sounds interesting.” Now my smile wasn't so welcoming. “So, anyway,
I'm
a writer." 

Try to steal Connor, fine. Have your hands all over him, fine. Insult writers? Oh, we're going to Throw. Down.

"Really? You couldn't get a real job?”

"Why bother getting a real job when I get paid to work at home in my pajamas while I respond to fan mail. But, you must know what that's like. I’m sure you get lots of fan mail telling you that picture of those shoes was put at exactly the right angle."

Connor snorted and covered it up with a coughing fit.

"The hardest part of my job is all that travel.” Trish smirked. “London. Rome. Paris. It's such a struggle."

"I totally believe you. There's nothing like jumping time zones to age a girl quickly." Bravado was obviously coming out of my fingertips at this point. It must have been flowing right out of Connor and into me, because I had no other idea where these words were coming from. I rushed on, "You look great, though."

And she knew she did, so what could she say? 

"So, it was nice to meet you," I said dismissively and gave her a smile that would have insulted even a blind woman.

Trish stood there staring at me for a long moment before giving back a smile that threatened bodily harm if we ran into each other in a dark alley. "Have a nice evening."

She wandered away, an extra snap in her sway that had me checking to see if Connor was watching her rear end. Instead, his gaze was locked on me, that little smile still playing around his lips.

"That was awesome."