Promise Me

“I’ve got all day.”

She gestures toward a red velvet couch and we sit. “Tell me about yourself,” she says.

So I do. Mostly. It turns out she graduated from Columbia, so we immediately have four years in New York in common, as well as favorite restaurants. She’s easy to talk to and, while my work experience is limited to my internship, I did volunteer as a camp counselor during my first two summers at NYU. I enjoy working with young people, I have strong organizational skills, and I can empathize with those emotionally struggling for one reason or another. I don’t go into any detail, but I do share that I’m still dealing with a traumatic event from my past. The biggest detriment to my qualifications is my temporary status in L.A.

“Given that my last assistant called me from the airport to tell me she was running off to Europe with her boyfriend, you’re providing me a lavish amount of advanced notice,” Candace says. “And in all honesty, I’m a little desperate with the exhibit a week away, so how about we give it a try?”

I don’t even attempt to keep my smile from being too big. “I’d love that.” Oh my God, I have a job. And it has nothing to do with law!

Candace has me fill out some paperwork, we agree I’ll start tomorrow morning, and then she’s rushing out the door to an appointment and I’m hurrying to buy myself some celebratory breakfast. I’ve got a ton of questions for her, realizing belatedly that she didn’t tell me much of anything about the job. That’s okay, though. When I get home I’ll do some online research so I’ll have an even better understanding of AIP.

Something she said while giving me the tour comes back to me. “We use art to help improve and enhance physical, mental, and emotional well-being.”

My heart gives a little sway.

Sounds perfect.

Chapter Sixteen

Vaughn

I flick the silver lighter Dylan gave me for my birthday and touch the flame to the tip of a white pillar candle set in a curvy glass container. Once the wick ignites I step back and take stock. This patio has served my housemates and me well for hanging out and throwing the occasional pool party or barbecue, but as far as I know none of us have attempted to use it as the setting for a romantic dinner. Now I wish I had some experience to draw from, because I don’t want to forget anything.

Have I?

As I look around I run through my mental list. Music? Check. Candles? Check. Privacy? Check, check. Matt’s spending the weekend at his mom’s house in Alta Dena, teaching his youngest sister to drive. Dylan’s at the club until at least three a.m., but his timetable doesn’t matter because his downstairs master bedroom has a separate entrance, and he uses it whenever he comes in super late—or early, as the case may be. Either way, Kendall and I have the place to ourselves tonight, which is key no matter how things play out. I want her to know I took my promise seriously. I know how to be discreet. I can protect her privacy. Our privacy.

The flame from the candle I just lit draws my attention to the low, round table on which it sits. I centered the table in front of the sectional so we could relax, eat, and talk out here where it’s secluded, but not closed in. The pool lights add a nice boost to the glow of the candle. The sun won’t set for another hour or so, but I squint and try to picture the scene at dusk. Should I have gotten her flowers? I bet she likes flowers. On the other hand, I don’t want this whole thing to come off like some cheesy Bachelor-style rose ceremony.

It has to be flawless but honest. I told Kendall to trust me to get it right, and she did, but now her trust has planted an unfamiliar crop of nerves in my gut, because of who she is and everything she’s been through and…because of the sex.

Ironic, right? I have a fuckton of experience when it comes to sex. Fun sex, friendly sex, dirty sex, and occasionally impersonal sex. I’m not saying I’m proud of this—though for the most part I’m not ashamed of it, either—but I’m not used to feeling this unsure of my moves.

I want to give her excitement. I want to blow her mind. I want her to know she’s special. She’s not a random hookup, or a career tactic, or a fuck buddy. I’m not entirely sure what she is, but I know I need to earn the trust she’s offering. I want every detail she sees from the moment she walks in my door to tell her I’m going to take care of her.

My phone vibrates. I reach into the pocket of my jeans, hoping to God Kendall’s not calling to cancel, and get a burst of relief followed by a flare of resentment when I see it’s my dad. I consider letting him go to voicemail, but he can be relentless. Ultimately, my life will be easier if I just take the call.

“I can’t talk now,” I say into the phone, opting to own the conversation from the outset and keep it short.

“This won’t take long. I know you leave for the Armani shoot Friday morning, but I got you on the VIP list for Laney Albright’s album release party this Thursday. My assistant will send you the details and passes.”

The guest list for Laney’s highly anticipated debut album will be heavy on America Rocks brass, possibly including Nigel, which makes the tickets a big score. Dad’s good at those, and I’m fine playing along with this part of the business. Better yet, I’ll actually enjoy the music, but I’m more interested in the one detail he slipped in without much fanfare. “Passes, plural?”

“You and a guest. Becca’s more than willing, naturally, but—”

“No…” Before I can tell him it’s out of the question, and why, he continues.

“I’m thinking the same thing. It might be better to keep people guessing, and there are some bigger names interested in being your date for the event. I’m going to reach out to a few people—”

And there it is. The part of the business I don’t appreciate at all. He’s my manager, not my matchmaker, and people aren’t commodities. “Don’t bother. I’ve got a date.” Kendall.

Several beats of silence meet my statement. “What are you talking about? Who?”

“None of your business. I’m twenty-fucking-four years old, Dad. I’m entitled to run my personal life without your sign-off.”

“A public appearance is not your personal life. You’re there as Vaughn Shaughnessy, the most obvious choice for the new host of America Rocks. Who you hang on your arm for these people to see? That’s a career decision, which makes it my business.”

I glance at my watch. Shit. Kendall will be here any minute. I do not have time to finish this pissing contest with him. “I’ve got it handled.”