Sweet As Sin

6

“Yeah, you know, in school. What’d the other kids call you?”

An ancient flush of shame swept through me. How easily he cut to the heart of the matter, the differences we get teased and tortured for as children, that can, years later, make friends from strangers in seconds flat. I remembered with perfect clarity the sneers that accompanied the taunt that followed me as a kid. In the small elementary school I’d attended in Kentucky before my family moved to LA, I was as obvious as a leper. And about as popular.

“Rucky Charms.”

Kenji’s laugh was like the tinkling of a bell. “Good one! Bonus points for creativity. They called me Gookemon.”

I groaned. Gookemon was a mashup of the slur “g**k,” plus Pokemon, a word which literally translated from Japanese means “pocket monsters.” In spite of the cruelty of the sentiment, I had to admit he did bear more than a passing resemblance to a tiny animated character.

“Well, now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way, Kitty Kat, we’re going to be best friends, yes?” Kenji batted his fake lashes at me.

“Yes,” I replied firmly, “and you have to tell me where you got those lashes because they’re amazing.”

Kenji preened. “Right? They’re my signature lashes. I never leave the house without them. These and my Laura Mercier lip plumper make me the goddess I am.”

“Have you tried the Smashbox O-Plump? It’s just as good as the Mercier, and cheaper.”

I turned to dig in my kit, found the tube, and held it out to Kenji. The two of us started an impromptu discussion of the merits of different lip plumpers and fake lashes, which led to a discussion about the best foundation to conceal five o’clock shadow, which then led to a raunchy, in-depth debate about whether Spanx was meant to be worn with or without panties.

In the middle of what I considered a brilliant line of reasoning about how fabrics that don’t breathe can cause yeast infections—or, in Kenji’s case, an unsightly rash of the nether regions—Nico showed up.

“Moist environments? Sounds fascinatin’.”

I spun around, saw him leaning with a smirk against the rack of wedding dresses, and wished the floor would open up and swallow me whole. My mouth closed with an audible snap.

“A subject close to your heart, no doubt, you rogue.” Kenji eyed Nico with a combination of disapproval and affection that seemed almost maternal. “And get your dirty paws off that Donna Karan! It’s on loan!”

“Only thing dirty about me is my mind.”

Nico was talking to Kenji. But he was looking at me.

Now that is a world-class asshole. Avery wasn’t even ten minutes gone, and already he was putting the moves on the makeup girl, who he probably assumed would wilt and swoon like every other female in his orbit.

Okay, inside I was wilting and swooning, but there was no way in hell I was letting Mr. Egomaniac Rock God Jerkoff know that.

I sniffed like I smelled something bad, turned to my makeup bag, and started shoving things in.

“Goin’ somewhere, Kat?”

Nico’s voice had changed from a playful drawl to something a little more tense. Weird.

“The production company knows how to get in touch with me, so when the shoot’s rescheduled—”

“Rescheduled?” Nico’s tone was sharp. “What makes you think it’s gonna be rescheduled?”

I turned to look at him. He wasn’t smirking anymore. In fact, he now looked downright scary: glowering, arms folded over his broad chest, cobalt eyes piercing me through. I glanced at Kenji. He was examining Nico with his head c****d, frowning.

“Um, yeah. You know, because Avery . . . oh—are you just going to shoot around her?”

Nico’s gaze roved over my face, my chest, my bare legs beneath my denim mini. Under his intent inspection, heat spread across my cheeks, a combination of anger on Avery’s behalf and undeniable attraction on my own. His eyes found mine again, and my heart skipped a few beats at what I saw there. He stepped toward me, stopping an arm’s length away. It took every ounce of my willpower not to step back.“No,” he said with calm authority. “We’re not shootin’ around Avery. We’re replacin’ her.”

I went hot, then cold, and began silently to pray. Please don’t say it. Please God do not let him say what I think he’s about to—

“With you.”

Kenji’s head snapped around. He sent me the same “what the f**k?” look I knew showed on my own face. I drew a breath, determined to stay in control though adrenaline was lashing through my veins. There seemed to be an invisible fist squeezing my windpipe.

“You’re joking.”

Nico shook his head.

“No,” I said. “That’s not an option.”

He waited, silent, unblinking, while I flailed around for a rational explanation as to why it wasn’t an option. Judging by his expression, that was required.

“I—I’m not a model. I’m not an actress. I have zero desire to be in front of the camera. Thank you, that’s very flattering, but the answer is no. Absolutely, positively, no.”

Nico smiled. It was devastating.

“Darlin’, I wasn’t askin’.”

Kenji leapt up and down, squealing and clapping.

Shocked out of my wits by the turn of events, and my new best friend’s traitorous embracement of said events—and simultaneously horrified that the entire room had turned to stare at us—I made an unattractive noise, akin to a cat trying to cough up a stubborn hairball.

Kenji was beaming. “Fun! Kitty Kat, I get to dress you!”

Oh dear Lord. This wasn’t happening.

Examining my face, Nico’s expression went from a sexy glower to an even sexier smirk, this one ridiculously self-satisfied.