Isn't She Lovely Page 7

  “Hold up. Did you just say that the Pygmalion character of this pretend movie is a preppy rich kid and the girl is a short, edgy type with big boobs?”

  He grins, although it’s not his usual shit-eating don’t-give-a-fuck grin, it’s a now-you’re-getting-it gloat.

  “Exactly,” Ethan says, leaning back against the tiny kitchen counter.

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to go ahead and ignore the incredibly shortsighted idea to base our characters on personal experience, and tell you to hurry up and get to the Pygmalion part.”

  “Well, I’d be there already if you hadn’t interrupted, but it’s like this. Our incredibly handsome, smart, and all-around good guy of a hero needs a girlfriend.”

  “What’s the motivation?”

  Ethan’s eyes flit away from mine, and for a second he looks nervous. Even more alarming, he looks guilty. What am I missing here?

  He clears his throat again. “Well, I was thinking … what if this guy had been telling his parents that he’s been seeing someone?”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “Because his ex-girlfriend is the daughter of a close family friend, and his parents are relentless about having them get back together. Good for business and all that …”

  I watch him carefully. Warily. “And he’s resistant to get back together with this girl because …?”

  His light brown eyes find mine. “Doesn’t matter. We’re done.”

  I expect him to be indignant. Sullen. Annoyed. Instead he looks … sad. And all of a sudden I feel in over my head.

  Ethan’s not talking about the movie character. He’s talking about himself.

  Even worse, I want to ask if he wants to talk about it. I want to be the person he wants to talk to.

  But I don’t ask. Instead, I take us back to safer territory. “So he needs a fake girlfriend to get them off his back,” I say. “Surely such a hunk of beefcake would have dozens of female friends anxious for the role of girlfriend.”

  “Too anxious for the role of girlfriend,” Ethan mutters.

  “You poor, in-demand baby.”

  “So you’ll help me? Play the girlfriend?”

  And just like that, we drop the facade of the movie altogether. We’re talking about him. And me. We’re talking about us even though there is no us.

  I gape at him. “Are you freaking kidding me? You were for real with that garbage?”

  He moves quickly, pushing back from the counter and sitting back down beside me. He’s not touching me, but he may as well be for all the heat he’s giving off. I’m annoyed that I’ve noticed.

  The last thing I need is to be aware of Ethan Price. Particularly when he’s gone off the deep end about a real-life Pygmalion scenario, one I don’t think I’m going to like. At all.

  “You have to admit it’s a good idea,” he says. “Think about how much better our screenplay will be if we can base it on our own experience.”

  “To say nothing of what you’ll get out of it,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “If you want to be a modern-day Pygmalion, have at it, but find some other girl to be your stone statue.”

  “Ivory,” he corrects.

  I kick him in the shin, and he grins.

  “Seriously, find someone else,” I say again, not wanting him to smile at me. Not wanting to smile back.

  His grin fades slowly, and he puts his elbows on his knees and rubs his hands through his hair. “I’m going to sound like the biggest prick for saying this, but I don’t know any other girls who won’t get the wrong idea.”

  I give him a sympathetic look. “It must be hard. A city with a population over eight million, and not a single female who won’t swoon over you?”

  “Sure, there’s one,” he says with a shrug. “You.”

  I’m not entirely sure that’s true about me not swooning. Especially when he touches me. But he’s got a point. He’s not my type. And I’m not his. Still …

  “What about someone not interested in any men?”

  He rolls his shoulders. “A lesbian would work. But I don’t know any. And if I’m going to do this, I need someone I know, at least a little.”

  “And you think I’m your best bet? You barely know me.”

  He doesn’t say anything, and I press on. “Come on, you can’t tell me that you don’t have buckets of rich, brainy female friends.”

  “Sure, but the ones I’m closest to are friends with my ex. The others …”

  “Would be too eager to take on the role for real?” I fill in.

  He gives a guilty smile.

  Gross. There really are girls ready to crawl all over him.

  “Why not just tell your parents that you and the fake girlfriend broke up?” I ask. He sighs. “Because then they’d be back on their Olivia-Ethan reunion kick. Plus there’s all this family obligation crap coming up, and Olivia will be there …”

  Bingo.

  “And you’re not over her.”

  He winces, and I know I’ve broken some sort of guy rule by even going there, but for God’s sake, it’s written all over his face.

  “You’re so pathetic,” I whisper, not even bothering to hide my smile.

  The corner of his mouth lifts. “Shut up, Kendrick.”

  “I can already tell you’ll write super-sweet cards on romantic holidays.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Hell, no,” I say. “First of all, nobody would believe I’m your girlfriend.”

  “Why not?”

  I gesture down at my combat boots, baggy sweats, and skull tank top before putting a hand behind my ear to highlight my multiple piercings.

  His smile grows wider, and he gets a calculating look in his eye. “Has the film student not seen any of her precious Pygmalion-themed movies?”

  “I have …,” I say warily.

  He leans a little closer. “Then you’ll know that one of the hallmarks of such a story is the creation of the new woman. Whether it be from stone to flesh, or Cockney flower girl to lady, or angry goth to debutante …”

  I feel a little flash of panic as I begin to understand. “You want to turn me into a socialite?”

  He gives me a once-over, his eyes lingering on the important parts, and the temperature spikes about six hundred degrees. “It’s doable.”

  Our eyes lock, and for a second I’m wondering if he means it’s doable or I’m doable. His eyes darken, and I suspect he’s at least considering the latter. I really wish I’d thrown a hoodie on over the shirt I’m wearing.

  He reaches for his beer, and my eyes ogle his damn arm again. His arm. Suddenly a hoodie’s not going to be good enough. I need a freaking parka.

  “Nobody will believe we’re interested in each other,” I say, pouring derision into my voice and hoping he’ll read it correctly as back off.

  He doesn’t.

  “Kendrick, that’s the easy part.”

  “Really?” I say drawling.

  “Sure. Watch.”

  Before I can register that he’s moved, his hand is around my neck, his fingers playing with the hair that’s escaped my messy ponytail.

  “Price, don’t you dare—”

  His mouth is on mine in a heartbeat.

  My hands immediately go to his chest to push him away—I mean, really—but then his lips move, firm and insistent against mine, and I hesitate.

  Which is a big mistake.

  He takes advantage of my stillness, and the other hand moves to my cheek so he’s cupping my face. And hell, even a bitter, man-hating rebel can be a sucker for a guy who understands the sexiness in a head-holding kiss.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I let my head tilt just slightly, and my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. Ethan takes it as the invitation it is, his lips parting mine as his tongue slips inside my mouth to deepen the kiss.

  Eager for more, I kiss him back, and this time our tongues touch and linger. I feel his fingers tighten at the back of my head, pulling me closer. Th
e kiss is long, hot, and hard, and even though I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be happening, I can’t make myself pull away from him.

  All thoughts of our school project and my shitty life fade away. There’s only Ethan. Firm hands, warm mouth …

  And a really, really loud squeal.

  We break apart at the dying-banshee noise coming from the bedroom as Leah and David apparently culminate this evening’s naked activities.

  “Is it always like that?” Ethan asks, staring in horror toward the bedroom door.

  “They’re usually worse,” I say, trying to keep my voice as nonchalant as his. He sits back in his chair, looking completely unfazed by the kiss, and I feel, well … fazed.

  “So, um, what was that?” I ask, gesturing between the two of us.

  He gives a sleepy smile. “Proof that chemistry can be faked. A few repeats of that when there’s an audience, and nobody will doubt we’re together.”

  I feel a sting of disappointment. Faked. That’s all it was to him—an experiment. Not that I want it to be more, but the guy could at least be out of breath or something.

  He’s watching me carefully. “So, you in?”

  I grab his beer and take a long swig. “What’s in it for me?”

  “How about a gold mine of inspiration for our screenplay? A script based on real life? I’d think you’d be all over that shit.”

  Except not all of it would be based on real life. To make this screenplay interesting, these two characters would have to fall for each other. For real.

  That bit’s not going to be based on fact.

  “This may come as a surprise to you, but there are few things I’d enjoy less than dressing up as your pastel Barbie doll for who knows how long.”

  “Just until the end of the class.”

  My eyes bug out. “That’s over a month from now.”

  His fingers fiddle with the spiral of my notebook. “Right. So just long enough for us to get some good material.”

  I narrow my eyes and his guilty expression. “And?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “And long enough to get me through a family dinner, my cousin’s wedding, and the annual Hamptons house party my parents throw every year. With you. As my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I ask sarcastically.

  There’s no way. I don’t care how well he can kiss—there’s nothing on earth that could make me endure the cardigan-wearing set for that long. If I wanted to wear diamonds and heels and play tennis, I would have gone “home” to North Carolina and made nice with my stepmother.

  “Come on, you’d be doing me a solid,” Ethan says, giving me a smile that probably has had many a panty dropping over the years. I stay strong.

  “I’d rather be dead.”

  He gives an exasperated sigh. “I figured you’d say that.”

  “Uh-huh.” So what was with the kiss?

  “Yup,” he says, shifting slightly to pull something out of his back pocket.

  I raise my eyebrows in disinterest at the object. “A fancy-looking key fob? What am I supposed to do with that? It’s plastic and electronic—it wouldn’t even be a makeshift self-defense weapon.”

  He glances down at the small gray key in his hand. “Seriously? You see a key and your first thought is self-defense? What kind of fucked-up world do you live in?”

  I glare at him. “You try having boobs while walking around alone in New York. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Right,” he says, gaze dropping to the anatomy in question. It should bother me that he’s so obvious about being a boob man, but after that kiss I find I’m wanting him to do more than just look at them.

  Shit. The realization that I’m this close to lusting after a guy who couldn’t be more wrong for me has me bolting to my feet. He catches the beer before it can topple over, and stands slowly to tower over me.

  “You never asked what the key is for,” he says quietly.

  “Okay, fine. What’s the stupid key for?”

  “My place.”

  My stomach feels like it drops a good six inches. “Wait, you want me to pose as your live-in girlfriend? What is this, a Pygmalion version of school-project partners with benefits?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. Although it did work for what’s-his-name in Pretty Woman.”

  I glower. “Too bad I’m not a prostitute, then.”

  Ethan shrugs. “Offer still stands.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head slightly. “I’m not even sure I know what the offer is.”

  He takes a half step closer to me. “One month. You lose the earrings, the boots, and the attitude, and do your best to convince my parents that we’re crazy in love or something.”

  “But—”

  He puts a finger over my lips and our eyes lock. “And in return, you can spend the rest of the summer staying in my second bedroom.”

  I try to calm my racing brain. An entire month of not sleeping on the couch? Of not impatiently waiting for David and Leah to finish having shower sex so I can go pee?

  “Free rent?” I hear myself ask.

  Oh my God, I’m not seriously considering this.

  Am I?

  He gives a little smile and removes his finger. “Let’s just say you can pay me with your charming manners as you woo my parents into getting off my back.”

  I dig my front teeth into my bottom lip to keep myself from accepting. Completely changing myself for a guy, even temporarily, just to avoid sleeping on a couch? I’m not that desperate.

  No sooner has that thought crossed my mind than the unmistakable sound of rocking furniture comes from the bedroom, followed by a guttural cry that sounds a lot like “Yes! Ride that big, bad donkey dick!”

  Donkey dick? Is this seriously happening to me?

  Ethan’s eyes are on the ceiling, and he’s trying not to laugh.

  “Take me to pound town, baby!” This from the bedroom.

  Ethan grins down at me. “Did he ever take you to pound town?”

  “Shut it,” I snap, now fully gnawing on my lip. “Would I get my own bathroom?”

  “Yup. Even has a separate shower and tub.”

  I almost groan. Bubble baths are kind of my weakness. Or at least they were before I moved to Manhattan, where there are entire apartments smaller than a bathtub.

  “No funny business,” I say, jabbing a finger at him.

  He puts a hand over his chest, looking very Boy Scout. “No funny business in private. Only when there’s an audience. Then we perform.”

  I fan myself. “Whew! Can’t handle all the romance in here.”

  “You in or out, Kendrick?”

  God help me—I think I’m in.

  Chapter Eight

  Ethan

  Sometimes I pride myself on not being a chauvinistic jerk.

  I don’t clip my toenails in bed. I don’t grunt when I eat steak. I don’t wear my pants down around my ass because it’s “cool.”

  But at the end of the day I’m a guy, and spending Saturday in a beauty parlor is up there on my no-way-in-hell list. I’d rather be on the boat. Or at the gym. Or just about anywhere else.

  However, there’s no way I can leave Stephanie to get through this makeover unescorted. I had a hard enough time convincing her that the makeover was necessary in the first place. In the end, I had to whip out my phone and show her pictures of my mom, in pearls. My dad, in a suit. My family home: marble, granite, a winding staircase, and a professional chef.

  She got it. One doesn’t mingle with the Price family in combat boots.

  And damn, in the light of day, I don’t know why she’s mingling with the Price family at all. As far as ideas go, this is pretty much the worst one since someone decided to skimp on the Titanic’s lifeboats.

  The real kicker is that it’s my own fault. Her snotty implications about me not pulling my weight on the project got under my skin, and I watched all those stupid movies, half out of boredom, half to prove her wrong.

  And those damn movies caught me at
a desperate time. A couple of weeks ago my mom caught me off guard by inviting Olivia to brunch. Surprise! A few days after that Olivia happened to be playing tennis when my dad invited me to play doubles. It didn’t take a genius to see that my parents were playing matchmaker.

  I’d been all set to tell them that Olivia and I were done. But then they went and arranged for me to take Olivia out on the boat—alone, like it was some special treat. There was no fucking way.

  But neither could I bring myself to tell my parents the truth. It was too humiliating. So I did what any pathetic chicken would do: I told them I had other plans. With a new girlfriend.

  Like I said, not my best idea. And I wasn’t joking when I told Stephanie that there were surprisingly few females in my social circle who would work. This is the kind of messed-up shit that happens when you grow up in New York. I don’t care how many people live in this city.

  When it comes to the rich—when it comes to the Prices and the St. Claires and the Middletons—the social circles are tight, and the sexual circles tighter.

  Which brings me to … I look up from the luxe leather chair where I’ve been staring unseeingly at some trashy magazine.

  Stephanie Kendrick.

  The hairdresser has already put the black cape around Stephanie’s shoulders, emphasizing the black shit around her eyes and the dark attitude.

  “So what am I doing here?” the hairdresser asks, scooping up the length of Stephanie’s hair before letting it drop around her shoulders.

  My throat goes slightly dry at the memory of what that hair felt like against my fingers the other night. So damned soft for a girl with rough edges.

  And then there was that kiss …

  “Yeah, babe, Maddie here wants to know what we’re doing,” Stephanie says, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

  “Ethan, does your mom know you’re here?” Maddie asks, turning to give me a look.

  “Nope, and I’d sure appreciate it if you didn’t tell her.”

  Maddie shrugs. “I didn’t tell her that it was you who messed with my dye trays back when you were six and turned her hair copper, did I? Not gonna tell her that you’re bringin’ a girl around now.”