So why did Everly make me want to uppercut a punching bag? And I don’t even fucking box.
I was so quick to make an enemy out of her, and if presented with the same situation three-hundred times, I know I’d have three-hundred more.
Me, Jack Highland, the guy with no enemies.
I guess now I have at least one.
She has his number. Maybe they’ll meet up if she finds herself in Philly or New York. Maybe they’ve already met up. It’s not like I’ve seen Oscar in a while.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of no contact, and what’s wrong with me? I’ve never been so bent-out-of-shape over a short stint of no communication before now.
At least Oscar spent the last week in the Smoky Mountains. He was on-duty with security while the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts retreated to the lake house. They usually go there on-and-off during the summer, and I heard they were linking up with Farrow & Maximoff at the end of their honeymoon.
The lake house’s location is strictly secret from the public. So Everly couldn’t have been there.
That should make me feel good enough to coast through the rest of the day, but I just keep picturing this girl at Oscar’s studio apartment. Getting down on her knees. Giving him head.
My stomach twists in a pretzel.
I don’t know why the image of some chick deepthroating Oscar makes me want to hurl, but I’m at that stage, I guess. The stage where I don’t want to imagine my friend—or co-worker—getting off from someone…else.
But me.
I trip over a crack in the Philly sidewalk, and my tray of coffees spills onto the cement and warm liquid soaks my white T-shirt.
“Fuck.” I bend down and scoop up the paper cups and plastic lids. Some passersby grimace, their faces saying, ah, dude, that fucking sucks and glad that’s not me.
Spilt coffee isn’t a big deal.
Don’t sweat the small stuff has been my motto since forever. I’ve got bigger shit going on.
After tossing the cups and coffee tray in a nearby trashcan, I push into a mid-rise office building. Third-floor is home to the We Are Calloway productions.
I come into a small meeting room with a stained shirt and frazzled head. “Sorry, I’m late,” I apologize to Ali and Ambrose Miller, both behind laptops and waiting for me at the boardroom-style table, set with leather chairs. I offer a smile, taking off my messenger bag. “I did have coffee for you two, but here we are.”
Ali eyes the stain and snorts. “Did you trip? Tell me you caught it on film.”
Ambrose laughs while typing. “Now that’d be some camera gymnastics, sis.” He’s speaking to me, but Ali is also his sister. In their mid-thirties, only a year apart, the Miller siblings are almost inseparable, and they look like Hollywood starlets compared to me right now.
Ambrose has a faux-hawk with a side fade, and I’m jealous of his clean yellow button-down. Gold Tiffany bracelets complement his dark-brown skin, and his sister is equally put-together. Black hair gelled back in a curly pony, her trendy jumpsuit is spotless and ready for a red-carpet event.
She’s a kickass filmmaker. He’s an ace sound mixer. Singularly, they’re vets in the industry. Together, they’re the best power duo I know, and I’m the lucky producer who landed them on my team for We Are Calloway.
“Thank God I didn’t have my camera out,” I say with a hiking smile, and I walk to the small closet at the end of the boardroom. I keep clothes here when I pull 18-hour workdays. “Broken equipment isn’t on the budget.”
“Neither is a round of extra coffees,” Ali teases.
“Who said you’re getting an extra latte?” Ambrose banters with his sister. “You’re over there scrolling through Pinterest for a honeymoon you’ve rescheduled ten times. At this point, you should wait for tickets to pop up to fly to the moon.”
Ali and I laugh.
“Shut it down, I’m so close to scheduling this trip to Barbados,” she tells him.
I take a charcoal-gray button-down shirt off a hanger and smile back at Ali. “What happened to Maui?”
“Troy changed his mind.”
“And by Troy, she means Ali changed her mind,” Ambrose cuts in. “You should’ve done what I did and went right after the reception. Flight to Malta. No one but me and Cody and paradise.”
Talk about honeymoons is a reminder that I’m very single and surrounded by newlyweds. I attended Ali’s wedding, Ambrose’s wedding, Maximoff Hale’s wedding all within the same year, and it’s only July.