CHAPTER FOUR Olive

CHAPTER FOUR

Olive

"Can anything today go right?"

The line for my favorite coffee truck is already eight people deep, almost reaching the end of the block and snaking around 9th Avenue. I don't really have the time to stand in it, but there is no way I'm going to a shoot without a drop of caffeine in me, especially not after the night I had.

I slide into the back of the line, irritation growing by the second.

It's nobody's fault but your own, Olive.

I mentally flip my inner voice the middle finger, then step forward when the line moves.

Oh, goody. We're moving. Maybe this won't take forever after all.

"Hey, folks. We're about fifteen minutes out on orders. We appreciate your patience," JT, the truck owner, says as he flashes everyone that same bright-white smile he gives me every morning.

A few customers grumble over the inconvenience, but unfortunately for me, not a single person leaves the line. Not that I blame them. This truck is easily one of the city's best hidden gems. The coffee is delicious and just strong enough, but the sweet treats are on a whole different level of amazing, and I plan to partake in one—a blueberry–cream cheese danish—this morning.

I wait and wait ... then wait some more, all for a sip of that delicious caffeinated nectar of the gods I desperately need. I'm thankful I wore a dress and a wide-brimmed hat today, because the morning sun beating down on me is no joke. I really don't need to add sunburn to the list of issues I'm having.

I was up entirely too late with Mrs. Hammish last night. She had me looking for her glasses until midnight; then I couldn't fall asleep until nearly 2:00 a.m. because my brain wouldn't stop spinning. I missed the first alarm on my phone, which went off at seven, then managed to sleep two more hours, effectively making me run late for the huge shoot I have today—the same one I'm supposed to be at in half an hour. With the way this line is moving, I'm barely going to make it in time.

We finally begin to move at a consistent speed, and I can see the end in sight.

"Just two more customers, then that sweet, sweet caffeine is all mine," I mutter.

The person in front of me turns around, giving me an odd look for talking out loud to myself, but I ignore him. Must be new to New York if he's concerned with someone having a conversation with themself.

Another one goes, then it's just the two of us left standing.

He steps up to the counter and places his order—and finally, it's my turn.

"Morning, Liv. Give me just a minute."

"Take your time," I tell JT as he turns to fulfill orders. I check my phone for the twentieth time since getting in line.

Fifteen minutes.

That's all the time I have to get to this shoot, which is still another ten-minute walk away. And that doesn't account for extra foot traffic or any mishaps along the way. I am so going to be late. I'm—

"What can I get for you?"

I look up, mouth open and ready to order, but it's pointless. JT isn't talking to me. He's talking to someone else.

Someone in front of me.

"Hey!" I call out to the line cutter, wanting desperately to knock the hat he's wearing right off his head. "I was here first."

The intruder turns on his heel, and I stumble backward, tipping my head back to glare up at him.

All kinds of things, like Get lost and Back of the line, jerk, sit on the tip of my tongue, but they disappear in a flash.

This man—whoever the hell he is—is gorgeous. Like movie-star-level handsome, with the kind of cheekbones that would make Henry Cavill jealous.

And he's peering down right at me.

Not like I can see his eyes, since they're hidden behind a pair of aviators that do nothing but reflect my own oversize sunglasses, but I can certainly feel them boring into me.

I let my covered eyes trail over him, noting the most perfectly cut jawline I've ever seen. It's covered in stubble, but not the kind that's from going a day or two without shaving. No. This is the intentional kind of stubble. The hot kind.

The kind that makes your panties just a little wet at the sight.

No. No wet panties. Not for this guy and his damn lickable jaw.

"I'm just getting a drip coffee," he explains, as if that should be reason enough for me not to be upset that he just cut the line.

Spoiler alert: it's not.

"Then get in the back of the line like everyone else." I hitch my thumb over my shoulder, just in case he's unaware of where the line begins, which most certainly isn't in front of me.

"Why? So you can stand here playing on your phone, holding everyone up? Some people have important things to do today, ya know."

I glower at him through my sunglasses, not appreciating his remark. As if, somehow, he's so much more important than me. "I'm not holding anyone up. That would be you, line-jumping like some entitled asshat."

His brows peek out from over the top of his sunglasses, and the corner of his full lips twitches. "Asshat, huh?"

His voice is deep and rumbly and full of amusement, but I don't find any of this funny. Not even a little.

"Yep," I tell him without hesitation. I don't care who this guy is—an asshat is precisely what he is.

The twitch transforms into a full-blown smile, perfectly straight white teeth on full display.

Holy . . .

Don't react to the perfect smile, Olive. Do. Not. React.

When I don't bite at his charming smile—which I'm sure has gotten him out of many similar situations over the years—it slips, but only a little.

Instead of continuing to argue with me or going to the back of the line like he should, he turns back to JT.

"Can I get—"

"Hey! No!"

"—drip coffee?" he finishes, completely ignoring me.

"Ass!" I shout at his back, and his shoulders shake.

His shoulders shake.

He's laughing.

Even worse, he's laughing at me.

I growl, stomping my foot because that's what this has turned into—me being so damn annoyed that I'm acting like a kid.

He must hear the growl and stomp because his broad black-T-shirt-covered shoulders shake again.

"You . . . You . . . ass!"

He points at me with his thumb. "And whatever Little Miss Sunshine wants."

"Little Miss Sunshine"? Is this guy for real?

"I can buy my own coffee, thank you very much."

He looks at me over his shoulder. "I'm sure you can, but how about we just call this my treat for cutting?"

"Ha!" I point a single finger at him. "You admit it! You cut the line!"

He shrugs, then gestures for me to step up to the truck, like I'm holding him up. I don't move. Screw this guy. I'm not letting him feel like some hero for paying for my coffee when he's the one out of line—literally.

Instead, I stare at him, waiting for him to back down. But he doesn't. He stands there with his arm out, waiting on me.

What this asshat doesn't know is that I'm stubborn as hell when I want to be, and right now, I really want to be.

He deserves it.

I stare and stare, and the longer I do it, the more I realize that something about him seems familiar, but I can't place just what it is. Is it his voice? His smile? I'm also positive that I'd remember if I'd met this man before, so it's probably just my caffeine-deprived brain making me see things.

Besides, how could he look familiar with sunglasses and a hat covering most of his face? That's absurd.

The person behind me grouses, but I still don't move. It's not happening. Over my dead body.

Asshat lifts his brows again in a way that says, Well, are you going to order?

I lift mine back, telling him, Get bent.

"I got it," JT says after a few moments of silence, punching the kiosk screen, looking every bit amused by our standoff.

"No!" I protest, but it's totally pointless.

JT's partner, Ric, is already stuffing my favorite blueberry–cream cheese danish into a bag. He then grabs a clear plastic cup and fills it three-quarters of the way with cold brew before adding almond milk, two packets of sugar, and a squirt of caramel sauce on top. He does it so automatically and fast that it's ready before I realize it.

I guess that's expected when you've been patronizing the same coffee truck almost every day for the last three years.

Asshat hands over a shiny black card and drops a twenty into the tip jar.

What kind of guy goes around cutting in line like he's the most important person in the world, then does something like buying a stranger coffee and tipping well?

It's so . . . so . . . Ugh.

I hate it on principle, but I can't help but feel as if he's redeemed himself.

But only a little. Like the most minuscule amount ever.

He grabs my coffee and danish from the counter and holds them both out to me. I look at them, then back at him, hating how badly my hands itch to accept his generosity.

But then again, my petty is out to play today.

I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for him to give up.

He doesn't.

"Just take them," the annoyed person behind me grumbles. "This little pissing match between you two was cute for about two seconds, but now I'm bored and need coffee. Move."

Pissing match? Cute? Please, this guy is a prick. There's nothing cute about him or what's happening right now.

But the Midwesterner in me has me stepping out of the way by habit, and Asshat follows, my treats still in his outstretched hands.

He shakes the coffee and pastry. "Come on. You know you want them."

Just the simple act of shaking the bag has the delicious scent of danish hitting me, and my stomach growls at the idea of food.

The crackers I had for dinner last night didn't cut it in the least.

He laughs again, and that's what snaps me from my stupor.

I snatch the bag and coffee from his hands just to make him go away—and I try not to react when our fingers brush together. Try not to think about how soft his skin feels. Or how much I like the fact that his damn smile is back.

He turns, grabs his drink from the counter, and sips.

"Ah. Refreshing." Another smile. "Have a good day."

He tips his head at me, then breezes past like the last five minutes didn't just happen, leaving me standing there like a fool with the scent of pine and coffee and something all him permeating my senses.

"Hey, Sunshine!"

I turn.

I don't know why I turn, but I do.

Because I know. I just know it's him.

"You're welcome for the coffee."

He lifts his cup, nodding at me once, then turns and disappears into the crowded New York streets.

All I can do is stare after him, thinking, What the hell just happened?

"You're late, Olive."

I pause midstride and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe she won't see me if I can't see her.

"Again, I might add."

Crap. She totally sees me.

I tried my hardest to sneak into the photo shoot without letting my manager catch me first, but I should have known it would be impossible—Uma sees all.

I shouldn't be surprised. It's been like this since day one, when she signed me after I hounded her for months with my portfolio. She swore she'd make my life better and worse all at the same time—I laughed it off then, but she wasn't kidding. She's perceptive and smart and one of the best damn managers in the industry, but she's also a total hard-ass when she needs to be and not afraid to hurt feelings.

Which is why, when I peel my eyes open, the disappointment I see in her hazel eyes has my heart hammering in my chest. I really don't like a pissed-off Uma.

Pasting on my best smile, I rush into a very believable story.

"Some asshat jumped the line at the coffee truck; then, when I was just half a block down the street, I spilled that stupid coffee on myself, so I popped into Cuties they're both grinning at the camera, a clear view of the New York skyline behind them. Frannie is right. Even with his face partially hidden by the shadows being thrown off from whatever party they're at, Jude isn't bad to look at by any means. He has the same dirty-blond hair as his brother, but his eyes are different. They're green, too, but darker than Jasper's. Not as bright, but still so captivating. Like he's hiding secrets behind them. Like the crinkles at the corners tell so many stories.

There's something about him that looks a little familiar, but I shake my head. Of course he looks familiar—he's a Rafferty. They all have those green eyes and blond hair.

"You totally saved that pic, didn't you?" Bliss teases, sending me a wink in the vanity mirror when I tuck my phone into my lap.

I laugh. "Of course."

I didn't. I didn't even "heart" it. I never do. It's silly, considering I have zero problems sliding into his inbox and spilling my heart out to him, but he doesn't see those messages and never will. A like or a comment, though? That feels different.

Bliss and Frannie doll me up; then it's my turn in front of the camera.

"She's perfect," Mitch comments in that velvety English accent of his. He rakes his eyes over me. "Where did you get this dress? Don't change—it's perfect for the aesthetic of the shoot. Look." He picks up a can of the energy drink we're promoting, pointing directly at the purple blended into the background. "The color complements it well, and I have to shoot it. Get them on the phone about a deal."

"I'll call the store now," Uma tells him, pulling her cell from her pocket.

Mitch grabs pieces of my hair, pushing them out of the way and reframing them around my face to his liking. "There. Better. Now come."

The next half hour flies by in a blur of fake laughs and smiles and poses that make my body ache in places I didn't know possible.

"Next outfit!" Mitch calls out, finally giving me a break.

I let my body relax as I head for the wardrobe closet. I massage my face on the way, my cheeks hurting from smiling so much. As much as I love my job and being in front of the camera, sometimes I forget how exhausting it is to be on like this for a shoot. I'm typically sitting on my couch, posting photos and writing about fashion, without a stitch of makeup and wearing ratty clothes I've had for years. This is nothing like that, and I'm already tired after just thirty minutes in front of the camera.

From behind the curtain, I unzip my new dress—which I really hope makes it into the final campaign—and let it pool around my feet. I reach for my next outfit: a fun lavender jumpsuit that includes a cropped T-shirt to wear under it.

I let my fingers run over the soft, buttery material, remembering the days when I would never be caught dead in a bright color like this. I was too ashamed of my body to ever try to wear something that would show people I'm not a size zero, as if it's not already obvious.

But now? I hardly ever want to wear dark colors. I hate how they make me feel, like I need to hide in the shadows and never show off my body—the same body that's taken me places I never dreamed I'd go.

I've been mean to this body, calling it every horrible name imaginable. I've hidden it with ugly, baggy clothes. I've abused and neglected it by starving it or overexercising it.

But that's not who I am anymore. Now I thank this body I have. I showcase it. Cherish it. I love it—curves and dips and rolls and stretch marks and all.

"Back in ten!" Mitch calls from across the room. He gestures to Uma that he's going for a cigarette break, and I'm thankful for the reprieve.

I quickly change, sliding on a pair of white sneakers to complete the lavender-and-yellow ensemble, then enjoy a few minutes alone. I pull my phone from my pocket and am surprised by another notification from Jasper Rafferty. Posting twice in one day is completely unlike him. He's a once-a-week kind of guy—if we're all that lucky, that is.

His story loads, and I let out a soft laugh just from the look on his face alone.

"Bite me," he says grumpily into the camera trained on him, then flips his middle finger up with a scowl. Someone laughs in the background, and the camera is turned around. I glimpse a smiling Jude Rafferty before the screen jumps to someone else's slide. I immediately swipe backward, dying to watch it again. But this time, it's not just Jasper's sullen expression that makes me smile—it's Jude's laugh and the sparkle in his eyes.

For all I know about Jasper, I know next to nothing about his younger brother. Truthfully, I never paid much attention to him, especially not with that ridiculous tween drama he starred in for years. It was so cringe and awful, and I have no clue how he could stand to act in it. After it ended, he disappeared and went off to college. I thought he was done with Hollywood, but according to Bliss and Frannie, he's back.

I wonder for a moment how that must feel—going off and living a normal life, doing a normal thing like going to school, then being thrust back into the limelight.

It has to be hard to navigate, that's for sure.

"Set!" Mitch's voice booms around the room, and I know he's calling for me.

I don't waste a second, stuffing my phone away and dashing into the studio. The last thing I want to do is upset one of the most respected photographers in the industry.

I don't need this day to get any worse.