Never any say in matters when it came to Moira. The two of us zipped through the office in a blur, soon arriving at the massive doors leading to the main office—the office that belonged to Anthony Penrose himself.
“Now,” said Moira. “Before we go in, I think I should let you know that this is kinda-sorta my doing.”
“What is ‘kinda-sorta’ your doing?” I asked.
“Well, just because you’re not on social media, doesn’t mean you’re…not on social media.”
“Explain,” I said, getting a sickish feeling in my stomach.
“I know what you did this weekend,” she said. “The Lover Boys show—I was there!”
Oh no. The show, the dancing—everything. I’d gotten so wrapped up in the moment that it hadn’t even occurred to me that someone might’ve been filming it. My gut sucked up into itself and my blood turned into cold-brew coffee.
“Oh?” I asked. “You…were there?”
She flashed a big grin, one that seemed to say “oh yeah—I sure was.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. “But I only saw you with your girls when the band started—didn’t get a chance to say ‘hi.’ But you looked like you had…a lot of fun.”
I didn’t need to ask to know what she meant.
“Your little dance kind of went viral,” she said. “Even Penrose saw it.”
“Oh god,” I said, not able to hide the pure mortification going through me. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
A little smile flashed on her lips for the briefest of moments, letting me know that she was more than happy to see me squirm.
“He sure did,” she said. She placed her red-nail-tipped hand on her chest in a “little ol’ me” fashion. “But it wasn’t me who showed him,” she said. “Must’ve been Marcus.”
Marcus was Penrose’s boytoy of the moment, some too-hip-for-words twenty-something less than half his age, always on top of whatever was trendy online.
And, at that moment, “what was trendy” was me.
“God,” I said, not able to keep my cool. “I can’t believe…”
“Don’t even worry about it!” said Moira. “What, you think he’s going to fire you for having some fun outside of work or something?”
Fire? I thought. No, not that. Just never take me seriously ever again. Maybe never be able to look me in the eyes without thinking of me grinding my skinny ass on some guy in makeup with teased hair.
An extremely gorgeous guy in makeup and teased hair, that is. One that I nearly hooked up with…
“But he wants to talk to us both,” she said. “And you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Shit,” I hissed under my breath, knowing there was no way of getting out of it.
“Oh, come on,” said Moira, still clearly loving watching me squirm. “You think he wants to scold you or something? No, he’s got some big ideas about your next project. Our next project.”
I didn’t like in the slightest where this was going. But it was clear as day there was no way out of it.
“Come on!” she said, flashing me those bleached-white chompers. “Let’s go!”
And she was off, her Peloton-trim frame disappearing through the doors. All I could do was sigh and walk into the office like I was marching toward my execution.
11
PEPPER
The scene inside, of course, was the perfect little nightmare that I’d envisioned. Penrose was seated behind his desk, Marcus perched on the corner of it like some too-fabulous-for-words bird of paradise. Both of them were watching a clip of me playing on the big TV mounted on the wall, a clip, of course, of me dancing like a maniac on stage with Noah.
I looked even more ridiculous than I’d imagined I would. But as I watched, the fun of the moment came back to me. It wasn’t all bad, I supposed.
As soon as Penrose clapped eyes onto me, he nodded to Marcus to press pause, freezing the clip on a still image of me whipping my hair around, singing into an invisible mic as the chorus to “Permission to Love” hit.
Penrose stood, his trim frame clad in a simple but elegantly designed suit, an orange-and-white bit of fabric tucked into the front breast pocket. His mustache was waxed into its usual fine points, and his eyes twinkled with their usual mischievousness that belied his age. His bald head gleamed in the light that poured in through the windows that looked out onto the city.
“There’s our little rock star,” he said, his voice tinged with the excitement it typically held when he was ready to discuss a new project.
Penrose lived for books, what could I say? And despite his at-times stern attitude, the old man had a bit of a soft spot for me. Marcus, on the other hand, was all competition. Seated in his slim-fit teal suit and bright yellow tie, a pair of stylish saddle-brown loafers on his sockless feet, he gave me the typical sassy look I’d come to expect from him, his eyes narrowed behind his trendy, thick-frame glasses and his mouth pursed.
“Rock star,” I said, the words coming out in a weak little croak. “Something like that.”
Penrose gestured to the sleek, modern seating. Me and Moira slid into them as he fetched a pair of bottles of fancy spring water from his fridge. Marcus said nothing, of course.
“You sound embarrassed,” he said, handing over the bottles and dropping into the chair across from mine.
“Well,” I said. “Look at me. I’m like a teenage girl singing into her hairbrush in front of her bedroom mirror.”
“Oh, please,” said Penrose, waving his hand through the air. “You’re one of the best execs I’ve got—you think I’m going to judge you for cutting loose on the weekend?” A dreamy look formed on his face. “Reminds me of when I got a chance to see Fleetwood Mac back in ’78 at the Fillmore. God, Stevie looked so radiant that night, all flowy and dreamy. If I’d been called onto stage to dance with her, I…”
I could tell by the expression on Penrose’s face that he was more “there” than “here” at that moment.
“God, she looked like an angel,” he said, a positively beatific smile on his lips.
“Anthony,” said Marcus in a stern tone. “Back to the moment.”
Marcus pinched his fingers together and drew them down over his chest in a “center yourself” sort of gesture.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Penrose. “What would I do without him, right?”
Marcus gave a self-satisfied smile and head tilt in response, his hands clasped on his knee.
“Anyway,” I said.
“Anyway,” he went on. “When Moira showed me this little video, I got to thinking about a new project for the next few months. Rock bios are hot right now—the Keith Richards book a few years back did killer numbers, and people are lining up to see those movies about the old rock stars.”
“That they are,” said Moira.
“And I’m thinking we can capture that success here at Penrose—” He gestured to the screen. “And we’re going to do it with Lover Boys.”
“And me, of course,” said Moira.
“That’s right, Moira,” he said. “And you.”
I was beyond curious. “What…what are you thinking, exactly?”
“A real tell-all,” he said, clasping his hands together like an excited kid, the way Penrose always did when a new idea was percolating. “One that’s not just an outsider’s take on the band, something cobbled together from articles and half-remembered anecdotes.”
“And not one of those too-trendy oral histories,” said Moira.
“Right,” said Penrose. “Something that really gets back to the basics—just the storyteller and the writer.”
“That being me,” said Moira, happy to announce the fact.
“And you’ll be overseeing the project, of course,” said Penrose.
“Sure,” I said. “But I can’t help but feel like we’re missing out on a very important aspect of this whole thing.”
Penrose raised the twin silver slivers of his eyebrows.
“Yes?” he asked.
“That being who, exactly, we’re going to be interviewing for the book.”
“Why, Noah, of course,” said Moira.
Just the sound of his name was enough to make my heart race and for my pussy to clench. I took a moment to compose myself, and went on.
“You mean you’ve got Noah Mack on board for this? How?”
I was totally shocked. I didn’t know the guy, obviously, but from what I’d heard about the reunion show, he had to be almost dragged into it—the band breaking up all those years back had been his idea, after all.
Penrose and Moira and even freaking Marcus shared a look that suggested they all knew something that I didn’t.
“What?” I asked.
“Well,” said Penrose, leaning forward. “We don’t…exactly have him on board.”
Another non-answer, one that made it even clearer there was something going on.
“Come on, boss,” I said.
“Just tell the poor girl,” said Marcus, shaking his head.
Penrose and Moira shared one more look.
“You…seem to have made quite an impression on Mr. Mack,” said Penrose. “He called here earlier this morning asking for you.”
I nearly spit out my water like a loon. “He what?” I asked.
“You and him spend some, ahem, quality time together?” asked Moira, her tone curious and jealous in equal measures. “Because he knew your name and that you worked in publishing.”
Oh god. The last thing I wanted to discuss was the fact that I nearly banged the lead singer of Lover Boys—I liked to keep work and my sex life, what little of it there was these days, as separate as possible, thank you very much.
“I mean, we got to talking after the show, I guess,” I said, feeling my face turn hot. “But, I mean…”
Penrose and Marcus shared a glance, and I was totally mortified.
“That’s all your business,” he said. “Off-the-clock fun is off-the-clock fun, right?”
Oh god again. Now my boss thought I was some kind of groupie.
Then again, wasn’t that what I’d wanted to be?
Too much to think about in the middle of a work meeting.
“Anyway,” said Penrose. “He called up front this morning asking for you. The receptionist just happened to recognize his voice and asked if he was who she thought he was. Knowing that I might be interested in having someone like him on the line, she patched him through to me.”
“And you told him I worked here?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Penrose. “And that’s when I proposed the book idea, too.”
“And he agreed?”
“Not…quite,” he said. “In fact, he was pretty adamant about the whole thing. More interested in you, really.”
My head was swimming. Noah had sought me out? I was flattered and scared out of my mind all at once.
“OK,” I said. “And, so, he doesn’t want to do the project. That’s it then, right?”
“Not a chance,” said Moira, her eyes narrowing into scheming slivers. “Not a chance we’re going to let a chance to put out a project with Noah Mack himself slip through our fingers.”
Penrose took it from there.
“I managed to set up a one-on-one meeting with you,” he said. “One that he was happy to agree to.”
“Wait, what?” I asked. “You did this without consulting me?”
“Think of it as a meeting with a potential client,” he said. “One that we’re very interested in bringing on board.” He leaned forward, as if wanting to measure his next few words very carefully. “I’m not asking you to go into full salesman mode,” he said. “But if he wants to meet with you, then maybe you could take the opportunity to see if you can talk him into working with us.”
“It’d be killer,” said Moira. “I’ve already got the book half-written in my head.”
“That right?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you need to actually talk to the subject to do that?”
I’d had a sneaking suspicion that Moira, while an admittedly good writer, had a tendency to be a little more “creative” than she ought to be with her nonfiction.
“So,” said Penrose. “You meet with Noah, have a good time, and…maybe try to sweet talk him into signing on with us.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “There’s a reason I work with novelists and not celebrities.”
Mainly that I was awkward. As in “awkward A-F.”
“You’ll be fine,” said Penrose. “Just grab some lunch and see what you can do. If he’s adamant, then he’s adamant. But if he’s not…”
“We could have a hit on our hands,” said Moira. “New York Times best seller.”
Penrose nodded. “A success that could take your career to the next level.”
Ugh. He knew just how to get my attention.
“As in swapping out the ‘junior’ in your title for a ‘senior.’”
My eyes went wide. “Are you serious?” I asked. “What about Goldman?”
“Goldman’s ready to move on,” said Penrose. “Take his pension and retire to West Palm. And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have in that position than you.”
He raised a slim finger. “But,” he said, “while I know you’ve got a hell of an eye for promising new projects, I need to see that you’ve got what it takes to land the big fish—starting with Noah Mack.”
He had me there. While I’d managed to entertain a fantasy of working in my office forever, directing everything from behind the scenes, I’d known in the back of my head for a while that moving up was going to require a little push outside of my comfort zone.
I could ease into it, psych myself up for a meeting with Noah. Maybe spend a few days going around the city and figuring out the perfect place to meet, one that would allow for privacy and…maybe even a little intimacy. The professional kind, of course—not the, um, more interesting sort.
“OK,” I said. “I think I can do this. Why don’t you email me his number and I can get in touch with him? Maybe set something up for later in the week?”
Again, everyone in the room shared a look.
“What?” I asked. “Will someone let me in on what’s going on?”
“We’re moving the timetable up on the whole process,” said Penrose. “Mr. Mack, he’s…”
“I’ll save you the hassle,” said Marcus. “Your man’s in the lobby. As in, right now.”
Oh. Shit.
12
PEPPER
I felt like I was coming apart at the seams. I’d gone from finding out about this freaking project to getting ready to meet with Noah about it, all over the course of about fifteen minutes.
He was waiting in the lobby, sure, but I had to duck into the bathroom to compose myself. Normally my private executive washroom was where I did all my freshening up, but I was in a hurry, and I didn’t want to go too far out of my way, especially if Noah was waiting for me.
Noah.
Waiting for me.
I didn’t even want to think about it, let alone consider the fact that I had to talk him into working with me on a project that he almost certainly didn’t want to be a part of.
My eyes down, I ducked into the narrow hallway that led to the lobby bathrooms I never used.
It was empty—thank god.
The relief at being away from the bustle of the office settled over me slowly, and I took advantage of the peace to compose myself. I didn’t actually need to pee, so I simply made my way over to the sink, put my hands on the cool porcelain, and looked up into the mirror.
“OK,” I said. “No big deal. You’re meeting with Noah Mack—that’s all. Just the most gorgeous man in the music industry, and the guy you nearly banged the other night. No big deal—no big deal.”
I took a deep breath, letting my heartbeat slow.
But right at the moment I finally felt like I had a handle on myself, a voice spoke from the other side of the bathroom.
A deep voice.
A familiar on
e.
“I like to think of myself more ‘handsome’ than ‘gorgeous.’ But a compliment’s a compliment, you know?”
What. The. Fuck.
It was Noah—no doubt about it.
And he was in the women’s bathroom.
“What the hell?” I shouted, totally shocked. “What are you doing in here?”
A figure stepped out from around the bank of stalls. Sure enough, it was him. Even in the sterile, doctor’s-office-like lighting of the bathroom, he still looked damn good.
“That’s, uh, actually the question I was about to send your way.”
I was confused.
“What are you talking about?”
“This is the boys’ room, beautiful.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to tell him that he was out of his mind. But that’s when I noticed what lined the wall around the stalls where Noah had emerged.
Urinals. A lot of them. Ones I hadn’t noticed when I rushed into the bathroom like a total nervous wreck.
I was in the men’s room. With Noah Mack.
“I’m cool with it, though,” he said. “Seen weirder shit in my day. Plenty weirder.”
“Oh my god,” I said, almost too mortified to think. “I’m seriously in the men’s room.”
“I take it this was an unplanned detour?” he asked, a small smile on his lips.
I felt like I was in a daze.
“I have my own bathroom and I never use these ones and I just assumed I went into the women’s and…”
I was talking at a mile a minute. Noah, evidently sensing that I was on the verge of a freak out, raised his palms.
“No worries,” he said. “Already finished up my business. No harm, no foul.”
He was right—not like I’d walked in on the entire male staff answering nature’s call. I looked around, noticing that the men’s room was…way less nice than just about every girl’s bathroom I’d ever been in.
“Why’s this place so bare?” I asked. “Not even a couch or flowers or anything?”
Noah laughed. “Thing about whatever you put in the boys’ room,” he said, “is that it probably gets peed on.”
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