by K. A. Linde
Her eyes twinkled. “A little late for that, but hey, I’d be down.”
English just chuckled as she dug into her pizza. “I’m still just amazed that I’m even here.”
“Why?” Whitley asked. “This is where you belong! Who would want to live in LA when they could live in New York City?”
English arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Like…millions of people?”
“Oh, right,” she said with a shrug.
“Also, you? For the three years you were at UCLA?”
“Yeah…I sometimes forget about that.”
English rolled her eyes, but Whitley continued on, “But hey, I like seasons. New York has all four. When I was growing up in Dallas, they only had two—fucking kill me summer and fucking kill me winter. LA only has one. No, thanks.”
“You’re a strange, strange human being, Whitley Bowen.”
“Why, thank you,” she said, tipping her head at her.
“Well, what does Josh think?” I interjected before we could get further derailed.
“He’s totally on board,” English said with that dreamy smile she had every time she talked about her husband. “He’s spending the summer in London, shooting his next movie. It’s this really intense action film, and he’s trying to do his own stunts. So, he’s super buff right now. He can’t eat anything I make at home, but damn, it might even be worth it.”
“Pictures, or it didn’t happen,” Whitley said eagerly.
I swatted at her. “Shut up.”
“What? You were thinking it. I just said it.”
“Anyway, he said it’s only through November. He’ll have some time off after they finish filming. He said we could get a place here before he has to go out to promote.”
“See, it’s perfect,” I insisted.
English smiled briefly. A secret smile I’d seen her use one too many times. She wanted this. But she hadn’t quite convinced herself yet.
“Maybe…maybe it is perfect.”
“Now, you just have to rock that interview.”
Whitley wrapped an arm around English’s shoulders. “As if there’s any doubt our girl is going to blow everyone away! She’s a natural.”
“Fingers crossed,” English said.
For the first time, she actually looked excited about the prospect of being here again with us, doing something more worthwhile than what she’d been doing in LA. And god, I just hoped she really did blow Leslie away. Because selfishly, I needed her here too.
“So, how did it go?” I asked English the next day when she stepped into my office.
“Great!” she gushed. Then her smile faltered. “I mean…I think.”
“If you think it went great, then it did. You know you interview well.”
“I haven’t interviewed like this in years though,” English reminded me. “I interview potential clients, but that’s different. Gah, if I do this, I’ll have to talk to Margery and figure out what to do with my existing clients. Some of them don’t need much, and I can manage them remotely. One or two are kind of a nightmare, and I was going to cut them loose anyway. But there are a few who I think want more from me than I would be able to give from here.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I assured her.
“Yeah. I mean…if I get the job anyway.”
“If you do, then you know it’ll be right.”
English nodded. But I could tell she’d gone from rocking confidence to nerves in a matter of seconds.
She just shook her head. “I think I’m going to go grab some lunch. I barely ate today. Do you want anything?”
“I’m good. I had a bagel.”
“All day?” she asked skeptically.
“Uh, no, I think I had a few of those sour Life Savers gummies. Have you had them before? They’re incredible.”
“Seriously?” She sighed heavily. “Maybe you need a handler too. That’s not enough food for how much you work. I’m going to rummage around in that break room and find you a snack. And then I’ll bring you back real food later. Pho sound good?”
“Divine,” I admitted, my stomach gurgling on command.
She was gone for a few minutes before returning with an assortment of snack food—peanut butter crackers, a chocolate chip granola bar, and some sort of raspberry fig bar. I tore into the granola bar.
She shrugged. “Not that many options. Good thing Sam was there though,” she said with raised eyebrows. “He reminded me that you’re allergic to strawberries.”
A flush suffused my face. “Ah. Well, good. I don’t have an EpiPen on me. Try not to kill me before the election is over. Okay, English?”
“Sooo,” she said with a look of one who delighted in gossip, “what’s going on with him?”
“Girlfriend, remember?”
“Yeah. Ugh! You just seem…okay about each other now. I didn’t know if something else had happened.”
“We have to work together,” I said helplessly. “We’re either friends or something like it or we don’t make it through the election. The latter isn’t an option for me. So…I put it behind me.”
“Whatever, liar,” English said with a laugh.
“Okay, fine,” I grumbled. “When Court was arrested, I had, like…a panic attack. I called Sam, thinking he could help get Court out of the situation.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And well, he didn’t need to because Leslie had it handled. But then he kind of…took care of me.” I shivered at the memory. “Talked me down and took care of some work stuff. Then he walked me back to my apartment. We decided…we were friends.”
“Right. I mean, I’d leave my apartment at one in the morning to rescue you, but I’ve known you for almost a decade. For a coworker?” English made a face that said her colleagues were SOL. “Seems like…there might be more there.”
“Are you encouraging or discouraging me?” I asked her. “Because this sounds like encouragement, and I thought you were against him.”
“I’m way against this,” English confirmed. “Just trying to make you see where your head is really at. Are you and Sam just friends?”
I bit my lip. “We have to be.”
English tapped the raspberry fig bar. “All right. I’ll leave you to mull over your non-strawberry snacks while I go eat some food.”
“I love you.” Then I muttered under my breath, “Asshole.”
English snorted. As she walked toward the door, she flipped me off. I burst into laughter, watching her ass disappear around the corner. She was the best.
I returned to my work, prepared to get a deep dive into the new field positions we were looking to bring on for the summer to help with outreach leading up to the August primary. Then my office phone buzzed. I pressed the intercom button.
“Lark, I have a call with the mayor on line one,” Aspen said.
“Great. I got it.”
I lifted the receiver to my ear and pressed the line to Leslie. “Hello, Leslie. It’s Lark. How can I help you?”
“Lark, would you mind coming into the conference room for a few minutes? We just finished up the first round of interviews for Court’s publicist, and I wanted to go over something with you.”
“Of course. I’ll be there right away.”
Leslie hung up the phone, and I hastily stuffed the rest of the granola bar in my mouth as I stood to go meet her. I wondered what this was about. I didn’t normally talk to her about hiring. In fact, Kelly from HR usually did most of the hiring. The fact that Leslie was involved at all meant that she was taking Court’s situation seriously.
I brushed a crumb off of my black skirt and pulled on my matching blazer before heading down the hallway to the conference room where Leslie and Kelly were holding interviews. But when I stepped inside, Leslie was all alone, staring down at what appeared to be three résumés.
“Shut the door, would you?” Leslie asked.
I did as she’d instructed and then stepped up to the table. “How did the interviews go?”
“Surprisin
gly well,” Leslie said. She rubbed her forehead. “I wish I didn’t have to sacrifice an afternoon for this. I really need to be at City Hall right now. Which means I have to make this decision today.”
“Of course. Your time is important.”
“It is,” she agreed. She smiled kindly at me. “I want to hire Anna.”
“She’d be wonderful for the job,” I said, beaming.
“She would. But have you met my son?” Leslie asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Of…of course.”
“She’s too pretty.”
I guffawed at the explanation. I hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”
“Court is a known womanizer. She’s gorgeous. She looks like a supermodel. And he’ll eat her for breakfast.”
I shook my head, barely suppressing a laugh. “There is no way. For one, English…uh, Anna is a complete professional. She didn’t get into this business to sleep with her clients. And two, she’s married.”
Leslie waved her hand. “That doesn’t matter.”
“She’s married to Josh Hutch,” I finished.
Her mouth popped open. Now, I’d surprised her. “The movie star? He’s talented.”
“He is,” I agreed. “He’s also probably the most-sought-after man in Hollywood. I don’t think English has any interest in another man when she has that to go home to.”
“I really enjoyed his latest Bourne remake,” Leslie admitted. “He’s a sight. That’s for sure.”
“She is immune to Court’s charm. Just…give her a trial run. Let me go with her and see how she handles Court. I can report back, and you know that I’ll always be honest with you.”
“You will,” Leslie conceded. “You’ve never failed me.”
“If you think she’s the most qualified, then I think it’d be worth it.”
Leslie nodded. “Okay. We’ll start with a trial this weekend. If Court doesn’t manage to seduce her”—she rolled her eyes skyward—“then she has the job.”
15
Lark
“A trial run?” English groaned later as we took a cab north.
“I know. I knew you wouldn’t be happy about that.”
“It just…doesn’t make any sense. I have the credentials. I’ve been doing this for years. I’m at the top of my game. Why wouldn’t she want me?”
I’d been debating on telling English what Leslie had said. I still didn’t know if I should. Leslie had called English back into the conference room and offered her a trial to see how she worked with Court. Of course, she’d acted like she was thrilled for the opportunity. Until she got in the cab and was allowed to be frustrated by it.
“Like, what’s the deal? Does she want someone with more experience with all you Upper East Siders?”
I sighed. She wasn’t going to let it go.
“No, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with Court.”
“Please, I’ve dealt with plenty of entitled assholes.”
“No…it’s more that…you’re beautiful.”
Her eyebrows rose. “So?”
“She thinks he’s going to try to seduce you.”
“Oh, gross. Who would ever hook up with their client? You know everything about them, and they do so much disgusting behavior. You’re the one who has to clean up after them and make sure no one finds out about the strippers and the cocaine and the gambling.” She crinkled her nose. “There is no way.”
“Yeah, but Court is hot and charming. It’s how it goes.”
English held up her hand. “I have both of those things back home. Court might be hot and charming, but it’s not going to work on me.”
“That’s what I told Leslie.”
“All right, all right. Trial run it is then.” English pushed her shoulders back and put on her game face. “We can conquer this. It’ll be fine.”
“I love how you really want this job now.”
She shot me a cutting look. “I like a challenge.”
“Well, Court should be that at least,” I said as we pulled up in front of his building on the Upper East.
We hopped out of the car and passed a surprising number of paparazzi who were still camped out in front of his place. I would have thought they’d be gone by now. But I guessed putting him under house arrest was making his picture more valuable. No one had seen him since the night coming out of the police station. And everyone wanted to hear his side. Not just his mother’s canned answer. They were probably all expecting him to come out drunk and rant about what had actually happened. God, he needed English.
We took the elevator up to the penthouse. I glanced at English to get her reaction to his insane apartment. But she was all business. She might gush over my place, which wasn’t even this nice, but not here. Not when she had a job to do. She was a total babe when she got serious.
Court was sprawled out across the couch with a bottle of gin and a tome cracked open to the middle. He glanced over at us when we came in and then returned to the book. “I have to finish this chapter.”
My eyes widened. I’d never seen Court Kensington with a book in his hand. I’d thought the only things he cared about were girls, alcohol, drugs, and having as much illicit fun with those things as possible.
English just crossed her arms and assessed the room. I saw what she saw. The maid must not have been here this week. Another precaution, but it made his living situation look like even more of a mess. There were empty beer bottles, a few wine bottles, and a half-dozen liquor bottles lining the kitchen counter and the bar. It appeared the only thing he’d done all week was get shit-faced. Typical.
Eventually, he stuffed a receipt into the book and shut it. I could see that it was a fantasy novel—The Shadow Rising by Robert Jordan. He rose to his feet and ran a hand through his mussed, dark hair. At least he was dressed decently in slightly rumpled khakis and a button-up that he’d rolled to his elbows. It almost looked like he’d thought about leaving earlier and changed his mind. Maybe he was too drunk.
“Larkin St. Vincent and the illustrious Anna English,” he said with a charming smile. “What can I do for you two? A drink? I have…gin.” He reached down and grabbed the bottle off the table. “I probably have olives. Martinis?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“Ah, right. You’re here for Mommy dearest,” he said, stepping into the kitchen.
We stepped farther into his apartment. I could see him making another drink. From my perspective, it looked like straight gin. Maybe a hint of olive juice. No olives.
“We’re here because English has been hired to work as your publicist. She’s going to be handling the aftermath of your arrest and what that entails for the campaign through November,” I explained.
He walked back into the living room. He didn’t stumble or slur. His tolerance was too high for that. But I could see he was teetering on a precipice, and any minute, he might fall off of it into oblivion.
But he glanced at English. He looked her up and down with a flick of his eyes. And then a dangerous smile crossed his face.
“So, you’d work for me?” he asked English.
“Incorrect,” English said. “I would be an employee of your mother. I would report to her.”
He stepped closer. A wave of charisma seemed to wrap around him. Or perhaps that was just the gin. “And would you have to tell her everything?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No. That’s not how my business relationships work. I am hired to fix problems. You are a problem. So, we’ll spend the next couple months trying to fix you.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” he said, sipping on his martini.
“Court,” I groaned. “It’s not a romantic relationship. It’s business.”
He waved his hand at me. “Sure thing. You know all about keeping business and personal separate.”
His eyes met mine with a gleam that said he knew exactly what was going on with me and Sam. My cheeks flushed. God, I was no
t letting a Kensington get under my skin.
But before I could respond, English stepped forward. “Look, this is how it is. You need me,” she told him—straightforward, no bullshit. “You need me more than you even know. Because right now, I’m staring at a husk of a man. One who was brought to his knees by a liar and a fraud. And I don’t know if you knew what she did or not. I’m not here for answers. I’m not here to babysit you. I’m here to make people believe that you’ve turned over a new leaf, that you want to repent for your actions, and make you the fucking golden boy of the Upper East Side.”
Court snorted. “Good luck with that.”
She took another step toward him. She looked fierce as hell. “That is what I’m good at. And it’s what I’m going to do for you. You’re going to stop trying to think we’ll sleep together because that is never, ever going to happen. You’re a client. That’s it.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “You have two options: you can put your drink down and listen to how I’m going to turn your life around, or you can stay in this apartment until you drink yourself to death. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen it.”
She crossed her arms and waited.
“Maybe I’d like the latter,” he said. But something had shaken loose. He didn’t have the same rich-boy confidence when he spoke.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Don’t you think this is all just going to blow over anyway?”
English held her hands out. “That’s what I do for a living. I make these things blow over. I make them go away before they even hit the press. And you’re going to need someone to do that. Because the arrest might disappear after a week or two. The charges might not have ever been filed against you. But what about when Jane goes to trial?”
He winced at those words.
“What about when her face is in every newspaper in the country for fraud? What if they publish a book about her? What if they make her crimes into a blockbuster movie? You think you’re just going to disappear through all of that? Especially if you’re still the bad-boy prince, drunk and high and fucking anyone who will sell your pictures or sex tapes to the tabloids?”