“Oh?” God, I’m such a fake.
He doesn’t offer up anything else so I press forward. “Is this a bachelor auction?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Do I need to clear out my bank account so I can afford item number twelve, the sweaty blacksmith with the strong scowling game?” I reach my lips up to peck his mouth.
I detect a hint of a smile before he responds, “You wouldn’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”
My inner pout threatens but I push it back.
“Then why are you going?” Elle’s got some influence, but not that much.
“Jonathan’s been working to expand the community youth projects to all the Burroughs. This auction’s for the expansion.”
My chin dips and my hands fall to the couch. “Jonathan?”
“Yeah.” Mac’s left eyebrow looks at me like I’m crazy again.
“The same Jonathan that barely leaves his desk and hates everyone?”
Mac’s lips quirk. “He doesn’t hate everyone.”
“He hates me.” I cross my arms and Mac sits up on the edge of my couch, still amused.
“No, he doesn’t. He likes you.”
My mouth drops open and I pull myself to sitting as well. “No. Elle likes me. Jonathan despises me. I asked him the other day if I could borrow a pen and he handed me a coupon for Office Max.”
Mac does a half-shrug. “He was joking.”
My eyes narrow. “Does he joke with you?”
He just looks at me.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“He doesn’t hate you and he doesn’t hate people. He’s been working on these charities with me for the last few years and I trust him. I don’t always like my name attached so he helps me keep a certain… distance.”
Yet he didn’t keep that distance when it came to the WHL article. Of course not. Mac knew as well as I did that the youth program wouldn’t make it into a national publication without it being attached to something deemed more interesting—like a hot artist who makes expensive in-demand chairs. Jeez, Mac, you’re killing me, always a step ahead.
“But you need to show your pretty face tonight?” I reach out and pinch his cheek as payback for the Jonathan thing.
He doesn’t even try to bite my fingers off. “Looks like it.”
“Fine.” I throw my hair over my shoulder, assuming my best drama queen persona. “I have a life of my own, you know. Places to go, people to dazzle.”
“I have no doubt.” Mac winks at me and I almost fall off the couch. This is a new one. I’ll have to add it to my list of Panty-Destroying Looks by Angus McKinley and decide where it ranks. Probably somewhere below his over-the-shoulder-smolder but just above the single-eyebrow-raise.
I smile stupidly at him as he goes to grab his stuff. I hear a buzzing from the coffee table and look to see who’s messaging me, but it’s Mac’s phone, not mine. And I swear I don’t mean to read it, but it’s just right there on the lockscreen notification and I can’t help it. But I wish I had.
Mother: Looking forward to getting to know Poppy.
I jerk back into my couch cushions and whip my head around to see if Mac is looking my way, but he’s in the kitchen with his back to me.
My pulse races as I wrap my head around this and try to decide what to do. If he sees that text, his head will likely explode. Talk about cryptic messages. Jeez Louise. But who knows? Maybe this isn’t the first message of its kind and he’s just been keeping it from me—handling it quietly on his own. Gah!
Surely, he’d understand if I say I just happened to be sitting here when the message came through. Right? I watch him pull a water from the fridge and grab his keys from the counter, knowing I’m running out of time.
We’ve been doing so well with him choosing exactly when and where he shares things with me. I don’t want to put that progress in jeopardy with a stupid peek at a text from his mom, for Pete’s sake. So, I make my decision. He can tell me about it if he wants. No, he will tell me about it. I know it. He’ll call in the morning and we’ll talk it over, figure out what she’s up to.
Mac turns and walks back toward me. He scoops up his phone and slides it into his back pocket before bending to give me a kiss.
His eyes go all hot and he whispers in his low raspy tone, “Have fun dazzling.”
I get a little lost in his eyes for a second and then my tongue swipes out to gather the taste of him he left on my lips. The heat in his eyes turns to a full-on inferno and he groans, which makes a laugh bubble up from my chest.
“You have fun too, bachelor number twelve.”
He stands and I don’t fail to notice the bulge in his pants. Then he turns to the door and I can’t help myself.
“Just watch out for the rich old ladies, Mac. I hear they expect the, ahem, full package for their money.”
He doesn’t turn back around or respond, but I do notice his sexy ass tighten a little in what I can only interpret as fear.
Twenty-Six
“The only thing that travels faster than gossip is a hungry man to the dinner table.”
– Cookie Rutledge
Elle strides forward and I swear the crowd parts like the freakin’ Red Sea for Moses. Only Moses never rocked a Versace slip dress like Elle Valentine. Her honey and bronze hair shines under the colored lights and I can feel the bass in my stomach as we venture farther into the club.
I’m wearing my favorite boots with the turquoise stitching—the ones Iris always tries to steal—and I spent a ridiculous amount of time on my hair and make-up. But it was all worth it because this club is HOT. Male and female dancers perform on elevated platforms while bar staff struts around with lighted trays of shots and throw-back cigarette girls wander the crowd handing out swag.
Elle may not be impressed but I’m completely agog. In fact, that word was made for nights and places like these.
The music is loud so there’s no room for conversation as she leads the way to a private bar area and a reserved table for two. God, I want to be her right now. But I’d never make it as an agent so I’ll take my fantastic new job instead.
A handsome server approaches before our butts even hit the slick leather stools and Elle raises two fingers as she says something in his ear.
“This is so cool!” I shout from my seat across from her. When she holds a hand up to her ear, I scoot my fancy-ass barstool so I’m sitting next to her instead of across from her.
“I said this is so cool!”
She shakes her head at me and smiles like she thinks I’m ridiculous, which I totally am. My eyes move to the dance floor and I watch the performers on the platforms execute complicated choreographed moves while making it look effortless. My legs are bouncing on the stool and my head moves with the beat.
“I can’t stand it anymore! I need to dance!” I shout as I drop back to my feet.
Elle laughs and extends a hand toward the floor, which I take as my sign to do whatever I need to do.
The music is a combination of old-school vinyl and the usual club music, but is has an earthy feel thrown in. I join the throng and shake my ass to the beat, throwing my arms in the air and letting the music take over my body.
The first song ends and blends right over into a remix of an old Mary J. Blige song that has my boots sliding back and forth with my hips. The floor is crowded, but it doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact, it energizes me. All these bodies moving to the same rhythm is almost poetic. It occurs to me that if the subways and sidewalks played dance music, I might not be so suffocated by their crowds. But that’s probably because we’d all be moving as one instead of a sea of strangers all ricocheting off one another to further their own pace and purpose.
I’m not sure how long I stay on the floor, but by the time I remember Elle and what a lousy friend I am for ditching her in the bar, I’m a sweaty, exhilarated mess. My hair is wild and my dress sticks to my back like superglue, but I don’t care.
I crane my neck as I weave
through the crowd to get back to the private bar, but I don’t see Elle. The reserved sign on our table is gone and it’s now occupied by a group of chukka-boot-wearing twenty-somethings drinking glasses of what look like straight-up whiskey.
Glancing around, it becomes clear she’s nowhere in the bar. Maybe she went to find me on the dance floor, or maybe she’s in the bathroom. I pull out my phone to see if she tried to call or message, but there’s only a message from Iris. It’s a picture I can’t make out with an all caps WTF?
I open my app to text Elle, but when I do, the picture from Iris appears—and this time it’s large enough to see clearly.
It’s a link to a gossip site photo of none other than JoJo Ames, beaming with her raven hair and gorgeous million-dollar smile—the familiar smile she’s wearing in the cover photo of the WHL prototype. She’s wearing a gold cocktail dress and it’s the standard paparazzi shot I’ve seen a hundred times.
Except it’s not.
Because she’s got her hand on the arm of a tall, devastatingly gorgeous man in a crisp black suit and sexy AF smolder.
A smolder I thought until this very moment was just for me. A smolder that beats even the wink I got when he walked out of my apartment this afternoon. A smolder that tells me I may just be the dumbest rube in all of New York.
I text Elle a quick note to tell her I’m sorry I lost her and I’m feeling sick. Then I hightail it out of the club. The beat I found so mesmerizing and the crowd that drew me in like a magnet thirty minutes ago have suddenly turned overwhelming and migraine-inducing. I gulp in the blessedly cool air of the early autumn night and hurry down the sidewalk, not even knowing which direction I’m headed. I just need to get far enough away so I can think.
I finally find a bare stretch of cinderblock I can lean against and pull my phone out again. My fingers find the link and I devour every word of the short mention on the gossip site, not letting my eyes stray to the photo again until I’m done.
Has JoJo Ames been hiding something from us? Not that we’d blame her if she has. It looks like Hollywood’s hot wunderkind starlet has a new beau, and we’re all dying to know who the mystery man is. Anyone?
I take a deep breath, then read it again. Okay, this could totally be an innocent mistake. They were just standing near each other at the charity event and someone snapped a picture. That’s probably exactly what happened. No need to get all worked up.
I scroll up and scan the photo again, noticing the position of JoJo’s hand on Mac’s arm. It looks… familiar. Her long, manicured fingers curl around his bicep and she’s definitely leaning toward him.
My eyes move to Mac. His body language is unreadable in the still shot, so I can’t tell if he’s leaning into her or not. What I can tell is he looks absolutely freaking perfect next to a polished megastar like JoJo.
Ugh. This is maddening!
I realize I need to text Iris back before she calls me and catches me freaking out.
Me: No biggie. Just a stupid paps shot. Don’t believe everything you read
There. That should do it until I figure this mess out. Think, Poppy, think!
I thumb back to my text conversations and pick up the one between me and Mac.
Me: Hey, how’s the auction?
Normally I would tease him or say something flirty, but I can’t get past the rock in my stomach far enough to be the least bit playful.
I wait, scraping my boots on the sidewalk and ignoring the passing crowds.
Nothing.
Not that that means anything. He’s probably still there. I check the time and it’s after eleven. Hmm. Well, he must be asleep, then. I briefly consider just going over to his place so we can clear this up here and now, but a tiny nagging thread pulls on my heart. It’s doubt niggling away, even though I try banishing it.
No. What I need to do is go home, get a good night’s sleep, and just wait for his call in the morning. We’ll have a good laugh about it—okay, I’ll do the laughing; Mac will just do his usual. And then we’ll move on and everything will go back to normal.
Great plan. Perfect. Fabulous.
* * *
When my phone reads nine a.m. and Mac hasn’t called, I chalk it up to him being considerate and letting me sleep in after my night of dazzling.
When it hits ten, I remember that Mac likes to do extra long workouts sometimes and he probably ate a carb or two last night.
When eleven o’clock rolls around I’m officially a basketcase.
I haven’t slept for shit because I couldn’t seem to turn my brain off, and when I did sleep it was only to have dreams of some faceless woman with ridiculously glossy hair driving Mac away in her convertible while “You’re the One That I Want” played in the background.
I finally give in at noon and dial his number. It goes directly to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.
Then I break down and scour the internet for any more photos of Mac and JoJo Ames. And I almost choke on my heart that’s suddenly decided to crawl up my throat.
TMZ, People, Buzzfeed, Perez Hilton—all of them have shots of JoJo with her mystery man, only he’s not such a mystery anymore. Someone got ahold of his name from his auction donation and details about him are cropping up on all the usual sites. Urban blacksmith, Angus McKinley… furniture designer, Angus McKinley... artist and New York studio-owner, Angus McKinley. They’re panting for him, comments piling up from readers about how hot he is and how JoJo did well for herself this time around.
My eyes burn and I eventually drop my phone face-down on my bed, unable to read another word.
I worry my lip and develop a serious case of jimmy leg as I figure out what to do. Then I pick the phone back up and call Mac.
It goes to voicemail again, but this time I leave a message.
“Hey, it’s me. I saw all the pictures on the internet this morning. I’m just… checking in. I’m worried. Call me back, okay?”
I don’t tell him if my worry stems from there possibly being some truth to the online stories or if I’m more worried for him and the fact that it’s his face and name that are plastered out there. Because I am worried for him. This is probably one of his worst nightmares.
And that right there tells me everything I need to know. I thunk myself in the head and fall back to the bed. Idiot!
There’s no way on earth Mac would ever involve himself with someone in the public eye. Regardless of his feelings for me, which I know are not insignificant if I’m being honest with myself, he values his privacy way too much to let something (or someone) shiny lure him out of his little bubble he’s built.
So why in the hell isn’t he calling me back?
I decide to text Elle, and it’s only now I realize she never texted me back from last night. God, I’ve spent all this time worrying about Mac and I forgot about my freaking friend!
Me: Hey. Are you okay? Never heard back from you last night.
The three dots appear and I release the breath I was holding.
Elle: So sorry! PR nightmare cropped up and I’ve been dealing with that.
Me: Does this have anything to do with photos of Mac?
Elle: Damn paparazzi.
I consider asking her more about it but I just need to trust Mac.
Me: Is Mac okay? I haven’t been able to get ahold of him.
Elle: Shit. Someone found his number so his phone has been off. Or it might be under a subway train if I know Angus. Jonathan is with him so just call his cell phone.
Jonathan’s mobile contact pops up and I save it to my phone.
Me: Thanks!
Elle: Are you feeling better? After last night?
I forgot I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She’s being so good to me while she’s in the midst of a work crisis. I make a mental note to get her flowers or maybe some of that Chinese baby fruit.
Me: All better. Don’t worry about me—just go do your job.
I switch over to the phone and hit Jonathan’s contact.<
br />
“Jonathan Abernathy.”
“Jonathan, hi, it’s Poppy.”
“Oh. Hi.” He sounds just as enthusiastic as ever.
“Hey, I know it’s been a crazy night, but I was hoping I could talk to Mac. Elle said he turned off his phone and I could reach him through you.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, he’s busy right now.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure how hard to press. I mean, if Jonathan is being his usual difficult self, I reckon I could just go on over there.
There being the studio the paparazzi are probably surrounding. Ugh.
I sigh. “Okay, well can you have him call me as soon as he’s free?”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
Okay, that’s a bit better, I suppose.
“All right. Thanks.”
“No problem.” He hangs up.
Maybe Mac was right. Maybe Jonathan doesn’t hate me.
* * *
By suppertime I decide that, while Jonathan Abernathy might not hate me, God certainly does. Why else would I still have zero word from Mac and, just to make the evening extra special, a message from Bunny telling me how she’s just finalized the seating chart for Vern’s retirement dinner and saved me a spot next to Bobby Lee at the head table? Add to that a new email from one of the head designers questioning a design theme we already hashed out and it’s official that all my lies are catching up to me with the man upstairs.
I measure my words carefully when I go to respond to Jenna Baylor—the same woman who’d been mentioned in that eavesdropped bathroom conversation from weeks ago. The same woman who has done everything short of taking out a billboard to let God and country know how she’s the one who has the rightful claim to my job. In a super classy twist, she copied everyone in management as well as our entire department on her email. I can’t let my current emotions color my response, and I’m afraid that’s exactly what will happen if I compose this reply tonight. Lord, how I despise email. There are so many ways to misinterpret a person’s tone or say things you would never say to someone’s face.
Game Changer Page 23