by Kailin Gow
“I'm the guy who took her to the hospital,” says the rocker. He says it in a way that's so brash, so bold, so possessive. Like he owns me or something. Which is pretty rich, given that he's carefully and conveniently neglected to mention that he's the one who put me in the hospital in the first place. I should be annoyed, but something about the way he's looking at me, with those fierce, burning eyes of his, holds me back. It feels like he's invading my very soul with his gaze, like he's reaching deep into me, like he's claiming me as his. The feeling makes me feel hot all over: red and blushing and breathless. It's a feeling I don't recognize. Can it be – desire?
That's crazy, I tell myself. This guy is a total stranger. Someone whose only relationship to me is that his chauffeur has a nasty habit of not looking where he's going.
And yet he has this power over me. I feel like a snake – charmed. Still. Unable to move, even as my blood is pumping through my body and my adrenaline is charging into overdrive. Unable to do anything but register this strange sensation of want and need.
“My name's Philip LaFleur.”
And then the bottom drops out of my stomach.
“LaFleur?” Johnson responds almost aggressively. Some sort of hostile anger takes over him.
“La-la-Fleur?” I whisper.
Johnson recognizes the name, too, but how? We met in college – long after Kendall LaFleur, Alan LaFleur's demon daughter, made my high school life a living hell. Long after my mother and Alan broke up. I may have mentioned I had an almost-stepfather for a time, but I never mentioned the name. But Johnson's acting like the name means something.
Like it means something other than the fact that this guy might be related to my worst enemy.
“LaFleur Media LaFleur, huh?” There's something still so aggressive about the way Johnson's talking. He's normally so calm, so soft-spoken. I don't recognize this side of him.
My face flushes. LaFleur Media LaFleur. LaFleur Media. Of course. They're only like the Hearsts of the modern day era. If William Randolph and Condé Nast himself joined forces, their media empire would look something like LaFleur Media.
How could I be so stupid? Everyone knew that LaFleur family...
Philip smiles a gorgeous, movie-star smile, flashing his pearly white teeth. “Afraid so,” he says. “Guilty as charged. I've just returned to the States after a reasonably long spell in England to take my part in running the family business. I'm one of Jacob LaFleur's many prodigal grandsons. But the European branch was considered too cushy a job for a layabout like me. Grandpa wanted to teach me the ropes...”
“No wonder that name rings a bell,” says Johnson. He's looking over at me now. “I saw the news before coming over here. You guys just bought FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine, right? The LaFleur Media Group – you bought up a whole bunch of places. Really just cleaning up over here, aren't you?”
Philip looks vaguely affronted. His eyebrow arches. “We're simply expanding our American market,” he says pleasantly. Too pleasantly. Like he knows Johnson feels threatened by him, and wants to dig in as much as he can.
“Holy shit...”
The realization hits me.
Philip isn't a rocker at all. He's my new boss.
“I mean, uh...crap.”
Great, Sidney. Great first impression you're making there. Drooling all over the new owner of your magazine.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw you...” I try to surgically remove my foot from my mouth. “In Pepper Park's office. You were chatting. I thought you were a rocker or something, in for an interview...but you're the new owner of the magazine! I had no idea!”
Philip again looks faintly amused. “Well, acquisitions do tend to come as a surprise to the company staff. Deals are often negotiated in secret, after all.”
“Yes...” I say. My mouth is hanging open. “Of course.”
“So...you were in the office too, then?” He leans in. “Let me guess – a supermodel being interviewed about her favorite variety of face cream?”
I can't tell if he's complimenting me or insulting me. It's irritating. It also, in spite of myself, turns me on. Johnson shoots him a glare you'd think could kill.
“I'm a freelancer,” I say. “I write for the celebrity section. Are you the new Pepper, then?”
“No....” Philip laughs. “Pepper Park is a pro. Getting rid of her would be the stupidest thing we could ever do.”
“So you won't be too hands on in your acquisition, then?” Do I sound hopeful? Is that rude? I can't help it – having a guy with looks like that around the office would lower my productivity by a full 50%. He's damn distracting.
“On the contrary,” he laughs. “I'll be very hands on.” Something about the way he looks at me when he says this makes me tingle. “I'll be getting into the thick of the magazine. We have a vision for FILTHY. We want to cover global celebrity issues – make it the only truly international magazine of celebrity and fashion. Less tabloid, more Grazia...even Vanity Fair. Make FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY respected. As the Executive Editor, I'll be able to put that focus into overdrive.”
My throat goes dry. Executive Editor – then if I get Tegan's old job, does this mean he'll be my new boss? The idea is exciting and terrifying at the same time. And I know there's no way in hell I'll be able to concentrate.
“Like I said...” Philip's voice is low and smooth. “I'll be very hands on. I like to be as involved with my staff as I can be...”
I feel my whole body heat up. It's like he can read my mind. Or is it? Maybe I'm overthinking things, imagining meaning that isn't there. Letting my desire get the best of me.
But Johnson puts an arm around me. Protective. Possessive. “What do you mean by tha?” He looks suspiciously back and forth between me and Philip.
“I mean precisely that.” Philip crosses his arms. “I believe verticals are a thing of the past. Vertical editors – celebrity, fashion – stand in the way of a truly holistic approach to culture. Melding high and low, street style and couture. So I'm eliminating those positions. Reporters will be reporting directly to me.”
“So that means...” my heart falls. “Tegan's position. It's not going to be filled by anyone?”
“Tegan?”
“Tegan Snow. Celebrity News Editor.” And my biggest cheerleader in the company. I look down so he won't see the tears of disappointment welling up in my eyes. My face flushes with shame. I can't let Philip know I interviewed for that position.
“Sorry,” Johnson whispers under his breath, squeezing my hand. Clearly he knew how much I wanted that position.
“Oh no,” he says lightly, as if he hasn't just thrown way my entire future. “That's the first position we've eliminated, you'll see. Were you reporting to Ms. Snow?”
I nod mutely.
“Ah, well, then,” says Philip, smiling genially. “You'll be working for me, now, then.”
“I guess...” I hope he doesn't see me blush.
“But of course that might be awkward.” He goes on smoothly.
My face flushes even redder. Does that mean he can tell how insanely attracted I am to him?
“What do you mean?” I ask defensively.
“Well, I almost killed you at our first meeting...” he grins. Like he couldn't possibly have been talking about anything else.
“Well, I hope you don't feel awkward around me, Sidney.” He comes close to me. Places each of his large hands on my shoulders and looks straight in the eyes. “If you're the Sidney Stone whose articles I've been devouring in preparation for offering on FDL, I want to see a lot more of you. Your articles are incisive. Fierce. You get the great and the good.”
A thrill goes up and down my spine.
But then it hits me.
I can't afford it. Freelancing, starving to get by – this job was supposed to be my big break. The thing that gave me security. That helped me find my own way in the world. And instead...I'm right back where I started. This rich man has made his decision and he has no ideas how man
y smaller lives he's ruined in the process.
The tears come to my eyes again.
“I...I...”
A heavy weight falls on me. All I want to do is sob.
Philip's looking at me strangely. You'd think he'd be appalled at such an embarrassing display, but he's not. He's looking soft, almost tender. Almost like he wants to reach and touch me...
But it's Johnson who holds me. Pulls me close for a tight hug. Presses my head against his chest. Strokes my hair. Sensually knots his fingers in my hair.
Philip's smile quickly inverts into a frown.
“So, Mr. Executive Editor,” says Johnson. “I guess you're my boss, too. Just last night I was offered a position as the Lead Sports Reporter over at FDL. So maybe you should get to know me better, too.”
Chapter 5
I look up in surprise. “You?” I say. “You didn't even tell me you were interviewing?” Johnson and I tell each other everything.
“I didn't want you to know in case I didn't get it,” says Johnson. “I was scared if you knew you'd feel obligated to put in a good word for me. And I know you were so focused on the celebrity editor gig – I didn't want you risking that by trying to curry favor on my account. Anyway...it looks like we'll all be working together, from now on.”
“Charmed, I'm sure,” says Philip. But he doesn't look at Johnson. In fact, he doesn't take his eyes off me at all. “I should go attend the staff meeting about the handover.”
“I should too...” I start. “I work there too, after all.” Freelancers with senior status are allowed to attend meetings – one of FDL's great innovations – and/or a clever way to get freelancers to donate their time instead of hiring staffers...
“You should not.” Philip is firm. “You should rest here. You had a concussion. You should rest here until you're better. This guy – he'll come back here soon enough to tell you what you missed, I warrant.” He says it vaguely insultingly. Like Johnson's a dog who will run back to his owner.
I'm fuming – and humiliated. Why does it have to be my new boss who crashed into me, who sees me in my vulnerable state? Now I'll have to miss the meeting. And with it my chance at scoring some big high-paying stories. I doubt LaFleur Media even cares about FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY the way I do, the way Tegan did. They just want to make a quick buck – and don't care who gets hurt in the process.
I pull out of Johnson's hold. “I'm going to make the meeting,” I say firmly. “I can't miss it.” I grab my bag from the chair. I take two steps and then I start to swoon....
“Sidney...” Johnson's worried voice is the last thing I hear.
“I'm fine,” I murmur, as I fall.
A pair of arms catches me.
“Sidney...” A deep male voice whispers in my ear. “You're not okay.”
I open my arms to find myself in Philip LaFleur's arms. His face is inches from mine. God, being this close to him – I can smell his musky maleness. It turns me on. Makes me starve for something unnamable, something primal, something true.
Sex.
I've never had it before. I've never wanted to.
Not until now.
His eyes are burning into mine. Does he feel this chemistry too? He swallows. “Just as I thought,” he says. “You're not fully recovered.” Before I can protest he carries my entire body in his arms and lays me gently on the bed, like I'm a doll. He covers me with a blanket. “Now rest,” he says. His voice is firm.
“But I have to be at your meeting,” I say. I force myself to sit up. “I need to be there. I built Celebrity – you don't understand. That vertical – it's all me. And if I miss the structuring meeting…”
“I understand,” Philip nods. “But there will be time for all of this later. You need to recover.”
I bite my lips. I feel anxious, helpless. What rug is Philip going to pull out from under me next? Taking away that editor position, restructuring the company, making me miss the meeting....
“Besides, we're bringing on another reporter for Celebrity. Someone who can help you as you recover. Take on some of that workload.”
I can't afford to give up that workload. But I guess a rich guy like Philip LaFleur wouldn't understand the meaning of “can't afford,” anyway.
“Someone with firsthand knowledge of celebrity and society culture. Someone who grew up in that scene, who really understands it. Someone who gets invited to the same parties as they are. Not some dumpster-diving ambulance-chaser, mind you...”
My face turns red again. Does he know about my dumpster-diving?
“Now, she's a bit of a reformed partier herself,” Philip smiles. “So you may be the more responsible member of the team.”
Team?
“We want to hire both of you,” he says. “As staff writers. It isn't the money of an editor position, of course, but it's full-time. Salary.”
“Benefits?”
“Yes,” he says. He looks confused, like he doesn't understand why that would matter.
“You and Kendall will be quite the team.”
My mouth falls open again.
“Not Kendall LaFleur...”
Pleasepleasepleasepleaseno.
“Yes,” Philip says. He furrows his eyebrows. “But however did you know?”
“That trainwreck?” Johnson says. “I read about her last stint in rehab – I didn't even know she was out...Sidney, what is it?”
He sees my face. The look of blank shock and complete and utter horror.
“Careful,” says Philip. “You're talking about my sister.”
Of course.
Philip LaFleur. That Philip. The distant older brother, off at Eton, whom Kendall couldn't
stop bragging about. The perfect older brother.
“How do you know Kendall LaFleur?” Philip searches my face. “Unless....no...” It hits him. “You're that Sidney, aren't you?”
My face turns chalk white. I can't even breathe.
“You're that Philip,” I say. “Aren't you?”
“So, your mother...”
“I'm sure Kendall will have told you her version,” I say. “That she caused your parents' divorce.”
“Didn't she?” His half-smile is inscrutable.
Actually, Alan and his wife had separated a year before my mom and Alan had started going out, but Kendall never let truth get in the way of a good story.
“No,” I say. “But it's none of my business. I was a teenager, then. What happened between your dad and my mom...I just don't want it to be a problem, okay?” It's like I'm pleading him.
“Why should it be a problem?” But there's something strange about the way he's looking at me. I don't trust it – or him --- for a second. Philip may have been absent – but the LaFleur genes are no good. Kendall, her mother – that whole family is full of people who lie and cheat and steal. I hadn't realized Alan LaFleur, surgeon, was related to the LaFleur Media Empire, but it all made sense now. Kendall always had more money than even a top surgeon's daughter could expect.
No, I think. Doubtless Philip has less of a heart than his sister – or if he does have one, it's made of ice. Not a day since he first acquired FDL, and he's already firing people and eliminating positions right and left.
And I'm going to have to work with Kendall. All that about benefits and salary seems to not matter anymore. Not if I have to go back to that. Suddenly, I'm fifteen again – humiliated and tormented by Kendall and her whole tribe of Mean Girls. Picked on and tortured over and over again until I thought about running away into the woods just to get away from it all. The memories, the wounds, are still raw.
Philip leans in to touch me, just as Johnson does. As they approach, I suddenly pull away.
The two practically bump heads. Why are they both behaving so strangely?
“Are you okay?” Johnson's looking down at me, worried. “Your face...just now...you two know each other or something?”
I glance over at Philip, then look away. I don't want him to see me this way – hurt, vulnerable, sca
red. He's my boss, after all. But I can't help this wave of anger and pain coming over me. Like sister, like brother, I think. Every time the LaFleurs come into my life they make it that much more miserable. If I didn't know better I'd think Kendall had Philip hit me with his car...
This man, fresh from Europe, with his perfect designer clothes and perfect muscular frame and perfect rock star good looks – he's just as dangerous as his sister. Maybe more so. Because right now, all I know is that I hate him.
And that I desperately want him, too.
Chapter 6
All I want to do is to go home. To get out of this hospital. To get into my bed, in that shitty little apartment I share with Kiley, and watch Netflix and get into my pajamas and eat dry cereal out of the bowl with my fingers. Sure, it's a crappy flex-two-bed in an equally crappy neighborhood, and sure, I might get mugged walking there, and sure, the heating doesn't always work and when it does work, the water goes out, but at least I'd be home, there. Alone. Able to figure out what the hell is going on. I need to sort out my whole job. My whole life. Now that FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is completely changing direction, I find myself confused, overwhelmed. I have no anchor. I have nothing to keep me sane. Everything I thought I knew about my future has been upended. I don't know a thing, I think. A single solitary fucking thing. I have a new boss – and not just any new boss, but one who is the big brother of my mortal enemy. One whom I can't stop thinking about because of his sexy voice, that devil-may-care grin, that terrible and overwhelming sense whenever I am with him that I want to just...lie back and drown in the heady atmosphere of sex he exudes.
And he's offered me a full-time job.
In any other circumstance, I would have jumped to take it. It would have been the answer to all my problems. A full-time staff-writer job at FDL. Maybe not as much pay and responsibility as the celebrity editor gig I wanted, but benefits. Insurance. A steady salary that meant I knew exactly how I was going to pay my rent every month. Exactly the sort of thing a girl like me dreams about. Not romantic, but there's something pretty damn exciting about not worrying about going into overdraft every time you pay your rent.