by Cassia Leo
Either way, I can’t afford to hire a lawyer to fight Kensington Publishing or Logan’s investment firm.
He looks me over again, his eyes lingering on my hair this time. “If you do this, you should dye your hair blonde to hide your identity. Actually…on second thought, maybe I should just get you a stylist.”
I glare at him. “What are you trying to say?”
His eyes widen. “I didn’t mean it as an insult. I just mean that you’ll want to look as different as possible, so no one recognizes you.”
“I’ll skip the stylist, thanks.”
“Like I said, your choice,” he says with a shrug. “So what is your choice, Miss Celebrity Whisperer?”
I heave a deep sigh. “How long is this retreat?”
Jen’s wine glasses have already been packed away, so Gail pours pinot grigio into our coffee mugs and takes a seat at the bar-height dining table in Jen’s one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea. Moving boxes litter the modernly decorated space in various stages, some lie flat and unassembled, some gaping open and half-filled with her belongings, others taped shut and labeled in fat black marker.
Jen was laid off less than five days ago, and she’s already packing up to move in with her parents in Westchester, so she can start freelancing. She wants to be in control of her fate, despite the fact that the very nature of fate is its refusal to be controlled.
Gail places a chocolate-crème-filled homemade Twinkie in front of each of us. “You can’t seriously be thinking of doing this,” she says as she passes out napkins.
“Why not?” Jen shoots back, picking up her Twinkie. “It’s a week in paradise with Mr. Gorgeous. And she gets a promotion and a raise. You will be getting a raise, right?”
“Of course,” I reply, though the specifics of the raise are still unknown to me, as Logan promised to have his attorney write up an agreement, which I haven’t seen yet.
“See?” Jen goads Gail. “She’s getting paid. I don’t know about you, but I’d pay anything for Logan Pierce to…treat me with respect.”
Gail nods. “Well, if the rumors about Logan are true, he is very good at treating women with respect.”
We all take a bite of our Twinkies and Jen’s eyes roll back in her head. They really are way better than the original. Gail is a magician when it comes to baked goods.
I put my Twinkie down and wipe my fingers before reaching for my mug of wine. “Okay, can we please stop speculating on how good he is in bed and focus on how this could ruin my reputation,” I remind Jen. “Journalistic integrity aside, do I really want to be the type of person who would marry a known womanizer? For a raise? Even if it is a fake marriage, doesn’t that make me look weak or, God forbid, like some kind of gold-digger?”
Gail nods again. “You’re right. This is a big decision. You have to consider this from all angles. For instance, if Kensington Publishing still goes under, will this affect your future job prospects?”
Jen rolls her eyes. “If anything, this will boost her future job prospects. With all his business contacts, I’m sure a stellar recommendation from Mr. Gorgeous will go very far in helping you land a job.”
I guzzle my entire mug of wine and pour what’s left in the bottle into my empty cup. “I don’t really think I have a choice.”
“Of course, you have a choice!” Gail replies fiercely. “He can’t force you to go to Hawaii and pretend to be married to him.”
I stare at the liquid in my mug. “He said if I don’t do it, he won’t be able to stop the company from laying me off. And if I’m let go, the money I owe them will have to be collected immediately.”
This news brings a hush over the room, until the silence is interrupted by Gail’s gasp. “You have to do it. You have to go to Hawaii and pretend to be his wife. And then, right when Miss Celebrity Whisperer is on the brink of getting that scoop, you have to flip the switch!”
“Yes!” Jen agrees enthusiastically through her mouthful of chocolate crème.
“Flip what switch?” I ask, thoroughly confused as Knickknack enters the kitchen. “What the hell is that smell?”
“That’s Nicki,” Jen replies casually, using her nickname for the dog. “The cheaper kibble is giving him a little bit of gas.”
I cover my nose to block out the smell. “You call that a little bit?”
Gail continues with her original train of thought undaunted. “Once you’re ready to get the scoop, you have to tell Logan you won’t close the deal with Kitty and Jason unless he agrees to a larger raise, a complete wipe of your debt to Kensington, and a glowing recommendation letter. You know, should the company still go under.”
Jen nods vigorously. “What’s good for the goose, and all that.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. That seems awfully risky. What if he calls my bluff and I lose everything?”
Jen cocks an eyebrow. “The man is willing to pretend to be married to get this scoop. He wouldn’t do that unless he was desperate.”
I consider this new proposition for a while as we continue stuffing our faces with more Twinkies and wine. Finally, I come to the conclusion that they’re right. If I’m going to risk my journalistic integrity for Logan Pierce, I’m going to have to make sure that I walk away from this with a future.
A smile spreads across my face as I lean back in my chair. “Okay. As soon as that scoop is within my grasp, I’m flipping the switch. Mr. Gorgeous won’t know what hit him.”
Chapter 3
LOGAN
I arrive at my father’s Park Avenue penthouse twenty fashionable minutes late. As usual, I find Everett and his wife, Lindy, in the kitchen, sitting in the stools at the kitchen island, glasses of chilled white wine in hand as my father attempts to cook.
Lindy’s long red hair is pulled into the usual tight bun resting atop the crown of her narrow head. Her usual pearl necklace is draped around her neck, accentuating her sharp collar bones and creamy white cardigan. Everett’s dark hair is pulled back in that awful slicked back pompadour he’s been unsuccessfully trying to pull off for three years. He’s wearing his usual Brioni suit — minus the tie — in a dark charcoal color, to match the color of his soul, I presume.
Everett sets down his glass of wine and watches me as I enter. “Late, as usual,” he remarks with a smirk.
I pat him on the back before I bump cheeks with his wife. “Please don’t get up,” I reply, hoping this will keep Lindy from attempting to get up to give me a proper hug.
Lindy is actually one of my former flings. Okay, one of my many former flings whom my brother has seen fit to swoop in and comfort after it didn’t work out with me. I don’t do commitment. Some women refuse to believe me when I tell them this. Lindy was one of those.
Needless to say, Lindy and Everett hit it off and despite their seemingly perfect marriage, Lindy still likes to get a bit touchy with me. I am certain my brother is aware of Lindy’s wandering hands, but he pretends not to notice. Everett has never been good with the ladies. Negging is the only tool in his arsenal.
A slim brunette stands next to my father, accepting tastes of whatever sauce he’s slaving over. She appears to be at least twenty years his junior. This must be my father’s new fiancée, whom he spoke of the other day. One glance is all it takes for me to know she’s not in this for my dad’s terrible cooking.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, patting his shoulder. “And who might I ask are you, young lady?”
The brunette chuckles, flashing me a coquettish smile. “Oh, aren’t you such a charmer. You must be Logan. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I’m sure you have,” I say, pulling a grape off the fruit plate on the counter and popping it in my mouth.
She holds out her hand for a shake. “I’m Priscilla,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers and squeezing. “But everyone calls me Prissy.”
Of course they do, I think.
Lindy and Prissy and Everett and Jasper. Sometimes, I feel a strong urge to bring home a beautiful ethnic w
oman with an exotic name, just to see the pearl-clutching and scandalized looks on their faces.
“So you two are engaged to be married?” I inquire as I pour myself a glass of wine.
Prissy beams as she plants a red imprint of her puckered lips on my father’s wrinkled cheek. “We’re getting married New Year’s Eve.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “New Year’s Eve? That’s less than two months away.”
Not only was New Year’s Eve less than two months away, it also happened to be my mother and father’s wedding anniversary — when they were still married, of course. I always knew my dad was a sadist, but this is a whole new level of callous.
“Yes, brother, very astute of you to notice,” Everett comments dryly while Lindy stares at me, running her tongue along the edge of her teeth absentmindedly, as if lost in thoughts of all the times she ran that tongue along my dick.
I shake my head. “Don’t you think this is a bit… Oh, what’s the word…fast?”
Not to mention in very poor taste.
Lindy chimes in. “How would you know, Logan? When it comes to you and relationships, everything is fast.”
I ignore Lindy’s jibe and address my father again. “Dad, you don’t think this is a bit hasty?”
My father covers the sauce pot with a lid and sets down his wooden spoon before he looks me in the eye. “Son, I’ve been divorced for seven years. I have known Prissy for more than two years, as the daughter of my caddie.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “The daughter of your caddie?” I remark. “I guess fetching my father’s balls runs in the family.”
“Logan!” my father shouts as Maria, his plump housekeeper, enters the kitchen. He quickly uses her as an excuse to change the subject. “Maria, can you please set the table in the dining room? And fetch that 2002 bottle of Dom Perignon from the cellar, please. Tonight, we’re celebrating.”
Maria nods. “Yes, Mr. Pierce.”
“Thank you, dear,” my father says, turning back to me. “As I was saying, Prissy and I have known each other for quite some time. Yes, we began seeing each other romantically just a few months ago, but you can’t put a timeline on love. We’re getting married New Year’s Eve, and I want you to be there, Logan. I’ll even allow you to bring whatever poor girl you’re dating at the time.”
All eyes are on me. It is no secret that I’m closer to my mother than I am to my father. Though my parents waited to divorce until after I graduated from Yale, right before I began law school, their marriage had been pretty much over since somewhere around the time I hit puberty. In fact, I was twelve years old the first time I saw my father with another woman.
“I’ll have to think about it,” I remark.
I’m halfway through my trout, and Prissy and my father’s third retelling of how he proposed to her, when I can no longer keep my mouth shut. “Did you invite Mom to the wedding?” I ask as I slice off a piece of carrot and pop it in my mouth.
Prissy flashes me a look of pure exasperation before turning her attention back to her meal.
My father shakes his head as he pours himself some more champagne. “I am sure the last place your mother would want to be this New Year is at my wedding.”
“You’re well aware I have no intention of leaving her to ring the New Year in alone,” I reply, grabbing the champagne bottle and pouring the last dregs into my glass.
My father waves off my suggestion. “By all means, Logan, spend your pathetic New Year’s with your mother again.”
My father knows all too well that the reason I spend every New Year’s Eve with my mother is because I don’t want her to spend it alone with her many years of equally happy and awful anniversary memories. By the time my parents divorced seven years ago, my mother was in her fifties. She lives a quiet life at her estate in Southampton now, where she has a few goats, a horse, some chickens, and a couple of dogs to keep her company. But every year, I battle many horrendous hours of New Year’s Eve traffic through freezing rain and snow to keep her company.
My father drains his champagne glass and sets it down. “Isn’t it about time you got married yourself, Logan?”
I look around at my dinner companions and everyone else seems to be avoiding eye contact with me, though my father is looking me straight in the eye. “Actually, funny you should bring that up,” I reply, relishing the look of surprise on Everett and Lindy’s faces. “You may begin hearing some rumors about my marital status over the next week or so, as I begin working to bring Close-Up magazine out of the red. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Everett cocks one of his thick black eyebrows. “I do believe father said you’re not allowed to sleep with anyone to win the shares. That would probably also entail marrying someone to win the shares.”
“Actually, there was no mention about marriage,” I reply smugly. “But don’t fret, brother. I have no intention of marrying someone to win my shares.”
Everett laughs. “Your shares? That’s some bravado.”
I shake my head and lean back in my chair. “It’s not bravado. It’s confidence. It’s easy to be confident when you don’t have to bribe people to do what you want.”
My father lets out a hearty laugh, his face flushed from all the alcohol. “Well, boys, there’ll be plenty of time to fight over who wins later. You both have until December tenth to save Close-Up and Open Sky from certain death. After that, I will be the judge of who is the better businessman. And I will announce my decision at the company Christmas party on December fifteenth.”
If history had taught me anything, I’m certain my father and Everett are both expecting me to fail. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve – namely my sexy little celebrity whisperer who’s deeply indebted to Kensington. If all goes according to plan, and my assistant Nora did her research on Sophie properly, I’m going to get a celebrity scoop to trump all celebrity scoops. I’m going to send Close-Up magazine out of the red and skyrocketing into the black.
I glance at Everett and he looks very confident with this news of a deadline. “Like I said, you may start hearing rumors about me getting married sometime in the near future. Don’t believe everything you hear.” I drain my glass of champagne and set it down gently before I rise from the table and clap Everett on the shoulder. “Let the games begin.”
Chapter 4
SOPHIE
I shove the shower curtain open before leaving the bathroom, one of my many girl rituals. I figure if I ever come home to find my shower curtain has been pulled closed, I’ll know it’s because there’s a serial killer hiding in my tub waiting to ambush me. I never realized how living alone in the three-bedroom house in Brooklyn where I grew up would make me so paranoid.
I feel guilty admitting I had assumed that, after my father succumbed to ALS — also referred to as Lou Gehrig’s disease or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis — I would suddenly have a glamorous lifestyle, ala Carrie Bradshaw. Just a simple girl writing simple gossip articles and hosting glamorous parties. I didn’t anticipate that I would become so depressed after my father’s death that I would gain ten pounds and start rejecting most social invitations.
I also didn’t anticipate I would find myself agreeing to fake-marry someone just to hold onto the last piece of my father I have left.
I pour myself a glass of water from the tap and chug it down, as I glance around the kitchen where my mom used to make my favorite cowboy spaghetti. I run my hand along the orange Formica countertop as I study the wood cabinets that my father never got around to refinishing before he passed. His final words to me, as he sailed down the Morphine River into the great unknown, were, “Shortcake, this is your home now. It’s okay if you don’t want to stay here.” Then, he was gone.
He’s been gone almost two years and I haven’t worked up the courage call a real estate agent nor break out the sandpaper and primer to refinish the cabinets. The eight buckets of paint and wood stain stacked up in the basement continue to collect dust. Sort of like my heart.
Sometime
s, it’s easier to let something precious fall into disrepair. When you dust things off and shine them up, you run the risk of catching a glimpse of your own reflection. Then, you might have to own up to the fact that you get paid to gossip about people’s private lives.
Not to mention, I might look in the mirror and realize I actually prefer myself as a blonde. I definitely can’t let Logan know that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, startling me out of my pensive mood. Sliding the phone out, I get an unmistakable sensation of butterflies fluttering in my belly as the sight of Logan’s name catches me off guard. I feel like a pubescent teenager answering a call from the coolest guy in school. It’s been a long time since any man has elicited that feeling in me.
“Hello?” I answer.
“I’m on my way. Should be there in about twenty minutes or so. Traffic on the parkway is—”
“You can’t come here!” I blurt out “My neighbors cannot see us together.”
Logan is silent for a moment. “What’s wrong with your neighbors? Are they the nosey type?”
I sigh with frustration as I realize I foolishly assumed we would be riding to the airport separately, despite the fact that’s not how married couples usually travel. “I’ve lived in this house since I was eleven years old,” I reply. “I know all my neighbors. They all adored my father, so they check up on me often. They know I am not married. I can’t lie to them about this.”
He laughs. “Okay, so how am I going to pick you up?”
I begin making my way to my bedroom. “I’ll meet you at your place. Just text me the address.”
Silence again, but this time it’s longer “Is this some sort of ploy to get my address so you can start stalking me? I’ve never given out my address to a woman.”