by Beck, Jamie
Peyton let out a long breath through her nose and stretched her legs, looking around the park before sharing her thoughts. “Don’t be silly. I’m not firing you. But given what you’ve explained, can’t you understand why the reliving of my experience for strangers is so hard for me?”
“I do. But don’t you see that your courage is exactly what makes you special? It’s why people want to come listen to you.” Another flock of birds flew overhead, drawing his eyes up again, then he returned his attention to Peyton. “No matter what else has happened, and however Logan coaxed you into this project, you made the choice to publish. On some level, you want this mission to work, and you’re so strong.”
He stood and paced a few steps. “I understand why you’d rather make different use of your time now. But even if you aren’t invested in how well the book sells, Savant cares very much. And now my credibility and reputation are tangled up with this project, too. As much as your feelings matter to me—and they do—I’ve still got a job to do. One I can’t do as well without your full cooperation. Better yet, your enthusiasm. But now I’m stuck. I don’t know how we both get what we need when I can’t seem to treat you like every other client.”
Peyton narrowed her eyes above a melancholy smile. “You’re very much like my brother . . . walking me step-by-step toward the conclusion you want me to draw.”
He raised his hands in a mea culpa. “I swear I didn’t share everything to manipulate you. I brought you here—a place I knew you loved—to apologize and explain myself, and to give you a little break. But I also want us to figure out how we go on from here, so I’m being as honest as I can.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mitch. I admire you . . . and the feelings behind all this.” She grinned.
“Bottom line, we’re on the same side here—or rather, we should be.” His phone rang again. No doubt his mom, the vampire, at it again. Four calls in a row demanded his attention. He pulled it from his pocket, then frowned. It wasn’t even 7:00 a.m. in New York. This couldn’t be good. “Hello, Rebecca.”
“Good morning. Did you get the link?”
“What link?” he muttered, turning away from Peyton so he didn’t need to mask his expression.
“The YouTube link posted by the guy in Barcelona.”
“No.” He took a few steps away and swallowed a curse. “And?”
“Well, he trashed the book and posted the video of Peyton’s response to him without supporting context. The good news is that he only has about three thousand subscribers and a bit more on Twitter. There aren’t too many comments or retweets, so this shouldn’t have a huge effect. It’s strange that he hashtagged the foreign book title but didn’t tag Peyton’s or Logan’s accounts.”
Coward. “Thanks for the update.”
“It might be better if it went viral. Controversy could help sell books.”
In some cases, he might exploit a controversy, but he wouldn’t put Peyton in the middle of a social media shitstorm. The mental setback would outweigh any benefit. Of course, his personal feelings might be clouding his judgment. Keeping his voice steady and low, he said, “No. Sounds like this will die out fast. Let me know if it starts to blow up, and then we’ll revisit a new strategy.”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket before turning to walk back toward Peyton.
“Everything okay?” Her pretty eyes filled with concern.
This news would kill any confidence she’d built up in the past twenty-four hours. With another set of interviews this afternoon and a bookstore event tonight, it’d be in her best interest to keep this from her, at least until after the reading. If she were any other client, he wouldn’t even think twice about it. The job came first. Yet one look in her eyes made him feel like the world’s biggest liar, bringing a definitive end to this lovely time-out.
“Mitch?” She pressed her teeth against her lower lip. “I know I’ve given you a hard time about dealing with other clients while we’re here, but if you need to put out some other fire, I promise I won’t flake on you. I’ll be at every event on time. In fact, if you need to go handle something now, I wouldn’t mind a little shopping spree. It is Paris, after all.”
“No, it’s not that . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “Nice try with the shopping excuse, but we should prepare for the upcoming interviews. I’m happy to discuss different passages you might select for the reading tonight, too.”
“After all you just told me? No thanks. I found my big-girl pants and will choose my own excerpts.” Peyton stood to collect the empty bag and cups. “I get that I need a little attitude adjustment, but so do you. It’s past time you learn to enjoy the moment. Take a breath and visit Paris while we’re here.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” He gestured to the river, the trees, the remnants of their picnic.
“For a microsecond.” She balled up the trash bag, tossing him that look. The one she gave him to let him know he wasn’t fooling her. “If you insist on prep work, let’s multitask and shop while we talk. The Paris fashion scene is hard to beat. We could even pick up something new for you.”
He glanced at his attire, frowning. “Now I need a makeover, too?”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips while she surveyed him, forcing him to also reevaluate his khaki trousers, crisp white button-down, and charcoal blazer. “Last I read, new trends for men include pinstripes, oversize shoulders, and leather.”
A sudden scowl seized his face so fast it almost knocked him over. Too-big tops and leather?
“No?” She laughed. With an approving smile on her face, she said, “To be honest, oversize clothing would be a shame on someone trim like you. We could insert a little more color into your wardrobe, though. Bring out the green and gold in your eyes. Play up that nice skin tone.”
A flutter—yes, the word he’d rarely used before meeting her—tickled his chest. She liked his shape, his eyes, even his skin, of all things. If he let himself think about it, nothing would get done today.
“What’s with the sour face? Is it that call?” She sighed, now looking at him like he was a lost cause. “There can’t be any secrets left between us?”
He clasped his hands behind his back so she couldn’t see them flexing. Damn that Barcelonan idiot to hell. “It’s nothing urgent.”
“Liar.” She waved him off, then strode a few steps to the trash can.
“Only white ones once in a while.” Close enough to the truth to quell some of the acid in his gut.
“A lie that won’t hurt anyone.” She kicked a stray stone with a huff. “Is there such a thing?”
He shrugged, staring past her to avoid her gaze, which caused her to glance over her shoulder to see what, if anything, he found so captivating about the Seine.
“At least tell me this. Is this ‘white lie’ business or personal?” She slung her purse over her shoulder.
He hesitated. Some relationships, like theirs, didn’t fit neatly into either category, making her distinction irrelevant. “Does it matter?”
“I’ve told white lies to protect friends, and I’ve told them to avoid uncomfortable situations with coworkers. Of course, in neither case would I be happy to be duped.” She laughed at herself more than anything else, he suspected. “How’s that for a double standard!”
He treated her question as rhetorical and ignored it. His best option now was to distract her by moving them out of the park and on to a new topic. “Let’s get going.”
She twirled around one last time. “Take it all in, Mitch. The mineral scent of the river. The air laced with diesel fumes. The thrum of the boat engines and distant traffic. The centuries-old construction. Are you sure I can’t tempt you to lose a couple of hours in the Louvre? Or to visit Oscar Wilde’s tomb in Père Lachaise Cemetery? Or maybe you’d enjoy a stroll through the gritty, cool neighborhood of Belleville?”
Mitch glanced at his watch and shook his head, returning them both to the reality of their mission in Paris.
“
No shopping, either?” She wrinkled her nose.
“We only have ninety minutes before the interviews.”
“I’ll be honest.” She kept pace with him while they headed back toward the stairs. “I wish all the bloggers would be in the room at the same time, like a press conference, so I could answer each question just once.”
He chuckled. “That would be efficient, but then no one would get an exclusive.”
“None do anyway. They all ask the same things . . . all the boring stuff, too, about my family, my motivation, how I’ve changed, blah blah blah.”
“It’s a memoir.” He reached for her hand to steer her around a pile of dog doo someone had failed to clean. She didn’t try to wriggle her hand free, so he kept hold for an extra two seconds to memorize the warm, soft feel of it. When he let go, he cleared his throat. “What would you rather they ask?”
“Anything original.” He studied her fine profile while they strolled across the bridge to the Left Bank. A sprig of bangs curled over one eye. Her forehead, the tip of her nose, and her chin aligned perfectly. Her porcelain skin begged to be stroked. She caught him staring. Flashing a quick smile, she continued with her other train of thought. “They could ask me about the worst person I met during treatment. Or how it felt to get the tattoos. Or if I ever had a crush on any of the doctors.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “Did you?”
“No. Well, maybe a girl crush on one kick-ass, no-BS female doctor. And I did love my Jamaican male nurse’s wicked humor. Devan is three hundred pounds of happiness in scrubs.”
He chuckled at that mental image and kept walking. “You mention him in your book. The one who brought in a guitar and sang with the kids.”
“Yes! Oh Lord—his voice . . .” Then her smile receded. “But seriously, why is everyone bent on discussing my great-grandfather?”
“Your great-grandfather is a big deal.”
“But he’s got nothing to do with the book. Most who’ll read it—Barcelona guy excepted—won’t give one flying you-know-what about him.”
Mitch winced at the mention of that reviewer, but Peyton didn’t appear to notice. She seemed too consumed by her own argument to be paying attention to him now, thank God. “He’s a point of interest. A starting place . . .”
“I don’t want the comparison. And readers won’t care, either. They want to know how to get through each day without giving up. They want a promise that, even in the middle of the very worst pain and fear, there can be grace and joy. They expect something real and accessible, not some Gatsby-esque history of my family. Duck’s legacy is cool, and my last name did help me get a contract. That’s why that guy’s dig the other night hurt. But now my book is out . . . so I think the focus should be on it and me. And it should be a little fun. Humor is important, even—especially—when you’re sick.”
Mitch had hailed a cab while she spoke, all without meeting her gaze. The more she mentioned the Barcelonan, the worse he felt about keeping the vlog from her. “If that’s what you want, then redirect the conversation. Take them where you want them to go.”
“Says the man with mad manipulation skills.” She scooted across the back seat. “I’m not like you and Logan. I react.”
“I’ve seen you turn on the charm.” His phone buzzed again. He looked at its screen, then closed his eyes, praying for patience. With an apologetic glance, he held up his finger to beg for silence and answered. “Mom, is everything okay?”
Peyton turned her face away and stared out the window. Hopefully she’d remain caught up in her own thoughts rather than listen to his end of this conversation.
“Oh, you’re up. Good. I’m planning to cook and freeze some things this week so we have food while you watch me after my surgery. How do you feel about chicken potpie? I think I can freeze that.”
“Potpie is fine, but let’s talk later. I’m with my client now preparing for another round of interviews.”
“Oh, sorry, honey. I keep forgetting about the time difference. I can’t wait until you get home and things go back to normal.”
He rubbed his temple. “I’ll call you when I get a break.”
“Are you having a good time?”
“We’re working.”
“From what I’ve read about her, she’s sort of a good-time girl, isn’t she?” The judgmental tone couldn’t be missed. “Globejotter . . . she must want to sightsee.”
“Yes, but like I said, we’re both working hard.” He hoped that would end the discussion.
“Oh, Mitchell, I recognize that tone. Don’t get too infatuated—remember that mess with Danielle. And while this woman is pretty, she’s from a whole different world. Different worlds complicate everything. You know, there are plenty of healthy, family-oriented women right here in Hoboken.”
Since he’d hit his thirties a few years ago, his mother viewed every single woman he interacted with as potential wife material. “Mom, I’m hanging up now. We’ll talk later—”
“Mitch!”
He closed his eyes a second time, but forced a smile and a pleasant lilt in his voice. “What?”
“Your sister called yesterday and invited me to dinner. Did you put her up to that? I don’t want to go if you did.”
He pinched his nose before saying, “I didn’t pressure Lauren. If she invited you to dinner, go with it and be happy. Now, I’m sorry, but I do have to go, Mom. Love you.”
He shoved his phone in his pocket.
“Another white lie?” Peyton grinned.
“Hm?” His heart sped up.
“You did put your sister up to that dinner. I heard you tell her to take your mom out earlier this week.”
“Oh well . . .”
“It’s sweet how you protect your mom’s feelings. In that way, you’re nothing like Logan.” Her grin suggested she didn’t hold that against her brother.
“If only my mother believed my white lies, she and Lauren would be better off,” he scoffed.
“So would you.”
“How do you mean?”
“She calls a lot . . . your mom.”
“That’s not normal?” he joked, seeking a way out of this conversation.
“Not in my world.” She smoothed the fabric of her skirt, staring at her fingers, while his heart sank from how her words bore out his mother’s warning. “My parents are at the other end of the spectrum and have pretty much been hands-off for as long as I can remember. The fact that you don’t get any privacy might be why you’re stuck with an ‘imaginary’ girlfriend.”
A part of his heart snapped—a sharp little prick that made him snort. “I’m all my mom has. She spent her forties grieving and raising two kids, which didn’t exactly attract eligible men. At sixty she doesn’t see men banging down her door, either. And if I were hunting for a girlfriend, I wouldn’t get involved with someone who couldn’t make room for my relationship with my family.”
He would’ve thought after everything Peyton had survived, she’d prioritize family, not brush them aside. But maybe her upbringing in a colder family meant she didn’t view those bonds the same way he did.
“Of course you wouldn’t.” She looked out the window.
For days he’d shoved his feelings down, telling himself that harmless flirtation meant nothing. His current disappointment proved how much he’d been kidding himself. All this time, he’d subconsciously been looking forward to the day when she wouldn’t be his client. Somewhere along the way he’d started to believe that maybe . . . Fool.
She swiveled suddenly, looking him dead in the eye. “But the right woman won’t just make room for them. She’ll share the burden so you aren’t the only one trying to solve all their problems.”
Now it was his turn to look away before she saw how much he wanted her to be that right woman. “Let’s grab a café table near the publisher’s office and talk about the interviews.”
Chapter Ten
“It wasn’t shopping, but it wasn’t so bad.” Peyton smiled as Mitch tucke
d his iPad away after spending the past hour bringing her up to speed about the various reviewers she’d be meeting next. The hard part had been staying focused on work while trying to process what she’d learned about Mitch this morning.
“You sound surprised, but I never set out to torment you.” A lopsided grin punctuated his words.
It might not be his goal, but he tormented her nonetheless. Sitting close to her. The stormy intensity of his gaze. The casual way he’d dropped the bombshell about struggling to treat her like a regular client. And on top of all that, he’d revealed the inner strength of a boy turned man who’d given up his life, in part, to honor a promise to his dying father.
Her phone vibrated again.
“You’d better take that. It’s the third or fourth notification in fifteen minutes.” Mitch threw ten euros on the small café table that they’d commandeered for the past hour. In the sunlight streaming through the plate glass window at her back, his hazel eyes glowed like liquid gold. “Excuse me for a minute.”
She drew in a deep breath. No jitters. No sour stomach. None of the other symptoms she’d experienced prior to interviews. Not even a desire to get up and run around the city to sightsee.
This must be what peace felt like. What she’d give to bask in the ambiance of the café longer to avoid reality and unanswered texts. But when Mitch disappeared behind the french-blue restroom door, Peyton took out her phone. Logan had sent all four texts. She scrolled back to read them in order.
1:14 p.m.
Hope you’re okay. The guy’s an ass who doesn’t know shit about good writing.
1:21 p.m.
Are you ignoring me because you’re pissed? I get it, but text me so I know you aren’t flinging yourself off the Eiffel Tower.
1:25 p.m.
Peyton? Please answer. And remember, even bad PR is good PR.
1:34 p.m.
I’m worried and really wishing I’d been able to come with you now. Please call when you have a minute.