by Misty Evans
“Give a statement? What kind of statement?”
“One saying you’re not involved with Hawke but 3 Wishes has nominated him for Donor of the Year and you’ll be happy to answer their questions about the foundation and the good work we do here.”
Jenna gulped her latte, burning her tongue. “I guess I can do that.”
Wanda cocked her head to the side. “Wear some lipstick and let your hair down. Tell me you’re wearing a decent shirt under that hoodie.”
‘Decent’ in Wanda’s terms meant feminine, free of stains, and anything but cotton. Good thing Jenna had three such shirts hanging in her office closet thanks to Van.
But talking to the press? She’d rather break her leg again. “Maybe you should give the statement. You’re better at speaking to people than I am.”
“Did you not just hear me say that it’s not my stunning face splashed all over the web? If I go out there and say there’s nothing going on between you and Hawke they’re going to capitalize on your absence and figure I’m lying. You have to nip this in the bud. I can chase them off for you, but you’re the only one who can squash the rumors. If you want them squashed.”
Of course she did, didn’t she? Even though Hawke was the perfect man in her eyes, there was nothing going on between them and Jenna wasn’t about to lie to keep the spotlight on her. The spotlight belonged on the foundation.
And Hawke.
Wanda headed out, stopping at the door. “What time do you want to speak to them?”
“Um…” Jenna bit her bottom lip. “Give me half an hour?”
“You got it,” Wanda said, shutting the door softly behind her.
“Holy shit,” Jenna murmured.
With shaking fingers, she dialed Van. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Jenna left her a short but pointed message. “Call me ASAP!”
Then she texted her just to be sure. “SOS!!!!”
Wanda was always telling her to stop using exclamation points. “Only teenage girls and drama queens used exclamation points,” she’d said. Jenna didn’t care. Jacob Swinton would be in the Wanda camp, but dammit, some situations called for exclamation points, and lots of them.
Okay, so… She needed notes. And lipstick. And a new shirt.
Her hands shook as she rifled through her drawer looking for her single tube of lip gloss. There. She snagged it and ran to her mirror.
Normally, she shied away from lip color of any kind because they all seemed to clash with her red hair, but the pale strawberry of this one matched and brought out her eyes.
Me and Hawke. She smiled as she ran the wand over her lips. The idea was both ludicrous and slightly exciting. If the media thought he might like her, was it possible she had a chance?
She entertained that idea for all of five seconds. Who am I kidding? This isn’t real, Jenna.
But it was fun anyway.
Pulling the pony holder from her hair, she bent at the waist and ran her fingers through the long strands. Straightening up again, she was pleased to see her hair fan over her shoulders, instantly making her look more mature.
Avril Levigne. Please.
Throwing off her hoodie, she exchanged her green Element t-shirt for a silky, peacock blue shirt Van had recommended for board meetings. The silk shirt classed up her leggings and the blue color accentuated her hair, her eyes, and her now strawberry-colored lips.
She flipped her hair once more and yanked off her leather wrap bracelet, tossing it aside.
There. That should do it.
Her cell phone buzzed and Jenna sprinted to the desk. But it wasn’t Van calling her back, the screen read ‘unknown number.'
Probably a telemarketer.
I don’t have time for that.
She let the call roll to voicemail and sat down to make a few notes about what she would say to the reporters.
Hawke Thorn is graciously helping 3 Wishes and has been nominated for the prestigious Donor of the Year Award.
He has already raised over $100,000 and autographed over one hundred photos for 3 Wishes members.
If anyone had the balls to ask if she and Hawke were involved, she would set them straight.
Her phone beeped, saying the caller had left a message. Jenna continued to make notes.
The 3 Wishes Foundation appreciates Mr. Hawke’s involvement and commitment to granting wishes to children and teens struggling with life-changing injuries and disabilities. With his support and the notoriety he brings to this worthy cause, 3 Wishes hopes to expand its services worldwide in the coming year.
She would have the 3 Wishes brochures and PR packs ready to hand out to each press member.
Her phone rang again, this time from a blocked caller.
I can do this. She sat back, ignoring the phone and closing her eyes for a second. Her pulse raced. Her stomach churned. But I sure wish you’d call me, Van.
Needing the distraction, she thumbed through her pink message slips. Her pulse raced faster. Every one of them was from a media outlet.
Her phone dinged with a second message.
Curious, she listened to both.
“Hi, this is Gary Monmouth from Celebrity Scoop. Would love to do an interview, babe. Call me.”
He rattled off his number.
The second message was similar, this one from Stars Today.
Good God, what have I gotten myself into?
* * *
An hour later, Jenna staggered back into her office waving a mental white flag. She’d given her speech and when she’d asked for questions, the press had eaten her alive.
Eaten. Her. Alive.
She’d made so many faux pas, they were going to dub her Miss Laughingstock USA. She had no doubts. They’d twisted everything that had come out of her mouth. It was so bad she’d stopped listening to herself halfway through.
But leaving hadn’t been an option. They’d swarmed her, blocked her way into the building. Lights flashed in her face, people yelled things at her. Wanda had called security and finally Jenna had been able to get to safety.
She gulped the cold latte still in her morning coffee cup and fell into her chair. Her hair was messed up from her twirling it and her lipstick was worn off from biting her bottom lip. Somehow she’d managed to stain her shirt as well.
I am never doing that again.
“You have to,” Van said over the phone a few minutes later when she finally returned Jenna’s call. “I just saw a blip about you on the local Paris channel. The people love you. They love your awkwardness and your honesty, even if the press tried to make you out to be a slut. I mean, where did they get that statement about you and Hawke doing it in your office?”
“Oh, God.” Jenna put her head down on the table. “You have to come home and help me with this, Van. Please.”
“Jenna, sweetie, you know I can’t do that. But listen, I’ll evaluate all the press stuff and shoot you some ideas on how to handle the next round with them, okay? Meantime, you need a PR person. Someone on the ground there who has experience dealing with the press and who can help you do a better job of promoting the foundation while keeping your reputation intact.”
“I don’t know anyone like that.”
“You and Wanda have done a great job of grassroots marketing, but it’s time to take it to the next level. You’re going to need a PR firm who specializes in nonprofits. Unfortunately, it will take time to find one who will be a good fit for you. I’ll research it, but you need an expert today, a mentor. Someone who’s been in the spotlight and knows the pitfalls and how to work the media to your benefit.”
“I need you,” Jenna groaned.
“I’m not a publicist, J. I’m a life coach. Surely you know someone who can give you guidance until we find a solid PR firm to represent you. You have famous donors and people on your board who deal with the media all the time. Ask one of them.”
An imagine of Jacob popped into Jenna’s head.
No freakin’ way. Not him. Anybody but him.
Jacob is the expert you need. The Swinton family worked the media like nobody’s business. They had the paparazzi wrapped around their gold-tipped fingers.
No. No way was she asking that egotistical maniac for help. Especially after he’d stormed out yesterday.
“Ooh, I know,” Van said. “Jacob Swinton! He’d be perfect. He helped St. Golden last year with a potentially scandalous employee situation. Remember that?”
“No, and no. I’m not asking His Highness to help me with anything.”
“Jenna, this isn’t about you. This is business. Grow a pair and call Jacob, or I’m not helping you with this.”
“Don’t joke around with me.”
“I’m not kidding. I’m doing this for your own good. If you’re going to turn this disaster into a launching point for 3 Wishes, you need to start thinking and acting like the president of a million dollar foundation, which you are. Connections and networking are where it’s at. Now don’t bother me again until you’ve got Jacob lined up to help you.”
The line went dead.
Jenna let the phone fall from her hand. What had Jacob said to her yesterday? Act like a goddamn president.
Van had basically told her the same thing.
Her phone rang again, another ‘unknown’ caller. Crap. There was no way she could handle this on her own.
Fine. She smoothed her tangled hair from her face. This was about 3 Wishes, not about her personal grudges. She had balls. You bet. She would deal.
Hating herself, she buzzed Wanda and asked her to get Jacob on the line. Her mouth was dry, her pulse racing for an entirely different reason.
“Mr. Swinton, line two,” Wanda said a few seconds later.
“Red?” Jacob’s voice conveyed modest concern when Jenna picked up. “Is everything alright?”
Jenna swallowed her pride along with the lump in her throat. “I’m in need of some professional input. The press is overwhelming me with requests and my last…interaction…with them didn’t go so well. I hate to admit it, but I’m a poor reflection on my own company, and I could use your advice.”
The pause that followed stretched on for an eternity. She could imagine him either in shock or sitting there with that damn smug smirk of his enjoying the idea that she was sweating bullets waiting for his reply.
“Very good,” he said at last, with only a hint of superiority. “We can discuss the venue change and go over the contract at the same time. My schedule is packed today, but I can get away for dinner. You’re vegetarian, correct? I’ll have my assistant make reservations for seven at Baldric’s. They have a fabulous New Zealand merlot as well as a Spanish tortilla with zucchini.”
How did he know she was vegetarian? “Baldric’s, huh?” Fancy schmanzy. Nothing less for His Highness. “That would be fine.”
“Bring your ID since you look twelve and they will, no doubt, card you. Also, please elevate your footwear to something other than canvas high-tops. I’ll send the car for you at six-thirty.”
He disconnected before she could argue.
Probably better that way. He had the ability to condescend and make her feel like a street bum without directly criticizing her looks or her choice of shoes, and no matter how much she needed his advice, his attitude sat like a brick in her stomach.
Her phone buzzed again with a blocked number and Jenna turned the damn thing off.
Jacob’s good with kids, she reminded herself, trying to calm her frazzled nerves. And with the media. He can’t be all bad.
But she knew deep in her bones no matter what footwear she chose or how much she tried to appear the adult, he’d find something lacking.
Screw him. She’d been through some pretty trying situations and survived. She’d survive this one too, with or without his help.
Putting in her ear buds, she cranked up Triple Threat and went to work on the pile of messages waiting for her.
4
She'd fucking called him. That had been...unexpected. But he, like the rest of the world, had seen her stumble and fall through this morning’s statement and Q&A.
She'd been awkward, but charming. Funny even. But then they'd started with the slut shaming. Despite their differences, and the ease with which she could irritate him, he knew that much wasn’t true. She wasn’t some slag who slept around. She needed help.
It doesn’t have to be you. No. It didn't. But if he helped her she might be able to focus on the awards dinner. He might actually get some work out of her. As it was, she was taking hours dealing with things that should have been handled immediately.
She was no doubt overwhelmed. You were your first time, too.
The first time he'd had to deal with media like that he was ten. Thanks to his father's dalliances, his family had been plastered all over the media. As his father was distant nobility, and his mother an American heiress, the scandal was especially juicy. One lovechild; a half sister he rarely saw. His mother had made handling the media an art form.
He'd learned from the best. Speaking of his sister, he made a note to call and check on her later. They hadn’t spoken in a week, and he wanted to see how her latest rounds of treatments were going.
She'd been born with Myositis, causing inflammation in her muscles and weakness and pain. She'd struggled her whole life just to live a pain-free day. He, of course, got updates on her health from her doctors to his email daily. But that wasn’t the same as speaking to her.
There was still enough tension surrounding her existence with his mother that he didn’t get to see her as often as he would like.
At six twenty-eight, the driver dropped him off at the restaurant's back entrance. The maître d’ led him in and showed him to a discrete table in the corner. His table. He had a series of restaurants he frequented when entertaining clients. Some were vegan. Some were vegetarian. Some were kosher. He had all his bases covered. But that was his job—to get the big checks, to make it work no matter the circumstance. He'd learned that from his mother.
He expected transit for Jenna to take at least fifteen minutes. San Diego traffic was notorious. 3 Wishes was in Mission Hills and the restaurant was in South Park, so it shouldn't take long. While he waited, he made several phone calls.
At precisely six forty-five, Jenna walked into the restaurant, and he was happy to see that she'd at least somewhat listened to him. Her hair was down, but it looked tousled and unkempt....as if she'd just rolled out of bed after an enthusiastic shag.
What? Where the fuck had that come from?
He stood as she approached. She still wore the blue blouse from this morning and the lip-gloss, and she had replaced those ugly beat up trainers she always wore with flats. Not exactly heels, but baby steps. She still wore leggings, though.
Well, he couldn’t win every battle.
But the effect was....cute. She almost looked....sexy. Bollocks. No...he meant feminine. Yeah. That's what he was going for.
“Jenna, I see you followed my instructions....somewhat.”
She looked down. “What? I'm wearing flats. You didn’t say anything about flats.”
He inclined his head. She was right. He must learn to be more specific. “Very well. Thank you for joining me. Please sit.”
She tucked her purse strap on the side of the chair and slumped into her chair. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to sit up straight, but he bit it back. That's something his father or mother would say, and hadn’t he always thought them over critical?
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me. I know last time we talked things were...tense.”
“That's one word for it.”
She blew a wayward strand of hair out of her face. “Can I put up my hair now? If I don't, it'll be a tangled heap and take hours to detangle. It's just so thick, it'll take forever.”
He ignored the irrational urge to reach over and finger a delicate strand. “Leave it. Please. I'm not asking you to do it to torture you. You asked for my help. I'm just showing you the difference in how you're treated if you look
a certain way.”
She glowered at him but muttered, “Fine.”
Once he'd ordered wine and she'd selected dinner for both of them, he leaned back. “So what can I help you with, Miss McIntyre?”
She frowned. “Jenna. You always call me Jenna or Red.”
He gave her a slight shake of his head. “This is a business dinner. Do you want the world to see you as fun, sweet Jenna with her hoodie and her Charles Taylor trainers or do you want them to respect you?”
She let out an irritated sigh. “Look, I get it, Jake. You’re trying to show me how I should be treated, but I simply need someone to talk to me like a human being. It’s been a pretty shitty couple of days.”
She was on the edge of a breakdown. He could see it in her wide eyes and slight pinch to her mouth. He liked it better when she was relaxed, because she always looked on the verge of a smile. And well, he wasn’t particularly good with tears...so there was that.
“Okay. Jenna. What do you need?”
“Fuck me,” she muttered and slouched even further. “I don’t know.”
Yes please. Bugger. It had clearly been too long since he'd shagged someone; that was all this could be. “You must have some idea.”
“All I know is I’m bad at this. All of this.” Her frown deepened. “All I ever wanted to do was help these kids, and suddenly I’m in charge and I haven’t got a fucking clue what to do. I can handle the volunteers because I’ve been one for so long; I understand how that works. This other stuff, the managing the donors? Nada. It's really overwhelming. And fuck, I shouldn’t have just said that to a board member.” She threw up her hands. “I probably shouldn’t have said fuck either.”
A smile tugged at his lips, but he repressed it. “So you're more than a little overwhelmed?”
“You could say that. And my future sister-in-law, she's great with this shit. Or at least faking it ’til she makes it, and I’m just not. And she's in France with Alex and she suggested I speak to someone with experience and...” her voice trailed. “That's why I'm here.”