“Anything like what?”
“Recent overdoses, drunk driving incidents, anything the media could twist into being bad,” I listed, preparing a new word document, already getting up some bullet points.
“There will always be something,” he grumbled, looking at his nails.
“So tell me what thatsomethingmight be.” This man didn’t deserve my time. “Whatever you tell me is confidential between us, I promise.”
“You could ordain me a priest right now,” he moaned, “and they’d still find and publish shit from years ago. Really fucked up, bad shit.”
I sat back, looking him up and down. He had the nerve to feel sorry for himself. My whole career was on the line for this man.
Not that he could know that.
I was beyond grateful for this job. Maybe a little too grateful.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t put him in his place.
“Okay,Armas,” I said and gestured at myself. “One thing you need to know about me is I don’t care. You have a sob story? Everyone does. Everyone has dealt with shit. Even those that haven’t been through the horrifying events of others, their shit is still shit to them. But you are earning millions doing a job you love. A job you are close to forfeiting. I have no sympathy for you; my help only goes so far when you refuse to help yourself. All I have to do is prove I tried and I get paid. You sit back and pity yourself and all you’ll do is lose your career.”
Bluffing. I was completely and utterly bluffing. This man needed to get good publicity if it meant not starting my whole career again.
To think, I’d been offered VP of PR Princeton and turned it down so my ex-boyfriend could have the role. It ‘made sense’ for when we would have kids.
Love-sick, family-orientatedfool.
He gave me a stony look. “I’ve been having an affair with a married woman.”
“Fuck,” I breathed.
Lucky cow.
Nope.Nope.
I pursed my lips, hoping it looked like I was unsure what to say as heat rushed to my core.
It was that time of the month when even going over a speedbump had me aroused. Nothing to do with him.
“Assuming you’re going to tell me to end it,” he said, leaning over the table to see my empty document.
“How long for?”
“On and off for four years,” he said with a shrug, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not exactly regular.”
“You’re right. I’d suggest you end it.” My voice gained that edge to it. The no-nonsense one, the putting my foot down one. The no-more-questions one.
It was clearly more than a suggestion.
He smothered a smirk, looking me up and down. “I’d need someone else to entertain me.”
Ha. Right.
“Part of the plan is to have a stable relationship for the media,” I reminded him. “That could be a part of it.”
With his repulsion clear, it would only be a hate fuck between us. I wasn’t about to risk this job for twenty minutes in a garage.
This had been the only place that would take me.
At twenty-nine, I hadn’t expected my career to take such a beating. Everything was supposed to be figured out at this stage. I was meant to have settled down with someone, moved out of London and bought a house.
