So did I. Especially since that would be the key to unlocking my promotion. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than your best,” he said. “Make it happen. Any other updates?”
“I’d actually love to run an idea by you,” I said, setting aside Lucas—Luke’s—file and opening a spreadsheet on my computer. With Bill out of town, I’d spent my weekend brainstorming fresh ideas to set myself apart from Lisa. “As you know, the issue’s launch party is perhaps the magazine’s biggest event of the year. Why not capitalize on the buzz? We could throw an invite-only exclusive pre-party, like a meet and greet for the finalists. Since many of them are local celebrities, it would drum up some publicity before we go to press.”
“Publicity is good,” he agreed. “I’ve already promised Russ it’ll be our best-selling issue of the year, and since Ialsoassured him this would be our most profitable quarter yet, that would make this our best-selling issueof all time.”
Beman made no secret of his great expectations each year—eachissue—and as an easy sell to the public, “Most Eligible” had a target on its back. Especially when making promises to the CEO of our parent company. Beman had just never directed those expectations at me since I’d had Diane as a buffer in the past.
I swallowed, trying not to look spooked. “Itwillbe,” I said. “That’s why we’re pulling out all the stops.”
He worked his jaw side to side before nodding. “Get me your projected costs for this pre-party by Wednesday. I’ll see if there’s a budget. We’ll need sponsors to foot the majority of the bill.”
“I’ll get started now.”
“Oh, and might I suggest a little touch-up before meeting with Mr. Dylan?” he asked, gesturing around his pursed lips. “No harm in trying to look nice for guests.”
I held my fake smile until he blustered out. I wouldn’t have put it past Beman to pimp us out to guarantee a best-selling issue, but how bad did I look? I’d slept fitfully all weekend, tossing and turning over my encounter with the Alvarez brother—and worse, the one with David. Maybe it wasn’t my fears that kept me up, but my guilt. Bill didn’t know anything yet. Every time I went to call him, or respond to his texts, the wrong man flashed across my mind.
David.
I shouldn’t get a thrill when I thought of his eyes on me. I shouldn’t wonder if I’d ever see him again. When it came to David, I shouldn’t feel or do anything—except forget.
* * *
My desk phone buzzed, jarring me out of a virtual black hole of research on alcohol sponsors for the Meet and Greet event. I dropped my pen on my open notebook and grabbed the receiver.
“Mr. Dylan’s at the front,” Jenny said breathlessly. “Should I show him to your office? I’d be happy to.”
“Have Serena bring him back,” I said, closing out of the browser. “She’ll be assisting me with the feature and should get to know the candidates.”
“Candidates?” Jenny asked, lowering her voice. “If you don’t pick this man for the feature, you’ll be joining Diane in the unemployment line. Beman’s out here flirting so hard, I’m afraid he’s going to pull a muscle.”
I raised my eyebrows, pleased. “Is Mr. Dylan gay?” I asked, also whispering but for no reason. One thing Lisa and I agreed on—Diane’s selections over the years had been too homogenous.
“No,” Jenny said. “And he looks uncomfortable.”
“Then get off the phone and call Serena,” I said, hanging up.
A surge of panic hit me. I hadn’t expected to conduct any interviews this early on in the process, and everything I knew about Luke Dylan was in a folder I’d barely peeked at. I hadn’t forgotten Beman’s unsubtle threat about fixing myself up, either.
I peeled off my borderline homely wool cardigan and took an emergency makeup kit from my handbag. Fortunately, Diane had hung a mirror on the back of the door. Balancing my cosmetic bag on the arm of the couch, I chose raspberry-colored lip gloss that left threads of goop when I smoothed my lips together. I had just enough time to comb my fingers through my hair when Serena’s voice came from the hall.
“It’s just right back this way, Mr. Dylan,” she said. “So, are you, like, from Chicago?”
“Born and raised in Illinois.”
I reached behind myself for the makeup bag and knocked it over, spilling products all over the floor.
Shit.
I squatted, threw everything back in record time, and went to stand when a green Clinique tube caught my eye. I squatted to slip my arm to where it had rolled between the wall and couch as the door opened.
“Olivia,” a man said as I grasped the lipstick.
Not just any man. I recognized that chest-rumbling voice that had been reverberating through me for days.
Palming the tube, I turned. Burnished, brandy-colored leather brogues stared back at me. My eyes drifted up a long body and landed on a familiar face that managed to be both intense and expressionless.
