“No?” My stomach dropped. “What’s happened?” Why wasn’t she just telling me whether or not I still had a job?
“Nothing. Naught. You’ve goneviral, is all.”
I stopped breathing. “What.”
“You’ve been trending all night, pet,” she explained, lighting a cigarette in the dark—her most default form. “You and your weird little penguin.”
“What does that mean?” I sat up, and Lucas followed, cuddling up against me in a way that was distracting but extremely welcome.
“It means you’re hot shit, Demetrio. It means Drake House can’twaitto renew our contract.” Lakshmi clearly couldn’t help it, she was grinning at me like the sharp-lined, nocturnal predator she was. “Getting a bit stroppy about scant socials, though. We need to ride this wave. Make hay while the ruddy sun shines, yeah?”
I winced. “Aye. I’ll ... I’ll post something.”
Lucas leaned in close to my ear and whispered happily, “Congratulations!”
“Yes, you’ll bloody post something.” Lakshmi puffed a smoke ring toward the camera. “That reminds me, how did it go with the flatmate? I’m assuming he was the dishy blond at the con? You know, the one you couldn’t take your eyes off?”
How did she—
Right. The cameras. The bloody livestream. I looked over at Lucas, who was watching me with intense amusement, stifling a snort. “Er. Aye,” I said. “Lucas Barclay.”
“Achcha,” she said, businesslike again. “I’ve done a quick google, and it seems he knows his onions, actually.” She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately reached for another. “Does publicity for horses or some suchlike, and brilliant portraiture. Any chance he does freelance?”
Lucas’s eyes widened, and I raised my eyebrows in question. It seemed to take him a moment to realize what I was asking, and then he gave a quick nod.
“He does.”
“Marvelous. He takes lovely pictures, so let him take you to the seashore or something. Eat an avocado. Once you’re back across the pond, we’ll hire someone full-time, at least for the next few weeks to ramp up for the anniversary issue— My word, you’ve goneveryquiet. Is he there with you?”
I choked, then glanced over at Lucas in a panic. He was grinning brightly.
“Bloody hell, Lakshmi,” I grumbled.
“Hii,” Lucas trilled, bending toward the phone. “Nice to meet you!”
My agentbeamed.“Hello, dear!Sopleased we have this opportunity to chat.As you’ve likely discovered, Armand Demetrio is, bless him, a bit of a handful. He does great work when hedoesdo work, mind you, but for someone with a platform and following as large as he has, let alone as he’saboutto have ... Let’s just say that his social media presence is next to nonexistent.”
“I’ve noticed.” Lucas giggled, being rather painfully adorable even as he conspired with my agent. “I could barely find a picture of him.”
“So you see the problem.” She raised a severe eyebrow. “Be my hero? We need to make sure the masses remember our boy, make use of that pretty face of his—get some intrigue going, if possible. I saw some of the cute bits you’ve done with your equine subjects, and that pretty white boy with the curls. Think you can drum up some pics for a hashtag or six?”
Lucas was already nodding along, smiling to himself while his eyes narrowed pensively. “Absolutely, I know we only have a day, but I’m sure I could think of something—”
“Wait,” I cut him off, then barked at my phone, “give us a minute,” before I hung up the call.
I set the phone down on the bed and faced Lucas, who, I was chagrined to realize, looked rather stricken.
“I’m sorry.” He bit his lip. “I didn’t even stop to ask if you wanted—”
“Come with me to London.” Then I added miserably, “And I’m sorry I keep interrupting you. Come with me to London? Please?” I swallowed hard. “To do the publicity for the anniversary issue, I mean.”
Lucas blinked at me. His hair was still tousled, the bedsheet pooled around his lap, and the broad, tan, peachy curve of his bare shoulders glowed in the muted light. His mouth had fallen open, and every nerve in my body screamed at me at once that if I did not kiss this man at once I would die.
“Are you serious?” His breath hitched.
“Regrettably, yes.” I bit down on my knuckles, unable to meet his eyes. Instead, I focused on his hands: large and elegant and manicured and rough at the finger pads and palms. I couldn’t help it, I reached for them, and nearly cried in relief when Lucas all but pulled himself into my lap.
“Come with me to London,” I said again. “Take photos of me scowling at ducks.”
