“Yes, Coach.”
He tips his chin. “Management and PR, they focus on image. That’s fine. They got their spin now. Let ’em at it. But you and me? We go to work to win.”
“Yes, Coach.” I’ve learned this is the best response to almost all interactions when being lectured by one.
“Integrity, work ethic, and focus. That’s what matter to me.”
“To me as well, Coach.”
With that, I’m free. Once in the parking lot, I blow out a breath and roll my neck. I feel sticky with my lie. Worse? I pulled Penelope into it.
Again come the images of her sliding on the ring. The way she looked at it the first time, shocked but then her eyes went soft and shining. Like she loved it, wanted it. Seeing that had been a kick to the gut.
It’s all wrong. But what can I do? It’s too late to end it.
“It’s all bullshit.” James unwraps a small mint gum and pops it into his mouth, chewing like it’s his mission in life. Six foot one, deep brown skin, hair precision cut close and tight, with a gray bespoke suit probably worth twenty thousand, he’s intimidating to most. But I hired him because he’s honest, and I feel comfortable with him. And he’s a killer negotiator.
To that end, he glares back at the headquarters building we just left. “With the amount they paid for you, they should be licking your balls.”
I laugh shortly. “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“Please. Number one never licks balls. You afford others the privilege—for a hefty fee.”
“How about we stop with all the ‘ball licking for profit’ talk?”
James chuckles and tucks his hands into his pockets as he chews his gum. I’m not sure if he’s an ex-smoker or just has an oral fixation—ball licking debate notwithstanding—but he’s never without something to chew on.
I once heard another agent call him Jaws because James will tear into an unprepared offer and leave a bloody trail. Fine by me.
“So...” James looks me over with those killer eyes. “You got yourself a fiancée.”
“Seems like it.” I put my hands low on my hips, absolutely refusing to pull at my collar. Even if it is like five thousand degrees outside.
“Childhood sweetheart, was it?” His eyes are now narrow slits of a predator stalking prey.
“Friends. Childhood friends.”
“I suppose congratulations are in order?”
I study the distant mountains. “A bottle of Pappy Van Winkle wouldn’t go unappreciated.”
He snorts eloquently. “That all?”
“I heard The Macallan 1926 is pretty good.”
“A two-and-a-half-million-dollar whiskey for getting engaged?” He tilts his head. “You know what? For you, I just might.”
We share a laugh, but then it fades and he’s back to giving me the hard stare.
“When do I get to meet the lady who is so special you up and proposed to her in the space of a month?” His snark is clear and biting, but I know it’s not directed at me. While I might be the one who fucked up by acting like a fool, I’m the client and he’ll always be on my side against PR and management.
I also know it’s imperative that he and Pen do not meet. It would be a disaster for many reasons. And I do not want to play referee between them. I’d pick Pen and piss off James.
I turn toward my truck. “At the wedding.”
“The wedding!”
I enjoy his shock. “Yeah. We’ll be accepting gifts then too.”
