Last night, somewhere between book recommendations and low-simmering flirtation, I’d grabbed a cocktail napkin and scribbled it down, sliding it across the table with a grin.
“In case your reading list needs refreshing again,” I’d said. “Feel free to reach out.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll file this away in case I experience a reading list emergency.”
Then she made a show of tucking it into her purse.
My phone buzzes.
I pick it up—hoping, foolishly?—
But no.
It’s my assistant. Gina.
“Morning,” I say, standing and moving toward the window.
“Good morning, Prince Charming,” she replies. “How was your evening?”
“It was… good,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Was it?” she says, dry as dust. “Because word on the ballroom floor is that after a certain grant recipientpretendedto stumble and fall into you while walking up onstage, you disappeared with her well before midnight and were not heard from again until—well, just now.”
“Good lord, Gina.” I close my eyes and sigh. “Are you reading the social recap or reviewing surveillance footage?”
“I have my sources,” she says without apology. “One of whom used to brief senators, so she knows how to spot a power move.”
“Well, if she thinks that’s what she saw, she’s dead wrong.”
“Oh? Then what was it? A Cinderella moment? Are you trying to trigger your father? Or just accepting a more personalized and private thank you from the award winner?”
“None of the above,” I say.
She exhales—and the edge in her voice softens. When she speaks again, it’s quieter. Measured.
“Spencer, look, you’re entitled to have a life. But let’s not pretend this would be the first time you blowing off a little steam turned into a PR migraine. Remember the adorable blonde from the Equinox Foundation dinner? The one who swore you’d made an after-banquet promise to fund her wellness startup?”
I groan. “That was ages ago.”
“Exactly. And then there was the redhead from Atlanta who came back claiming you?—”
“Gina,” I cut in. “This isn’tthat. Rhea isn’tthatkind of person.”
“Rhea?” she echoes, as if I shouldn’t be calling the woman I just slept with by her first name. “No offense, Spencer, but your judgment in the past suggests you’re not always great at spotting the difference between someone genuine and someone on the prowl for a good-looking meal ticket.”
I inhale slowly, then exhale.
“She’s smart,” I say. “Grounded. She didn’t ask for anything. She didn’t initiate. And she didn’t even leave her number. And she just earned a huge grant award.”
Gina pauses. I can tell she’s regrouping.
“Which, I might point out, is for thelibrarysystem, notherpersonally. Regardless, is there anything you need me to handle? Press? Board members? Photos? Questionable optics?”
“No.”
“Any other forlorn maidens I should be aware of? Anyone who looked personally wounded when you left with the librarian?”
“No,” I say. “Geez. You make me sound like… No. Nothing. Nothing to clean up. Nobody to worry about.”
