“All publicity is good publicity?” My sarcastic tone gives away my opinion.
Cecily looks at me like I’m hopeless. “No, Klein. All publicity is notgoodpublicity. You can’t go running around with your schlong flapping in the wind and call it good publicity. This isstrategicpublicity. You’re inviting the masses along on your escapade.” She sits back, looking pretty damn pleased with herself.
I drag a hand down my face. “And this is going to help me get a book contract?”
Paisley responds. “It’s going to help you get noticed, Klein the?—”
I cut her off with a warning look before she can say ‘stripper’. She grins, finishing her sentence with ‘writer.’
Cecily claps her hands once, the sound reverberating through the room. “I think we just found your handle.”
“Is that a euphemism forschlong?”
Cecily glances at Paisley. “Did you travel back in time to find this guy?”
Paisley chuckles. “A ‘handle’ is your name on social media. And KleinTheWriter is pretty much perfect.”
Cecily grabs her phone from its face down position on the table, flipping it over and swiping rapidly over the screen. “It’s available,” she announces.
“Perfect,” Paisley responds. Her eyebrows lift as she looks my direction, waiting for me to say something.
“Fine,” I grumble.
“Fine?” she prods. “Or, amazing? Stupendous. How about”—she taps her chin—“thank you?”
“It’s not like you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” I remind her.
In my peripheral vision, I see Cecily and Paloma creep out of the conference room. The door shuts softly behind them.
Paisley pushes forward on the conference room table, using her palms for leverage. “You have four weeks to get to know me, and one week in which I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. I have signed up for the next six months, and my firm will be doing this without compensation. So not only will I not be receiving payment, but I will still be paying my employees. Do you know what that means, Klein?” She leans closer, and it takes just about everything I have not to let my eyes wander down into her blouse that has fallen open. Even now, as I will my gaze to meet hers, at the bottom of my vision I note her nude bra that is anything but boring. It is scalloped lace on the top, delicate and feminine.
Mimicking Paisley, I press my palms to the table and lift myself up, until our noses are less than a foot apart. “What? That dear old mom and dad aren’t going to get paid the same amount this month?”
Fire lights in Paisley’s eyes. “Do you think”—she swirls a lone finger in the air—“my parents pay for all this?”
“Are you trying to tell me they didn’t at least give you the money to start a business?” I cannot imagine in whatworld Paisley would be so young and have a business like this already. She comes from a wealthy family, isn’t it a safe assumption that they would’ve at least given her the seed money to start this marketing firm?
“My dad blocked my inheritance, and me, because I refused to go to the college he had chosen, and then I doubled down on my refusal and told him what I wanted to major in.”
Oh shit. I do not like where this is headed. Resigned, I ask the question I’m positive I already know the answer to. “And that major was?”
“Creative writing.”
I look down at the table, trying to gather all the thoughts in my head, so I can form a sentence that is worthy of Paisley’s revelation. “Paisley, I?—”
“Don’t,” she says in a low voice. “Don’t be sorry. And don’t feel bad for me. I switched to marketing, and—”she motions out around her—“it seems to have been the right choice for me.”
Though her tone of voice is strong, it wavered once while she spoke. What would she do if I reached out, if I ran my knuckles across her cheek?
The longer I look at her, the more the fire in her demeanor diminishes. Vulnerability softens her eyes, her whole damn face. And what a face it is. Pert nose. Heart-shaped. A triangle of freckles at her temple.
I could be in a crowd of people and still know Paisley’s profile. In our creative writing class, I spent more time memorizing every dip and curve of her profile than I did paying attention to the curriculum. If only I could go back in time and stop myself from going overboard on thatcritique, or choosing a different one when they were laid out on the teachers desk. Would my life be different today if I had?
We stare at each other, the twelve inches separating us electrified. I want more than anything to erase her memories of my red pen and that one sophomoric kiss in her bathroom.
“My mom would like to know if you’re available for dinner on Wednesday night.”
The spell breaks. Paisley blinks twice. She stands upright, her thighs pressing against the edge of the table. I do the same.
