“Good point,” I say, studying her long enough to decide she’s not messing with me. I wonder if I could I trust her to help me.
“I spoke with my brother and his wife last night. They wanted to rush out to see how you’re doing but I told them you’re on a tight deadline and that it wouldn’t be helpful,” she says, maintaining direct eye contact. “They wanted me to pass on their deepest apologies for the incident and said to let me know if you’re in need of anything at all to make the rest of your stay more pleasant.”
“That’s very kind of them.”
“Is there anything you need?” she asks, tilting her head a little.
My heart leaps to my throat. I have to do this. I have no choice but to trust someone and it has to be her. “How quickly can you type?”
“How quickly can I type?” she asks, looking thoroughly confused.
Oh, this was a terrible idea. But I’m in it now, so… “I know that sounds rather unconventional, and it's absolutely within your right to refuse my request. I realize you're not a secretary and that helping me work on my book is insanely far outside of the scope of an executive chef,” I say, running my hand through my hair, feeling like a complete idiot. “Not secretary. Executive assistant—I believe that's what they prefer to be called in the modern era. Did I just say modern era? Christ, now I sound like a man who’s just time-travelled from the 1920’s. I should just call you a dame and get it over with.”
Emma starts to laugh, and the sight of it relaxes me the tiniest bit.
Clearing my throat, I continue. “It's just that I don't think that Phyllis or Alfred seem like the tech-savvy types, if you know what I mean. God, now I'm being ageist as well as sexist. I should just quit while I’m ahead.”
“Please, go on,” she laughs. “This is almost as fun as last night.”
Shit. Pull it together, Pierce, you daft moron. “Allow me to start again. As you have quite likely deduced, I am not in the habit of asking for favours. But in this situation, as much as I hate to impose upon your time, I find myself without another viable alternative. I'm not sure if you're aware of the situation in which I find myself currently, but there's a bit of urgency to my work at the moment.”
I nod. “I may have come across your rather bitter-sounding fanbase when I Googled you.”
“That's putting it mildly. At this point, I'm getting more hate mail then Hitler…if he were alive and his address were made public, that is. Now I can’t even string together a decent analogy. I should just stop talking.” I shake my head at my idiocy, then take a deep breath. “Ms Banks, I know we got off to a bad start and it was completely my fault. And asking for this particular favour is so far out of my comfort zone, I can't even see the boundary from here. But I need someone who can be utterly discreet and would be immune to bribery because, should anyone figure out who is helping me type my book, they will undoubtedly stop at nothing to try to find out how this series ends.”
“That sounds ominous,” she says, her eyes growing wide.
“That didn’t come out right. What I meant to say is that they’d likely hound you relentlessly and quite possibly offer you a great deal of money to spill the proverbial beans.”
“Ah, that doesn’t sound nearly so bad now,” she says, looking slightly pleased.
“I can offer you just as much, if not more, money,” I say, swallowing hard. “Name your price.”
“I’m not interested in their money. Oryours, to be honest,” she says, her face growing serious all of a sudden in a way that makes my stomach flip. “But there is one thing I need.”
“Name it. As you can undoubtedly tell, I’m not only the world’s worst negotiator, I’m also desperate.”
Emma chuckles at me, then her smile drops again. “My family is worried that you might make some negative comments about the island after the incident yesterday, or possibly take legal action.”
“Oh, no. That was my own stupidity,” I say, shaking my head quickly. “You tried to warn me but I didn’t listen.”
“That’s what I told them but they don’t know you like I do. Not that Iknow youknow you. I just…have a general sense of your character and you seem honest. Maybe a little too much so at times, but...” Her voice trails off and she turns a little red.
“Asking for what you want can be awkward as hell, can’t it?” I say.
“Extremely.”
“Is that all you need? Because I’m asking for a rather large favour here. I’ll need you day and night for several weeks and I’d feel badly taking advantage.”
“Well, if we’re negotiating, what this resort needs is a champion of sorts—someone influential among people who can afford to stay here,” she says pointedly.
“Done. I will happily tweet, Snapchat, and Instagram a plethora of soulful reviews and gorgeous pics as soon as I leave.”
Her eyes narrow and I quickly add, “I can't reveal my exact location until I'm gone for what I'm sure are obvious reasons.”
“Oh, right,” she says with a nod.
‘How about this? As soon as I leave, I’ll not only sing the resort’s praises on social media, I’ll contact my inner circle and imply that none of them can afford to come here.”
