“Samuel’s a disaster, but he’s sweet. And Micheal’s pretty funny.”
Mr. Anders’s gaze blackens.
I get the feeling he’s not interested…
I don’t know why.
It’s not like they’d side with Jeffry’s alpha dog, territorial-over-me nonsense. They’re the ones who, apparently, aren’t harboring a weird crush that they never told me about.
“Mirabelle Peters,” Mr. Anders mumbles, “are you trying to organize a play date for me?”
My gaze skids off him. “What? Who?Me?”
“I understand being with me is a fate worse than death and you find me revolting in every sense of the word, but I’m not interested in being around you because I’mlonely. I have friends.”
I am a million and one percent positive that the pure unadulteratedshockthat appears on my face in response to what he’s just said is, um,notthe kindest response. Neither, to be certain, is the fact I blurt, “Youdo?”
If I didn’t know better, I’d assume I was watching the slow collapse of a man’s mental health.
Thankfully, Mr. Anders is a billionaire, and he’s certainly had worse accusations laid upon him.
For example: dating his housekeeper.
Now that I think about it, this situation is probably pretty insulting to him, too. I shouldn’t assume that I’m the only one being affected here. He’s abillionaire. And the media is shoving him together with someone far younger who clearly cleans for a living based on the way she dresses.
That has to be problematic somehow.
I say, “What does your PR team say about this?”
Lifting himself from the trenches of mental collapse, he mutters, “My PR team?”
“Yes. What are they suggesting we do to remedy the situation?”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do, actually. I think, probably, we should rely on the professionals to deal with this, don’t you?”
His brow arches, and he straightens in his seat, lifting his hips to retrieve his phone from his back pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling my PR manager.” He taps something in, then he tosses the phone on the table between us.
I blink at the device.
“Yellow, boss,” a surprisingly chipper greeting buzzes up from the phone, “I’ve seen the news. This isgreat.”
I stiffen.Great?What does he meangreat?
“Is it now?” Mr. Anders grumbles.
“People are invested. We’re getting brand awareness out of this. Everyone isobsessedwith that girl. She’s just so stinkin’ cute.”
I flush.
Eyes fixed on me, Mr. Anders says, “Yeah, well. Any advice on what I should do now?”
“Halloween,” the man states. “Keep it fresh. Get party plans, make them obvious enough that whoever’s doing this gets a front-row seat, see if we can’t get enough buzz from it that I get you on a talk show by Thanksgiving. This chick’s so different from what people expect a billionaire’s woman to be like. It’s practically fiction. Housewives and tired moms are living vicariously through the scandal. Keep the fantasy alive, and we’ll keep utilizing the gossip to your benefit.”
