“Mr. Blake? Am I boring you?”
I blink at the reporter, who’s glaring at me in annoyance.
Emma was right. This journalist is a shark. She isn’t even pretending to find me charming. Most reporters wait to unleash their disdain, saving it for their articles instead of in person. But it’s clear Charlotte Jones couldn’t care less what I think of her.
“Sorry. What was the question again?” I ask with my best grin, which usually turns even my haters into fans.
She doesn’t crack a smile. And is that an eye roll?
I try to relax my tense shoulders. I rarely get nervous from media attention. Paparazzi, journalists, and fans have always been part of the landscape of my life. I don’t rail against them any more than I would yell at the sun for blazing down on me or the wind for blowing too hard.
They just… are.
What I hate, though, is censoring myself. I hate that in order to build back up to unimpeachable A-list status, I need this stupid redemption-arc storyline my PR team is trying to craft. I need to go from bad-boy to serious actor in the public perception. But the rebellious part of me wants to trash the carefully constructed talking points because I stopped my people-pleasing bullshit years ago and don’t want to go back to it.
She tries to pierce me with her laser-like stare. “Let’s talk about your history, shall we? You spent your childhood building a stellar acting résumé. But you destroyed your reputation and almost killed yourself in a car accident because of a drug addiction, all before you entered rehab at eighteen. Do you think your family was disappointed in you? After all, your parents and grandparents are icons in Hollywood.”
I’m tempted to explain that my Oscar-award-winning father has nevernotbeen disappointed in me. And my mother really should go to rehab, if only I could talk her into it.
I look over at Emma. She’s lounging in a chair near the door, pretending to look at her phone, but I know she’s listening to every word. And it’s as if she can read my mind. She widens her eyes and then shakes her head emphatically. I raise my eyebrow, amused at her obvious panic. She shoots me another warning glance.
I go for the next best thing. “Well, considering my grandparents loved a good scandal and were involved in more than their fair share, I doubt anything I’ve done would shock them,” I joke.
Emma makes a strangled sound. The reporter’s head whips around to her.
“It’s nothing. Just swallowed wrong,” Emma says, waving her hand. But when the reporter looks away, Emma’s face sets into a fierce glare directed at me.
As much as I love teasing her, I know she’s right. I need to toe the line in this stupid interview. I’ve worked too hard to engage in my usual bullshit. Too much is at stake.
With a sigh of disappointment, I give Emma a brief nod, silently showing that I’ll play nice, even though it’s boring as hell. She has always been better at getting me to hold my tongue than my publicist, which is why she’s here.
The frowning Ms. Jones waits for me to say more. Her phone sits between us, recording the conversation.
“I wish my grandparents were still alive to give me advice,” I add with sincerity. “They were my biggest cheerleaders.” You don’t actually need to answer a reporter’s questions. Deflect, deflect, deflect. That’s what a lifetime of media training taught me, even if I often ignored the lessons.
Charlotte Jones crosses her legs, ruffles her stylishly messy hair, and leans forward. She must know that she will get nowhere by going down that track because she says, “I understand your grandmother left you this mansion when she died.” She looks around at the airy, elegant formal sitting room that’s virtually unchanged from when I was a child. I lived with my grandparents whenever my father and mother were otherwise occupied, which was usually.
I pick up my coffee cup to take another sip, needing the caffeine to keep my patience strong, but I frown to find it empty.
And just like that, Emma appears at my side with a fresh cup. I’m not surprised. She’s always been able to anticipate my needs before I even know them myself.
“Thanks, Em,” I say. I drum a beat on the arm of the chair with my fingers. Her hand brushes mine in a subtle movement to settle my fidgeting as she leans over to set the drink on the table. I freeze and look up at her. That slow brush is enough to remind me of this morning. To remind me of the curve of her ass in my hands. How she always smells of gardenias. How my groggy brain should have realized instantly that she wasn’t Allegra because of that scent.
Emma breathes out slowly and turns to the reporter. “Would you like another cup of tea?” she asks, a breathless note to her voice. I wonder if she’s thinking of this morning as well. But maybe I’m imagining things.
“I’d love one,” Charlotte says. She’s watching my assistant with the eyes of a hawk, taking in every detail. “If you don’t mind, could you steep this one longer? Milk and two sugars.”
Once Emma leaves the room, Charlotte pins me with a smile and a calculating look. I feel like a moth caught under a microscope. “Your assistant has been with you for a long time…”
“Yes.”
She’s silent, once again playing the waiting game to see if I’ll crack under the pressure and start blabbing to fill the space between us. But I have no problem with awkward silences.
I lean back and flash her an easy grin.
“How long has she worked for you? Her name is Emma Reynolds, right?” she finally asks.
“Seven years and four months,” I say without thinking.
