I glance over my shoulder then forward again, staring at the beautiful, wild woman in front of me dressed in kitten pajamas, slippers, and a robe.
“Me,” I say calmly. “Are you all right?” I reach a hand out to feel her forehead, but she knocks it away. Her eyes narrow to slits, which would be a lot more unnerving if her skin weren’t practically translucent from sickness.
“Yesterday, you … you …” Whatever she’s frustrated about, it’s making her almost incoherent. She drops her voice. “Youtalkedto me.”
I nod, confused. “Yes.”
“Youlistenedto me.”
I nod slower. “Uh-huh.”
“Isaidthings,”she hisses, her voice more deadly than any snake’s bite, with an emphasis that tells me what’s going on.
She remembered.
She knows I know.
I smile—not as big as I want to, but I couldn’t wipe the thing off my face if I tried. “You said a lot of things. I didn’t realize you had such a thing for Liam Neeson.”
She makes a guttural scream that can’t quite get past the gunk in her throat. She slams the door.
I knock.
“How could you?” she shouts through the door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. The grin comes back before I can stop it. Or maybe I don’t even try.
“How dare you gloat like this?” she demands.
I put an arm up to the doorframe, resting as I talk to her through the door. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean,” she says before she starts coughing.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Don’t,” she yells through a cough.
I pause, waiting until she’s finished. I’m about to knock again when I hear a soft, rhythmic bumping sound. Is she hitting her head against the door?
I roll my lips to keep from laughing.
A minute goes by. Two.
I knock.
The door jerks open immediately, and Scottie looks at me coolly, the angry flush gone from her face, the blue under her eyes peeking back through.
“We have PR boot camp,” she says, letting me in. “Buckle up.”
***
Scottie’s PR training is ruthless in the most professional way—a study in tight answers, controlled pacing, smooth pivots that redirect without ever sounding evasive.
After two hours of training, talking, and practice, I’m sweating again—and not from conditioning.
“I feel like I’m missing something,” I say finally. “Can we reverse it? I ask, you answer?”
She studies me for a second. “Am I pretending to be you?”
