Page 23 of Mr. Perfect

I walk over to the desk as McAllister follows, me taking a seat in the gigantic executive chair, him perching nonchalantly on the corner of the desk.

“They’re all VIPs, Miss Hatcher. Today’s guest is no different than yesterday’s. So you will make time for me and my questions.”

“Oh, really?” I challenge.

“Really,” he snarls.

“Well,” I say, opening the top desk drawer to find a shitload of Heath’s old stuff, including cigars. I make a face as I hold one up between my fingers. “Smells like these things in here still, you know. And it’s dark and ugly.”

“Uhhh…” Stonewall falters. “Sorry. Now why is today’s star more VIP than yesterday’s? Who, by the way, personally called me last night.”

“What? Brutus called you? Why?” But I know why. He’s going to sue us because he thinks I tried to kill him.

“Not Brutus, Andrew Manco. He called to let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he will take his VIPness elsewhere should you leave the company.”

I have to turn away a little to hide my smile.

“Laugh all you want, Miss Hatcher. But it’s not funny. We’re trying to make the sale of Stonewall go as easy as—”

“Sale?” I say. What the hell?

“Oh, I forgot,” he says. “You had to dash out of the meeting yesterday to grab a tampon.”

I scrunch my eyebrows at him. Asshole. God. He’s such an asshole.

“Well,” I say, taking control of the conversation once more—and then I see the open door, get up, close it, and take a seat back in my chair—“what I do here is all very confidential.”

“Really?” Stonewall says, one eyebrow hitched up on his forehead.

“Really. I appear to be a silly escort. The girl who runs out for M&M’s when the rock stars get belligerent about the condition of the green room. But that is not, in fact, Mr. Stonewall, what I do here. I smooth egos, I give advice, I lend a friendly ear to the world’s rich and famous when they feel like talking about their very unique problems.”

He’s got a very confused look on his face.

“I’m a life coach,” I tell him in simple terms. “To the stars. I even wrote a book. Seeing Stars.”

“What?” he asks.

I almost laugh at his confusion. “It’s not published yet though. I’m working on that.”

“This is real? What you’re telling me is real?” McAllister asks.

“Of course it’s real. I see stars. I’m the BFF to exactly twenty-seven high-level VIPs. That’s why they love me. I listen to them.”

“Are you some kind of therapist? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“No, I’m not a therapist, I’m a friend. They talk, I listen, I give advice, they take it. Success.” I hold my hands up in one of those voilà gestures. “So that’s why Andrew probably called you. I mean, I’ve been here a while. Seven years. I’ve known Andrew since he was sixteen. And Adeline and I met the very first year of my internship. She’s the VIP for today. And we always spend a lot of time together.”

“So you wrote a book on company time, is this what I’m supposed to take away from this conversation?”

“What? I wrote the book at home, asshole.”

“You used company resources for the source material of your book?”

“Why are you doing this?” I stand up and smooth down my dress. “Why do you have to be so mean? Why is everything about you and your company? I didn’t use anything from Stonewall. I made friends. Does this company get to keep my friends when we break up?”

I whirl around to walk out, but McAllister grabs my arm and pulls me close to him. My back tingling with the anticipation of connecting with his chest. I can smell the faint scent of cologne on his neck when he leans into mine and whispers, “I wasn’t being mean. I was asking all the questions the company lawyers will ask when your book hits the stands, Miss Hatcher. We need—”

“I have releases from everyone, Mac.” I stare into his eyes and he’s taken aback when I use his nickname. I’m not even sure why it comes out. “Sorry, Mr. Stonewall. I have releases. I don’t need your lawyers.”