But work would be a perfect distraction from the broken record I’ve had playing in my head all day of every single thing Mac has ever said to me, every look he’s ever passed my way, and every touch of his skin. If I don’t stop thinking about him I’m going to burn all the synapses in my brain and bloody my damn fingernail beds.
I haven’t allowed myself to look online again, knowing I’d just fall down the rabbit hole of internet stalking. So, work it is.
A new email pops up and this time it’s from Naveed. Oh, I’d much rather talk to him instead of the dreaded Jenna. I click on the message and see that Kate’s copied on it as well.
“Poppy, can you do your magic on Angus McKinley and try to get a statement on his relationship with JoJo Ames? It’s blowing up Instagram but he’s not talking. If we can get ahead of this on the WHL social media accounts, it will be a HUGE windfall for us. Imagine an exclusive! We’ll have enough followers to ensure our January launch goes through the roof. I see greatness ahead!”
Shit!
Why, oh why, haven’t I told Naveed and Kate about Mac yet? It doesn’t matter that I totally planned on doing it next week because now they’re both expecting me to deliver an exclusive to launch our fledgling magazine into the social media stratosphere. I can’t very well respond with, “Hey, funny story, he’s actually my boyfriend, not this famous beautiful person’s. And, yeah, I’ve been keeping it from you because I’m an asshole. Wanna braid each other’s hair now?”
Why can’t Mac just call me back? As soon as I hear his voice I know I’ll feel better. He’ll tell me about the JoJo nightmare and I’ll tease him about being bachelor number twelve and how I told him those women would want their money’s worth. And then everything will be back out in the open and, hey, I’ll even be honest with him about reading that text from his mother…
That text from his mother.
I don’t even stop to think before dialing. The phone picks up on the second ring.
“Jonathan Abernathy.” He sounds exhausted, but I can’t think about that now.
“Jonathan, it’s Poppy again. I need to talk to Mac. It’s important.”
“Oh, right. Um, he said he’d call you tomorrow or something.”
“He… what?”
“Or maybe Tuesday. I’m not sure.”
I swallow hard.
I knew it!
Mac is running away again. And it’s not because of JoJo Ames; it’s because of a different socialite altogether—one he feels the need to protect me from, no matter what that might cost.
Twenty-Seven
“Pretty is as pretty does, and don’t you forget it.”
– Cookie Rutledge
Did I say recently that my life is perfect? Well, scratch that. My life is officially Satan’s ashtray after a frat party at Hades U.
I drag my ass into work on Monday and, for reasons clearly due to some truly heinous transgressions in my past life, the design staff is all atwitter about Angus McKinley and JoJo Ames. How fateful it is that they’re both being featured in our inaugural issue and how romantic it is and blah, blah, blah.
I want to shout at them that Angus wouldn’t touch JoJo Ames with a ten-foot pole, but I can’t. Instead, I have to smile and walk on my stupid heels to my office where, yes, Jenna Baylor is waiting for me.
Exactly what did past-life Poppy do? Steal baby Jesus’s rattle?
I paste on a smile and hold back the curse on my lips because I’m sure Cookie would sense a disturbance in the force all the way from Georgia and come on up to whip me on my butt if I called this woman what I want to (which is shit-stirring twat terrorist, by the way).
“Good morning, Jenna.”
“Morning, Poppy. How was your weekend?”
“Fine, thanks. And yours?” We’re so polite I might throw up.
“Good. Listen, I don’t know if you saw the email I sent this weekend…”
She waits to see if I’ll fill in the rest of that sentence, but I’m letting her talk. I purposely didn’t respond to that damn email because I was too pissed to be professional about it. And, yeah, I’m blaming Mac’s mama for that too. I just tilt my head and, sure enough, she keeps talking.
“Anyway, some of us were discussing it and we’re rethinking the aesthetic on issue two. As I said in the email, we just think it’s a bit… tired.”
“I see.” That’s all I say because if she has the nerve to hide behind a mysterious “we” and copy every damn person on the magazine about a complaint she has instead of just coming to me, she can sure as hell express all her thoughts out loud in my office.
“I’m sure the bold layered vibe is fine for some… regional publications, but this is New York, not Kansas, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, I think I know exactly what she means. This is the publishing capital of the world and I have no business heading a department here. I’m some nobody from a nobody town and don’t let the door hit me in the backside on my way out.
I take a breath. What she really needs is a boot up her ass, but I can’t exactly do that.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Jenna, but this design direction is in line with the brand identity the team established with Ms. Lennox’s blessing two months ago. More has gone into this than the one meeting we had last week. Fresh ideas and input are valuable, but there’s a process.”
In other words, don’t go above my head and make insinuations when you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
She sends me a saccharine smile as fake as Bunny’s hair color. But that’s okay because mine’s just as fake.
“Well, you’re the boss.”
Damn right I am.
“Is there anything else?” I boot up my laptop to let her know I’m certainly done.
“No.” She stands and smooths down her skirt. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay, well, have a nice morning.”
She walks out and I lean back in my chair. Good freaking Monday morning to me.
* * *
“Hey!” Katelyn pokes her head in my office two hours later and I sigh in relief.
“Oh, thank God, a friendly face.”
Her brow furrows in concern but I wave her off.
“Ignore me. How’s it going?”
She drops into one of the chairs across from my desk. “Crazy. You?”
“Same. It’s almost like we’re starting a new magazine or something,” I tease.
“I know, right?” I get her wide eyes and it makes me grin.
“So, what was up with that woman in your department copying everyone—including God himself—on that email this weekend?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t ask. I’ve got it covered.” I lean forward and prop an elbow on the surface. “People will just ignore it, right?”
Her mouth turns down at one corner as she thinks about it. “Yeah, everybody is too busy with their own shit to give it another thought. I just wanted to check in.”
“Aw, thanks. We still on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.”
She doesn’t move, so I dip my head and give her the eye. “Was there something else, Katelyn?”
“Ummmm.” She picks at the stitching on the chair and is so freaking obvious.
“Spit it out, will you?”
“Fine.” She straightens. “I noticed you didn’t respond to the email from Naveed last night.”
My face drops and she leans forward, her blond hair falling from her shoulder.
“I know, I know, it’s my department, not yours, but Naveed called and got the standard ‘no comment,’ and he said you really had a connection with Mr. McKinley at the photo shoot. I also know how you feel about him from your teenage fantasy swoonfest a few weeks ago…”
“Kate.” It might come out as a whine.
“Poppy,” she imitates me, sounding way too much like my sister.
God, should I just tell her? I should. I should totally tell her. Ugh, but things are such a mess with Mac right now that
it’ll sound ridiculous.
“Look, Katelyn—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“I mean, thank God you didn’t go ahead and try sleeping with the man. Can you imagine getting dumped for JoJo Ames? Ouch.”
I bite my lip. “Kate, I don’t think—”
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s quite the hottie from what I saw in the photos, but talk about a conflict of interest now that we’re covering his relationship with our cover model.”
Kill me now.
I smile weakly and mimic swiping my forehead like I barely escaped total professional humiliation by a hair.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I fix my mouth in a line.
And there I go lying…
Again.
* * *
By the time I give up and head home, it’s dark outside and my mood is black enough to match. I walked by the designer staff tables this afternoon to the sight of Jenna and two others springing apart from an obvious gossip huddle. Add to that my lying to Kate and the continued silence from Mac and I’m ready for a drink and about twelve hours of sleep. Either that or a plane ticket home.
I’m about to turn the corner to my block when I get a flutter of what feels like hope in my belly. It would be just like Mac to be waiting on my stoop or leaning against my door jamb with his eyebrow raised and his bod looking crazy hot in a pair of jeans and those work boots. He’s probably been waiting for me in his quiet way, standing there contemplating his next design or just letting his mind go wherever it usually does in the silence he occupies.
My lips turn up as I try to guess what color t-shirt he’ll be wearing, because the man doesn’t ever seem to need a coat—of course not, since he is his own furnace. I’ve just settled on gray when I turn the corner and… nothing.
There’s no Mac.
Oh well. I hurry up my steps. He’s probably just waiting inside. Hell, he’s probably picked my apartment lock and is waiting on my couch or cooking himself some of those boring chicken breasts and steamed veggies he likes to eat.
I’m proud of myself when I’m not even panting on the third set of stairs. I pull out my key in case the door is locked and, yup, he must have locked it for safety.
“Mac?” I close the door behind me and walk through to the kitchen. But the lights are all off.
“Mac?” He’s not in the living room so I head back to my bedroom. But I already know I won’t find him.
He didn’t come. He’s not waiting for me. And he still hasn’t called. He ran again because of his stupid mother and this money thing I don’t understand, and now I’m gonna have to go chasing after him again, reassuring him again, barging my way past his walls again.
I let my bag and purse drop to the floor and kick off my shoes, asking myself one very important question. One I’ve avoided asking myself all day.
Why am I the one who always has to do the chasing?
Cookie would tell me you don’t abandon family when they’re troubled. She’d also say just because people don’t ask for help doesn’t mean they don’t need it. But it doesn’t feel right now like Mac wants me to be his family—his person. It feels like he’d rather go it on his own and be that one-man band, just like he’s been for God knows how long.
Can I really force him?
And, even more important, should I?
Because no matter what I know about how good I can be for Mac, the question I maybe should be asking is whether Mac is good for me?
I get myself some sweet tea and walk over to my window where I look out on the lighted sliver of courtyard I can see. The apartment across the way has its curtains drawn, but I can see shadows moving inside.
Exactly what did I hope to get from a relationship with Mac? Did I ever think he was going to be my swoony boyfriend who’d take me out to a Broadway show and accompany me to friends’ parties? Did I think he might get down on one knee someday and wait at the end of an aisle for me with tears in his eyes? Give me squishy babies and be my biggest cheerleader when I won some prestigious design award? Spend Christmases with my parents and Cookie and Iris and the whole crazy bunch of Savannahians and take me out dancing and grow old with me?
The Mac I know might be able to swing a few of those things, but probably not all of them. Are those the things I want? The things I need?
I learned a long time ago that happiness isn’t a magic spell cast by a fairy godmother. You need to grab life by the horns and create your own, but people and connections are vital. And family is the most important, no matter the form it comes in or the unexpected ways it materializes.
I think back to dating Bobby Lee and how he’d take me anywhere that made me happy. He’d show me off and take me dancing and always buy me the biggest Christmas present and tell me how much he loved me.
But I don’t think Bobby Lee ever really loved me, not like that. He did—and does—in his own way, just like I love him, but I don’t think he ever actually even knew me. And maybe I never let him. To him, I’m Poppy James, daughter of Lorna and Jack James, the family friends who’ve always been around and always will be. Just like Bunny built that pedestal to put him on, Bobby Lee built one for me and tried to pop me on top as his not-quite-virgin bride-to-be. It’s what he knows and I fit the bill.
And that’s exactly why we’re no longer dating—why we’ll never ever ever get married, no matter how adorable everybody else thinks it would be.
Mac will likely never do all the things Bobby Lee would happily do, yet he’s made me feel more vibrant, joyful, and more like myself than I’ve felt in a long, long time—maybe ever. And when we’re together, he’s all there. He listens and respects me and wants to protect me from anything out there that could threaten me or make me be something I’m not.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he loves me.
I wipe away the tear that’s insisted on dripping down my cheek and heave a huge sigh. The truth of the matter is, I want the same things for him. I want to be that same person for him.
Yeah, I still want Mac—no, I need Mac. Even if he’s proving to be more high maintenance than a pop princess with a head cold.
So, no, I’m not giving up.
* * *
Good God, Mac was not kidding when he said these people care more about appearances than anything else.
I spent two hours last night plus the hour leading up to my lunch with Kate today looking into Mac’s mother’s side of the family. Suffice it to say, Sterling Pile is a grade-A douchebag, and that’s not just coming from me.
It’s right here in print in his college yearbook. Yes, I uncovered a copy while undertaking my new online stalking project. This family is ridiculous.
From what I’ve discovered thus far, Mac’s mother does, indeed, come from money—namely the Tennison family shipping company kind of money. As I already knew from that article I read weeks ago, her daddy owns Ten Fleet, one of the biggest shipping companies in the world. What I didn’t know was that her husband, the aforementioned douchebag, owns a line of exclusive boutique hotels frequented by the rich and famous.
This guy is the definition of money buying a reputation—or maybe hiding one. I keep finding small mentions of lawsuits here and there that were thrown out or settled before going to court—everything from an assault charge to forgery to a DUI that was thrown out due to procedural error. As far as I can see, the guy comes out the other end of these just as clean and rich as he was to begin with. Entitled jerk—I’m glad he’s being investigated by the government.
I also uncover an article probing into some of Ten Fleet’s business practices and mentioning Dan Tenneson, Mac’s grandfather, although there doesn’t appear to be much there.
It isn’t until just before lunchtime that I stumble across something on Twitter that has me freezing in my office chair.
@artequalityspeaks: The rich bitches win again. I hope @margarettenneson-pile isn’t too disappointed that the suicide didn’t take.
This is followed by a flurry of responses and, by about
the fortieth one, I’m able to piece together most of the story. It appears a prestigious Boston art museum had a vacancy on their board a few years back and were deciding between Margaret Tenneson-Pile and another woman named Stacy Showalter. If the tweets are to be believed, Margaret played dirty, to the point where she leaked some false information about Ms. Showalter’s son—information that not only cost him his college scholarship but resulted in a mob-mentality rash of harassments that ended in the attempted suicide of her son. Stacy Showalter subsequently removed her name from the running and Margaret Tenneson-Pile was named to the board.
My spine is stick straight as I finish reading, Mac’s warnings about his mother surging back into my mind. “She’ll do anything to get what she wants, no matter who she destroys in the process.”
I swallow hard, then decide it’s time for my lunch with Kate. My mind needs something that doesn’t make me feel like I need a shower. I click the back button and almost close the laptop, but a headline catches my eye. It looks like lunch will have to wait because I’ve got some more reading to do.
* * *
Armed with my laptop full of eye-opening and nausea-inducing bookmarks, I catch a cab down to Mac’s studio just before five. Yeah, you heard me.
All my fingers are crossed that the paparazzi has at least pulled back its forces to chase whatever today’s biggest celebrity happening might be, but it really can’t wait any longer. I need to talk to Mac and if the mountain won’t come to Poppy, Poppy’s coming to the mountain.
I’m in luck because there are no cameras in sight when I stalk up to the studio door and bang on it like I’m a rock star and it’s my snare drum.
“No comment!” comes Jonathan’s voice from inside, so I bang again, hoping he’s got his ear up to it.
“It’s Poppy! Let me in or so help me God I’ll kick the damn door down!”
“Jesus.” I hear him mumble from inside, but the door swings open in the next moment and I’m storming right on in.
Game Changer Page 24
