by Sierra Rose
My heart fell as I simultaneously wondered if my own family was on their way up just to watch me fail. The pen and paper slid slowly back into my bag.
“You don’t?”
“Not at all.” He lifted the glass to his lips and said the fateful words that would go on to change my life forever. “I want you for my son.”
Now here we were.
I hastened to smooth down my dress, pulling my hair back into a tight bun. I wished Nick would wake up, but he was still passed out cold—oblivious to the dark force that had just walked into his bedroom. Fortunately, a single word from his father was enough to remedy that.
“Nicholas.”
He jerked awake like he’d been having a nightmare, only to open his eyes and gaze upon the real thing. There was a hitch in his breathing, and half the color drained from his face as he hurried to make sure the blankets were still firmly around his waist.
“Dad—what are you doing here?”
That was another thing that had always surprised me. As much as Mitchell going by his first name. The informality of it. That Nick would address him as dad, instead of father. It was as if the family had sat down years ago, and read a book on what a family was supposed to look like. Talk like. Some things had stuck. The others had never really taken in the first place.
“It’s funny that you should ask.” He threw open another set of curtains, ignoring the way his wildly hungover son flinched as the light assaulted his eyes. “I was walking into work this morning and there was a man handing out copies of the New York Times. Imagine what I should see on the cover, but my very own son.”
Nick had told me once that his father was like a winter storm. It wouldn’t kill you, as long as you were prepared. At the moment, we couldn’t have been less prepared.
The paper flew down on the bed between them.
“What is this?”
PLAYBOY NICK HUNTER’S BATTLE FOR OCEANIC JUSTICE
The headline was splashed across the front page. Complete with a photo of Nick standing in the middle of the fountain, warding away police with what looked like a pair of salad tongs.
As far as headlines went, it could have been much worse. The picture on the other hand...
“Mr. Hunter,” I dropped my eyes to the floor, “I can explain—”
“The extent of your usefulness, Ms. Wilder, is in your ability to guarantee that this sort of thing does not happen. Since that is a task at which you have already failed spectacularly, you would do well to keep your mouth shut.”
Nick’s eyes flashed, and he started to get to his feet before remembering he was mostly naked. “You’re really going to blame Abby every time I go and jump into a fountain?”
Mitchell was chillingly calm.
“I want you to think about that sentence, remember that you’re twenty-four years old, and take a long hard look at your life.”
(Now and again, the man did have a bit of a point.)
“But no,” he continued, “I’m not blaming Abby.” He released his son for the briefest of moments, and turned that armor-piercing focus onto me. “Ms. Wilder, despite what you may have come to think of me, I’m not an unreasonable man. I understand that, as a mere mortal battling the astronomical ineptitude of my son, there is only so much you are able to do.”
His eyes narrowed, and I stopped breathing.
“But I do require an explanation.”
For the second time, Nick leapt to my defense.
“Give her a break,” he muttered. “We had this whole shellfish defense going on—”
Mitchell’s voice cracked through the air like a whip.
“Nicholas, be quiet.”
For once, his son obeyed.
Normally, I’d gloat. Over-analyze the exact tone to see if there was any way I could harness its silencing powers for my own use. But there was something rather terrible about the way his father spoke to him. As if he were a portfolio, rather than a person. An investment, rather than a son. I’d noticed it the first time I’d ever met Nick, two years ago in this very room.
Nick had been quite unaware of the fact he was getting a publicist. Like most major decisions in his life, it had been made without either his knowledge or his consent. When he’d stumbled into his bedroom, a Brazilian swimsuit model draped on either arm, he had been as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
For a moment, the two of us just stood there. Frozen in shock. Then he turned to Mitchell.
“Thanks, dad.” Even then, I noticed the way his sparkling eyes dimmed a bit when they came to rest on his father. “We can always make room for a fourth.”
I’d sucked in a quick breath. Sure, the tycoon was about to pull out some sort of death-ray and electrocute the kid right then and there. But Mitchell never missed a beat.
“This is Abigail Wilder. She’s to be your new publicist.”
Nick froze again, as the models made themselves scarce in the living room.
“My new publicist,” he repeated slowly. “Did I have an old publicist?”
“Precisely my point. If you’re going to continue on living in this...manner,” Mitchell’s eyes coldly swept the room, “then it’s time we bring in professional assistance.”
Nick, then only twenty-two, had pulled himself up to his full height. Looking almost as intimidating as his nightmarish father. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Quite the contrary,” his father replied dryly, “you need twelve. But Ms. Wilder here comes highly recommended. She’ll do for a start.”
Nick’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he reined it in—looking me up and down as if measuring how much trouble I might be able to cause him.
“Then I’ll find my own publicist,” he said coldly, pacing to the window.
Mitchell stepped in front of him in an instant, looking like he was on the verge of doing something I’m sure would have made me quit right there on the spot.
“You’re incapable of finding your own pants—if half of what they say in the papers is true.” There was a bit of a snarl in his tone. “You will work with Ms. Wilder. End of discussion.”
But Nick had never been one to take these injustices lying down.
“End of discussion?” he quoted in a voice that sent chills down my spine. “Lest I remind you, Mitchell, the second I turned eighteen I was more than able to make my own decisions—”
But Mitchell just laughed. A sound that sounded like gravel scraping down a freeway.
“Oh, I’m well aware of the decisions you’ve made.” His eyes swept his son from head to toe, making him stand up straighter in spite of himself. “Look at you. Drunk. Thoughtless. Ready to jump into the first empty bed you see.” He shook his head slowly, as his dark eyes dilated almost entirely to black. “For one of the first times, Nicholas, you remind me of your mother.”
With that, he swept out of the room. Leaving me standing behind him. Leaving Nick looking like he’d just gotten slapped in the face.
Today was looking to be more of the same...
“I cannot imagine what possessed you to put on such a spectacle, but the days of such antics are behind you—do you understand?”
Nick said not a word. He simply glared at Mitchell through a pair of red-rimmed eyes.
“The company is in a state of transition,” the man continued. “In just four short months, we’re undertaking the largest merger Wall Street has ever seen. Until the ink is dry, all of our shareholders will be holding their breath. The board will be holding its breath. I will be holding my breath. The last thing we need is a picture of you on the front of the New York Times, splashing stockbrokers from the middle of a damn fountain! Am I making myself clear?!”
It wasn’t often that the man yelled, and it had a profound effect on the room. I reached discreetly behind me to lean against the wall for support, and Nick clenched his teeth together as all the rest of the remaining color drained from his face.
“Yes, sir.”
Mitchell nodded curtly, pleased with his com
pliance.
“We need stability. We need strength. And above all—we need calm. And you, my son, will become the embodiment of all those things.”
Nick’s chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. But when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. “And how do you expect me to do that?”
“It’s actually quite simple, and nothing you haven’t done before.” Mitchell didn’t smile so much, as he bared his teeth. “You’re going to get a girlfriend.”
Chapter 6
“Hey—will you come back here?! We need to talk about this!”
As Nick paced swiftly down the hall, I scampered after him—my bare feet skidding on the tile whenever I took a sharp turn. The departure of his father had left us momentarily speechless, but my darling client was never one to stay speechless for long. By the time the door clicked shut, he was already on to his next adventure—compartmentalizing his father deep into the dark recesses of his mind.
“Nick!”
It was like he didn’t even hear me. As he headed down the hall to take a shower, he started shedding what little clothing he had left—one piece at a time.
I ducked strategically as a crumpled sock sailed back my way.
“Nick—come on. This isn’t so bad.”
Sometimes, public relations was as much altering perceptions for your own client, as it was altering those same perceptions for the public eye.
“We can find a nice girl—one who you’ll actually enjoy spending time with.” The other sock came flying my way, and I was quick to correct myself. “Okay—fine. That probably means she won’t be that nice of a girl after all. But you know what I mean.”
I tossed the clothes in the general direction of the linen closet, still slipping and skidding across the tile after him all the while. How the hell did the man have such long legs?!
“You can go out with her a couple times, get your picture taken. Keep your father and his company happy. Who knows? It might even turn into the real—”
I lost my balance entirely and went careening forward, my messy curls sailing out behind me like a wilting flag. My eyes snapped shut as I threw out my arms, but a pair of warm hands caught me. When I opened my eyes, I was staring up into an equally warm smile.
Warm, but uncompromising.
“Sorry Abby,” he set me gently back on my feet, “I’m just not going to do it.”
And that was that. He proceeded into the shower without another word. The conversation was over. I held my tongue and bowed my head to my chest—plotting quickly.
It was putting me in a tough position—that much was sure. Whenever I ended up caught in between Nick and his father, it was always the same way.
Nick was the client. The prize. The person for whom I was supposed to be willing to move mountains to satisfy his every desire. Lift heaven and earth to protect him at all costs, either from his own mistakes, or from the malicious intentions of others.
When he said no. That meant no. There really was nothing left to say.
And yet...
His father was the one who technically employed me.
Mitchell Hunter was a shrewd man, and my offer of employment had been a prime example of his skills. While I was essentially on ‘permanent loan’ to his son, working exclusively for Nicholas—I was also technically a member of the company. My paychecks were signed by the Hunter Corporation, not by Nick.
That meant that when Mitchell said yes. It meant yes. There was really nothing left to say.
With two completely opposite ultimatums staring me in the face, I decided to say nothing at all. Instead, I headed downstairs and started up a pot of coffee.
There was a process to it. One that I’d picked up my first week on the job.
To say that Nick lived for coffee, was like saying that the French had a mild affinity for fattening pastries. It was his first true love. Truth be told, it was probably his only true love.
He had the beans imported from alternating countries in South America and Africa alike, depending on average rain fall, soil acidity, and a million other things that went completely over my head. They were kept in an airtight jar, and ground fresh every morning. Measured out to precision. Brewed to precisely the right temperature.
The slightest deviation would be fiercely condemned. A recurrent mistake would most likely end in termination. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of Mitchell and his beloved scotch.
I pulled down the jar with a soft sigh, and started pouring the beans into the grinder.
There had to be some kind of way to get him on board with this. Some iota of wiggle room in which I could get enough of a hold to shake him loose.
As much as I loved Nick, I would not openly go against his father. And while I had, on occasion, secretly gone against his father, in this particular situation—his father was right.
The lobster debacle was just the tip of the iceberg. In the last month alone, there had been enough work to keep an entire PR team sleepless and jumping for five years.
First there was the morning he tried to repel down the Eiffel Tower on a whim. Then there was the afternoon he was determined to climb the Empire State Building with his bare hands. The only way I talked him out of swimming the English Channel was by showing him enough shark attack videos to make myself afraid to even shower for at least a week.
The worst by far was when he conned the night manager in charge of the ice rink at Rockefeller Center into melting said ice, and letting Nick replace it with frozen champagne. At first, it actually looked like it might have been the social extravaganza of the season. Then some lunatic Grinch accused him of trying to serve alcohol to minors, and we were off to the races.
Point being, Nick was feeling a little more restless than usual this month. And if this coming merger was really as important as his father said, it was time to pull in the reins a bit.
But what could I do? What could I offer the man who had everything to make him see things my way? How could I bend the all-powerful to my own will...?
A scalding drop of coffee sizzled suddenly on my skin, and I pulled back my hand with a gasp. The entire coffee ceremony had been performed by muscle memory, and by the time Nick walked downstairs—wearing nothing but a towel—I was ready with the first cup.
“That’s the problem with these coffee makers,” he gestured to the burn with a teasing grin, raising the rim of the mug to his lips, “you’ve got to watch them every second.”
I was less amused.
“Coming from the man wrapped in a jellyfish towel.”
He looked down curiously, his wet hair dripping onto the kitchen tile.
Sure enough, the plush contours of the towel were splashed with an infantile display of smiling sea creatures. The jellyfish in question, was using three of its hands to wave.
“There does seem to be a strange theme developing in my life,” he murmured with a small frown.
Chapter 7
I poured myself a cup of coffee as well, and the two of us drank in thoughtful silence.
Him—contemplating the ocean and all its wonders.
Me—contemplating how in the world I was going to get him to agree to a fake girlfriend.
In the end, I decided that unrelenting persistence would be my best shot. Nick was as stubborn as could be, but he also got bored by things incredibly quickly. If I continued to bring up the conversation, when all he wanted to do was get on with his day, there was a chance—not a good chance, but at least a chance—that he might cave and give me what I wanted.
(That part of the plan was absolutely vital. That I phrased it in such a way, where it would be a favor he was doing for me, rather than a command from his father.)
“You know,” I began innocently, kicking my bare feet against the counter, “before I had to go tearing out of the restaurant last night to help you and your lobsters, I was actually having a pretty good time on my date.”
“Oh yeah?” Nick hopped lightly onto the counter and settled comfortably, waking up before
my very eyes as the caffeine entered his system. “Better than that Swedish guy? The one with the moustache that made him look like a pedophile?”
I snorted in my coffee and took a second to settle myself.
“Yeah—much better than that.” I blew away a cloud of stream. “I think you’d probably like him. First thing he did was order a bottle of Margaux.”
This peeked a bit of interest.
“What year?”
I avoided the question and moved swiftly forward.
“Good conversation, nice smile...speaks about nine different languages.” At this point, I was just making things up. Filling in the gaps as I built up momentum. “Drives a Maserati.”
This time, it was Nick’s turn to laugh.
I had a well-known habit of judging people badly for driving exorbitantly over-priced cars. It had made one of our first outings in his own Aston Martin rather memorable.
“Does this Romeo have a name? Or did you already forget?” His eyes twinkled playfully as he took another swig of coffee. “You didn’t write it on your hand, did you?”
I hesitated, then shook my head with a self-righteous sneer. No—I most certainly had not written his name on my hand. I only thought I had. Instead, I’d written the name of this Ryan...
“He has a name. I did not write it on my hand.”
Nick lowered his mug, forcing me to make eye contact.
“What is it then? Fast—don’t think.”
I panicked. Whenever he did this—I panicked. He had a piercing focus and commanding intensity (curtesy of the Oxford debate team) that was specifically designed to off-balance his opponent. In a different life, he would have made an incredible lawyer.
“His NAME, Wilder.”
“Ryan!” I blurted. Then blanched. “Wait—Cameron! No, Ryan!”
Son of a bitch.
His lips curled up in a victorious smirk, a clear winner once again.
“Ryan, was it?” He cocked his head condescendingly. “Was his name really Ryan?”
