Best of Penny Wylder: Boss Romance

by Wylder, Penny

  She follows this with a thumbs up and a smiling emoji. As if that’s supposed to calm the sudden explosion of nerves in my gut.

  Great. So on top of everything else—on top of all the pressure I’m already under… I have to deal with walking onto the live TV set today and seeing the man who just broke my heart.

  12

  Cassidy

  Becky drops me off outside the studio with a long hug, a smacking kiss on the cheek, and a resounding, “Go knock ‘em dead, tiger.”

  “Pretty sure you’re supposed to say break a leg for stuff like this,” I reply, clambering out of her car to slam the door behind me.

  “I thought that was for stage actors,” she protests, and I shrug, laughing a little as I wave her away from the curb. Then I turn to face the music solo.

  My stomach is a riot of nerves. Worse than it’s maybe ever been in my life, and I used to head up the debate team and speak in public all the time in college. Normally I’m confident, poised—especially when I’m talking about a subject I know so well. And what could I know more about than my own product line, the makeup I’ve been dreaming about bringing to the world for years, and which I’m finally succeeding at making?

  But I’ve never had to talk about it in front of this big an audience. And never with a recent ex standing in the same studio, watching me do it. All while his recent ex—or maybe not-entirely-ex—hovers in the wings waiting for a full report about how I performed afterward.

  My stomach knots have become a full-on tangled mess. I can feel the caffeine I downed earlier—an extra double shot of espresso because I was still feeling the hangover—ratcheting through my system, amping up the nerves to something close to panic.

  You can do this.

  I square my shoulders. I haven’t come this far, or worked this hard on my brand, just to let one badly mistaken fling throw my entire career off track. This should be one of the proudest days of my life. I’m going to make it be that.

  With Herculean effort, I repress all these messy emotions, stuffing them into that mental box labeled: to deal with later. Then I storm up the front steps of the studio and toward the doors. Even despite my late wakeup, I’m here fifteen minutes earlier than the time they requested I arrive by. That’s me all over—punctual to the extreme.

  I pull open the front doors and introduce myself to the guard sitting near the entrance. He checks my name off a list, prints me a badge and waves me through. And on the other side of the sliding doors, a familiar face greets me, all smiles.

  “I knew I’d be seeing you again soon,” exclaims Marcel, the same studio owner who showed me around back when we were photographing my makeup samples for our first press release. It feels like both a million years ago and just days ago.

  I’m so grateful for someone familiar—someone who’s not Lark, anyway—being here that I practically leap into his offered hug, squeezing him tight. “What are you doing here?”

  “Lark mentioned your big gig, so I managed to sneak into this studio as a guest for the day.” He winks. “Didn’t want to miss your first televised interview, since I knew you at the start. Makes for too good a story!”

  I laugh and squeeze his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

  He tilts his head, sizing me up. I wilt under his gaze, pretty sure that he’s immediately dissecting the bags under my eyes and the tension in my face. He leans in closer again. “And, I must admit, I have ulterior motives, too. Lark’s been worried about you, you know.”

  My cheeks flush, and I glance away. “I’m sure.” My tone comes out drier than I expect.

  Marcel sighs. “Look, honey, whatever happened between you two, that’s between you two.” He catches my chin and tilts my face to the light, eying me critically. “But I am here to make sure that you knock it out of the park, for your sake and for your investors’ sakes. Plus, we cannot have you on camera looking like a zombie, or nobody’s going to trust a single product you’re offering,” he points out.

  I grimace, but I can’t exactly contradict him. “It’s… been a rough week.”

  “Tell me about it.” He drops my chin, thankfully, and takes my hand instead, leading me across the studio toward a back hallway with doors on each side. I catch a brief glimpse of the stage beyond it, surrounded by more cameras than I’ve ever seen in one location before—film cameras, still shot cameras, every type of lighting equipment you could imagine.

  All aimed at the middle of the stage, where there are just three plush chairs set all in a row. One of which I’ll be occupying in a little less than an hour’s time.

  There go those nerves again, churning away.

  “Do not spiral on me,” Marcel commands, and I yank my gaze from the distant seats to focus.

  “Right. Sorry. I’m fine now.”

  He arches a brow at me, clearly not buying it for a second. But he does lead me into a narrow dressing room—an entire room of my own, not like the photography shoot we did at Marcel’s studio where everyone just did their makeup at little tables right beside the backdrop.

  Inside, I spot familiar objects. My makeup sets, all lined up and ready to go.

  “Where’s the makeup artist?” I ask, scanning the room.

  Marcel guides me into a chair and practically forces me back. “Uh uh. I told the manager I’m taking charge of this one personally.”

  I grin at him. “You used to do makeup?”

  “Before I bought my studio and moved over to the production side of this industry, hell yes. That’s where I got my start.”

  I watch him sort through the palettes and select just the right hue of foundation for me on the first try. I don’t need to check the label to know he’s picked out the one I always use, and it makes me smile. “Guess that’s why you were so into my stuff when we first met.”

  He laughs. “Is that an ego I’m hearing?” He winks, and I flush all over again.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I protest, but he waves me quiet.

  “No, no. It’s good to know what your talents are. And you, my dear, have a gift for this. Now, eyes shut.”

  I close my eyes and relax a little as he dusts the powder over my face, then works on my eyes next. There’s something relaxing about letting someone else take charge. I’m so used to doing everything myself. It’s nice to feel pampered for once.

  I’m almost—almost—able to relax. Until I hear it. His voice, from the hallway.

  “—looking for Cassidy Marks’s room?”

  My pulse picks up, and every muscle in my body, which had bordered on finally unclenching a second ago, tightens back up.

  Marcel must notice, because he leans back, the brush leaving my skin, and I open my eyes to find him watching me with an all too knowing expression. “Uh oh. I recognize that look. You’re in even more trouble than I thought.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but my voice catches and gives me away. I grimace.

  “Please. We all saw the two of you at my studio. You couldn’t keep your hands off one another.” Marcel gives me a long, lingering once-over. “You’re in deep, girl.” Then he arches an eyebrow and adds the words that send me tumbling straight through a fresh new maze of confusion. “But don’t worry. So is Lark, believe me.”

  Just then, a rap sounds on the other side of the door. “Cass?” His voice sounds tense. On the edge of broken. It tears at me.

  It’s too soon. I’m not ready to see him, barely even ready to go on camera, let alone deal with the emotions I’ve been repressing for a solid week. It feels like all the blood in my body rushes to my head at once, and I cling to the sides of my chair, feeling dizzy.

  Marcel takes one look at my expression and has pity. “No boys allowed!” he calls at the door.

  On the other side, Lark laughs. “You’re a boy,” he points out.

  “No straight boys allowed,” Marcel amends, and then, in case Lark missed the point, “Go away. I’ll bring her out when she’s ready. And don’t worry, we’ll be on time
. Go have a coffee or something.”

  There’s a long pause from the other side of the door. My heart pounds in my ears, my temples. Part of me wishes Lark will ignore Marcel. Storm through that door anyway and demand a minute alone with me.

  But another part, the sensible part, I tell myself, is relieved when he lets out a defeated sigh. “Fine, but you’d better bring her out early for the screen tests. I’ll meet you in twenty.”

  My eyes jump to the clock above the doorway. It suddenly feels a lot more intimidating now. A countdown to the minute when I’ll have to come face to face with all the feelings I’ve tried so hard to run away from.

  “Eyes shut again,” Marcel orders. “We’re on a tighter schedule than I thought.”

  I close my eyes and let him work, but there’s no relaxing this time. All I can think about is Lark’s voice calling my name. Cass. There was a hollow note to it, and I can’t help wondering if he’s missed me anywhere near as much as I’ve missed him.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Marcel says as he moves on to my lips next, making me open them into a round circle and then purse them alternately while he works, “that boy has been an absolute wreck all week too.”

  “Really?” I peer up at Marcel, who flashes me a smirk.

  “Not that he’d talk about it, of course. He’s got walls higher than Fort Knox. But I’ve known him long enough to tell when he’s upset, and I haven’t seen him this bad since, well…” Marcel glances at the closed door. “Since him and Sheryl’s first big falling out.”

  “What happened between them?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t, but a part of me wants to know. Maybe if I do, that will make it easier to let go of my stupid fixation on Lark. To walk away from this mess once and for all.

  “Not my story to tell,” Marcel replies with a sigh. “But you ask me, they weren’t well suited to begin with.”

  “And now…?”

  “Now?” Marcel takes a step back, and gives me an approving once-over, before he twirls my chair. “Now, it’s time for Lark to leave his past behind, and win over his future.” In the reflection, he winks. “That being you, in my opinion.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. My perfectly outlined eyebrows, that is. Between that and my long lashes, and a peachy pink color on my lips, I look like a completely different woman. I turn my face this way and that, admiring Marcel’s work. Every makeup artist has a slightly different style, a different flare to their designs. Normally I like to do my own makeup, because I know what I want to enhance.

  But sometimes, letting someone else do it is like catching a whole new side of yourself. A side of you that other people see, which you maybe hadn’t even noticed yourself.

  “You’re a wizard,” I murmur.

  Over my shoulder, Marcel laughs. “Please. I had a lovely canvas.” Then he swats my shoulder. “Let’s get going before your Prince Charming has my head for making you late.”

  My stomach tightens again at the reminder. But fortified by Marcel’s handiwork, a fresh face of makeup, and with his words buoying me—it’s time for Lark to win over his future—I feel a little bit readier than I did before.

  Outside the dressing room, the studio has exploded into a whirlwind of activity. Camera crews, set design, and assistants hurry back and forth in every direction, heels and steel-toed boots alike clacking across the wooden flooring. Someone set up a buffet table near the main stage, laden with pastries and fruit, along with several carafes of coffee. Just the sight of food makes my stomach do an unpleasant backflip.

  But then I catch sight of who’s standing beside it, and that backflip turns into something more like a washing machine tumble cycle. My whole body switches to high gear, churning.

  Marcel doesn’t wait for me to recover. He leads me by the elbow to the corner of the snack table where Lark is waiting, and then he announces, “I’ve got to go talk to the stage manager,” and vanishes.

  Lark looks good. Better than I remember, even, which is saying something. Because I’ve had a lot of very detailed fantasies about him in the days since we parted.

  He’s dressed in a suit, his tie done up, and his hair freshly swept to one side, beard shaved close. But when I look closely, I catch signs of distress. Faint reddish lines in the whites of his eyes, and a hint of a shadow beneath them, like he hasn’t been sleeping well.

  I blink, realizing I’m staring, but that’s okay. Because he’s doing the same thing. Gazing at me like I’m some kind of apparition, or a puzzle he can’t quite work out.

  “Hey,” I say, after an awkwardly long pause.

  “Cassidy…” But whatever he’s about to say is cut off when a woman appears at his shoulder.

  “We’re about ready for her, if you’re done prepping,” she says. Then she’s gone, as quickly as she appeared, and I notice her drifting toward Marcel. Stage manager, I guess.

  I expect Lark to just listen to her and lead me up on stage to the chair where I’m about to give a live television interview—and damn him, that should be the most exciting thing for me right now, I should be thrilled about it, excited about it, losing my mind with nerves about it.

  Instead, all I can think about is that he smells the same. A deep, almost smoky scent, cologne mingled with a salty note that’s all him.

  He steps closer, raises a hand as if to brush my shoulder, and sparks ignite throughout my body, before he even so much as touches me. He lets his hand fall again, and disappointment dampens that rush of sparks. “Can we talk?” Lark asks quietly. “After the interview. Please?”

  Maybe it’s the quiet desperation in his eyes. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve been wanting the same thing. At the very least, a chance to hear the truth. To say my piece, too, and to let him know that I’m not the kind of girl who plays second fiddle to anybody.

  Or the kind of person who breaks up marriages, either.

  “Okay,” I murmur. Just one word, but it brightens his whole countenance. His eyes light up, and the corners of his mouth lift in the first thing approaching a smile that I’ve seen from him yet.

  It almost makes me feel guilty. Almost.

  Then a few more stagehands appear to wave me toward my chair, and I lift my hand in a weak little farewell, and let them sweep me off to the interview.

  All the while, as I go, I can feel Lark’s gaze burning into my back. And somehow, I get the feeling that whenever I turn my head during this interview, I’ll catch sight of him watching me the entire time.

  I would have thought that would make me even more nervous, but as I settle myself in a little pouf on stage and wait for one of the world’s most famous models to join me… it actually feels reassuring. At least I know there’s one person in this studio watching who’s here for me, and not the other famous people I’m sharing the stage with. And regardless of whatever happened between us outside of this room, I know that in here, at least, when it comes to my business?

  Lark has my back. Always.

  On stage, I settle into the middle big pouf of a chair. Supermodel Jackie Shell will be on one side of me, and the host will be on my other side. The lights are brighter than I expected, and they feel warm on my cheeks—or maybe that’s just my own blood rushing to my face in anticipation.

  Because this is real. I’m really doing this. With a deep breath, I put on a broad smile, and prepare to face the cameras.

  13

  Cassidy

  My interview might have started out nerve-wracking, but by the end, I’m vibrating with a whole different emotion: excitement. Because by the end, I know I’m nailing it. Jackie and the host are both ridiculously fun to chat with, and they even insist on having me do (or rather, re-do) some of their makeup live on camera while I explain what ingredients I use (all-natural and free from preservatives that often irritate sensitive skin), and why (cruelty-free products that haven’t been tested on animals because I feel like that’s a practice that we need to retire in the beauty industry).

  By the end of our interview, both Jackie and
our host are swearing up and down that they’ll be customers of mine for life— “and I swear, she’s not paying me to say that,” Jackie adds at the end, laughing along with me.

  The thrill of being on television and not just holding my own but actually having fun while doing it, is a high I don’t know that I’ll be able to top anytime soon.

  But almost as soon as I step off the stage, I start to spiral all over again. Because one glance to the side of the stage, and there he is. Lark. Waiting to talk to me as promised.

  My soaring spirits do a quick dip toward crashing and burning. Then they hoist up again as Lark gives me a sheepish grin and a half-wave with one hand, because damn it, he’s still as drop-dead sexy as ever, and all I want to do is run straight into his arms and forget about the past week.

  I especially want to forget about what I overheard in the hallway of my new therapist’s office last weekend. The event that triggered this whole separation.

  Unfortunately, I can’t. Always a pleasure, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. Their marriage counselor. And then Sheryl’s reply. That went well, I thought.

  If she’s right, if it did go well… if they have a shot at reuniting… I won’t be the person who comes between them. I refuse. No matter how devastating Lark looks in his well-pressed suit right now.

  No more avoiding this, I guess. At least I still have the buzz of adrenaline from the interview coursing through me. Not to mention Marcel’s voice whispering in the back of my mind, telling me that Lark seemed devastated all week too. That he’s as stuck on me as I am on him.

  It doesn’t make this situation any less of a complicated mess. But it makes me feel a bit better, at least, for how cut up I’ve been over it.

  At least I’m not the only one. Not overreacting. Not making up this emotion all in my head.