The Perfect Illusion

by Winter Renshaw

  “Nah. You’re just a good bullshitter.”

  I lean forward, my hands falling into my lap like dead weight. I can’t win with her. Any other woman would be drooling over some handsome asshole in a three-piece suit spewing words like “initiative” and “global economics.”

  Odessa sits there, less than impressed.

  “Anyone can memorize a script,” she says. “You sound like you’re reading off the About Me page of your website.”

  “I wrote that page.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “You’ve used those words so many times they’ve lost their meaning. I don’t feel any passion from you when you talk about your company. There’s your first problem.”

  “The passion’s there. Believe me.”

  Her brows rise as her lips press into a straight line. “I don’t.”

  My head angles. I’m way too blown away by this woman’s audacity to remotely consider firing her.

  And she’s lucky because cutting ties with people is what I do best.

  “It’s not there just because you say it’s there,” she says. “I need to feel it. Every word you speak needs to convince me you eat, sleep, and breathe this company. When I spoke with Dane, he mentioned that you were essentially the face of the T.E.H. He said you handled networking and partnerships, that your sole focus was projecting a very specific image of the company.”

  “Right.”

  “What is that image?”

  “We’re making alternative energy sexy.” I adjust the knot of my tie. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  Her green eyes roll. Any harder and they’d be in the back of her head. “I need you to be serious.”

  “I thought we hired you to handle social media?”

  “No.” Her nose wrinkles. “You hired me – your brother hired me to help you handle your public relations efforts. We’re starting with branding. I need to get a grip on your brand and what you’re trying to do before I can fix anything.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

  Fucking Dane.

  “Dane said I needed help?”

  “It was implied. Besides, I’m not sure why else one would hire a consultant if they weren’t in dire need of help. I’m not exactly cheap.”

  “What needs fixed?”

  “Several things apparently.”

  I lift my receiver, speed dialing our Salt Lake City headquarters and placing the call on speaker. My brother’s assistant, Marlene, patches me through immediately.

  “Dane speaking.”

  “Dane, I’ve got our consultant here.” I don’t disguise my current state of displeasure. “You may know her as Sam.”

  I peel my gaze from the black corporate phone and lock eyes with her, not eliciting so much as a single squirm from her.

  “Hello, Dane.” There’s warmth in her voice though her face is blank. I refuse to release her gaze. “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m well, Sam. Thank you. Yourself?” Dane asks.

  “Lovely, thank you,” she says.

  “I’m calling you today, Brother, because it seems there’s a bit of confusion as to what exactly our consultant’s going to be doing here at the New York branch.”

  “What’s the confusion?” There’s an edge in his tone that tells me he doesn’t have time for this.

  “Sam here says she was hired to help me fix our image,” I say. “I wasn’t aware that I needed help nor that anything was in need of fixing. I was under the impression that she was brought on to set up our social media.”

  “I would’ve hired a college intern if that’s what we needed,” Dane scoffs. “Sam has a proven track-record of taking little-known start ups and growing them into superstars.”

  “Little late on that aren’t we?” I release a haughty chuckle, grabbing a stress ball from next to my computer monitor. I’m not sure why I have it. Nothing about my life is remotely stressful. I toss it up in the air and catch it with a determined grip. “We haven’t been a little-known start up in quite some time.”

  “True,” Dane says. “We’re big. But we can be bigger. It all starts with branding.”

  “Right. Branding is my thing, and branding and public relations are two entirely different things.”

  “Sam has experience with both. Didn’t you check out the link to her bio? I emailed you last week after I told you I’d hired her.”

  “Anyway,” I say, my tone flat. “Just needed clarification, Dane. Appreciate it.”

  I end the call.

  “What now?” I ask.

  Her mouth forms a smug smile and the flash in her eyes is a big, fat “told you so.”

  “You need a better website, something modern and sleek yet approachable and user-friendly. What you have here is confusing.” She flips the screen of her tablet toward me. “Yellow and orange? No…just…no. Who designed this?”

  A flaxen-haired Dutch exchange student a few years back who was desperate for my attention after a drunken hookup. She wanted me so bad; she did the entire thing for free.

  “Yellow and orange are energetic colors. We’re an energy corporation.”

  Odessa’s green eyes widen, and she blows a disapproving breath past her lips as she turns the screen back and types a million words a minute.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m emailing my web developer.” She pokes the screen with her fingertip. “There. Okay, so let’s hone and polish your brand, then once we have it where we want it, I’ll blast all media venues, put out press releases, create your social media accounts, draft up some posts for you to keep in your back pocket. My consulting fee includes one future crisis. If your company is ever under media fire, you contact me, and I’ll draft up a press release to put out the flames.”

  I can see how a woman like her would be good at putting out fires. You can’t argue with her. Everything that comes out of her mouth functions like definitive proof that she’s a woman who’s rarely wrong about a thing.

  Color me impressed, but I’ll never admit that to her. Or to my brother. He’s still on my shit list for not trusting me.

  Odessa’s phone rings, and she slides it from her bag. “Devin, hi. How are you?”

  She smiles. Ear to ear. She didn’t even smile that wide last night after a round of multiple orgasms when my tongue was buried deep inside her and my fingertips dug into the flesh of her inner thighs, pinning her to the bed.

  She stands, walking around my office and chatting to this guy as she flattens her palm across the top of her hair and stands by the window. I wake my computer and pull up a browser, typing in the address to my favorite travel website and pretending not to listen.

  I’m due for a vacation. Cabo sounds good. Cabo in the spring is perfection.

  “Thanks, Devin. You’re the best,” she says. “I appreciate it. Seriously. I owe you. Drinks on me, okay? All right…”

  My grip on my computer mouse could easily pop the buttons off. Why does she kiss Devin’s ass, but speak to me with disgust in her voice?

  I’m Beckham fucking King.

  Any other woman would be flicking her tongue across her lips and shooting me coy glances. Any other woman would be tugging her blouse down to “accidentally” give me a peek. Any other woman would be toying with her hair and batting her eyes and raving about how amazing last night was.

  Not Odessa.

  A woman who wants nothing to do with me after one of my infamous all-nighters should be a blessing. I should be celebrating; not wanting to bend her over the back of my desk and show her how very wrong she is about me.

  She waltzed into my life last night and out of my apartment with my crown in tow.

  I’m getting it back.

  Starting now.

  Chapter 4

  ODESSA

  My office isn’t a shoebox, so there’s that.

  I retire my tablet and crack my laptop open; spreading my things across the desk I’ll call mine for the next three wee
ks. The bulk of the last three hours were spent in Beckham’s office, developing a plan of action and discussing goals and hammering in the importance of conveying passion and innovation in all that they do.

  I don’t think he listened to a damn word I said. He kept looking at me, his eyes flashing. He’d rake his jaw, brows furrowed, and say, “What was that again?”

  Maybe working for him is a bad idea, but I need the job. My savings is paltry at best, unemployment is laughably trivial, and if Jeremiah doesn’t come back, I’ll be forced to swing our enormous rent payment until the lease is up in a few more months.

  “I’m going to lunch.”

  I glance up to find Beckham in my doorway, one foot in my office and the other out.

  “Are you asking if I want anything or are you telling me because you think I care?” I yawn and click my pen, refusing to meet his gaze. Really starting to wish I’d have slept last night instead of…slept with him.

  I almost feel bad being so cruel. I am not a mean girl. Anyone who knows me says I’m spun sugar and warm honey, instantly likeable. Personable. True blue. But this façade today is absolutely necessary. The man kissed me and chased me outside his apartment this morning. Who knows what he’s capable of? I have to protect myself, which is a shame because I love making new friends.

  Beckham’s mouth slacks. I doubt he’s a man who normally struggles to find words, but I’ve rendered him speechless. In an instant, he’s gone, the soles of his shiny dress shoes tromping down the hall.

  It’s okay if he’s upset with me. I don’t want him to like me.

  I shrug it off and return to my work.

  First order of business? Create a Facebook profile for Townsend Energy Holdings.

  The outline of a figure catches the corner of my eye as it passes my open door. Did he come back?

  I focus on my screen, signing up for a new account and using Beckham’s email as the primary.

  The outline swishes across my doorway again. Men don’t swish. Maybe it’s Julie?

  “He went to lunch,” I call out to her, though I’m not sure why he’d tell me and not his assistant.

  A light rapping on my door precedes a lanky blonde who’s definitely not Julie. “Hi, sorry. I was looking for Beckham.”

  She’s dressed to the nines. A full face of designer makeup. Tight skirt. Victoria’s Secret runway waves to complement the lacy lingerie she’s probably wearing underneath it all. A brown sack with a deli logo on the front is clutched in her left hand.

  “I brought him lunch.” She raises the bag.

  “Oh.” My stomach drops. Is she…is she his girlfriend? Did I sleep with a taken man last night? Numbness washes over me, quickly replaced with a bitter taste in my mouth. “He left a few minutes ago. Was he expecting you?”

  Her head shakes, her shiny waves cascading and bouncing practically in slow motion. “Not at all. Thought I’d surprise him.”

  She’s totally his girlfriend.

  Fucking scumbag.

  “I’ll tell him you stopped by. What’s your name?”

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s okay.”

  “You sure?” I lift a brow, poking my tongue into my cheek. “If you want to wait around, you can hang out in here. His office is probably locked.”

  “I don’t think he’d like that.” Her voice is airy, breathy. Like Marilyn Monroe. It’s got to be an act. There’s depth in her curious stare.

  “You should stay.” Rain trickles down the window behind me. I point to an empty chair against the far wall. “It’s warm in here. And dry. And he’ll be back soon.”

  And I feel like a piece of shit for sleeping with your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t my fault he didn’t tell me he was taken…so let me make it up to you.

  “You want some chocolate?” I offer. She looks like she could use a few pieces. I dig into my bag and pull out a miniature Snickers. Damn Easter candy. I can never resist buying a jumbo clearance bag every spring.

  “I can’t stay.” She glances around, up and down the hallway like she’s about to get caught by some invisible hall monitor.

  “He’s going to be really sorry he missed you.” I’ll see to it personally.

  “Please don’t tell him I stopped by.” For someone who went through the trouble of bringing him lunch, she sure doesn’t want to make a big deal of it.

  I bet he’s an asshole of a boyfriend.

  “O-okay.” I drop the chocolate.

  Before I have a chance to say another word, the blonde girl is gone. I didn’t even get a chance to ask her name. The entire exchange replays in my head not once but twice. Something isn’t adding up. I’m sure I’m missing some important detail hidden between the lines of our conversation, but my wearied brain isn’t firing on all cylinders.

  I brush it off and return to my screen. The iconic blue Facebook logo glares from the top corner. I’ve been trying to stay away from my personal account for the last two weeks for fear of seeing what Jeremiah’s been up to.

  But tired and curious is a lethal combination.

  I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to log in and log out and continue on my merry way.

  Taking a deep breath, I sign into my account and type Jeremiah Crawford’s name in the search bar.

  His profile picture is different. It used to be the two of us, fishing from the dock that extends out from his grandparents’ lake house last Thanksgiving. Now it’s a picture of Jeremiah standing on some red carpet with a white backdrop covered in some bourbon company’s logo.

  Interesting. He’s doing endorsements now.

  He’s standing alone in the photo, hands in his pocket and signature approachable smile plastered across his tan face. I click through his latest pictures: Jeremiah on set, Jeremiah cooking crab legs, Jeremiah in the hair and makeup seat looking over his notes, Jeremiah posing with fans, Jeremiah signing someone’s wooden spatula.

  Two weeks ago, I was falling asleep in his arms every night. Two weeks ago we were discussing honeymoon locations and the possibility of moving out to L.A. if his show were to be signed for an additional five years. Two weeks ago, we were still Jeremiah and Sam, college sweethearts chasing their dreams hand in hand the way they’d always planned.

  Funny how all those years, I was certain he loved me more than I loved him. There’s always one person who loves a little bit harder than the other. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he’d talk about me to our friends, and in the way he’d fill my water bottle with extra ice every morning before I left for work or pre-toothpaste my toothbrush if he got up first.

  I always thought it was him.

  Guess I was wrong.

  “How’s it coming?”

  Beckham’s voice startles me, and I let out an audible gasp, jumping in my seat. Looking through Jeremiah’s pictures must’ve swept me out of the moment and into some misty otherworld with no concept of time or space. I’m not sure how long I stared at those photos, but it had to have been a while if Beckham’s back from lunch.

  “Back so soon?” I shut the laptop on instinct. Big mistake. I should’ve played it cool, but now his gaze dances between my computer and me.

  “I hope you don’t intend on billing us for whatever you were just doing,” he says.

  “I’m on lunch.”

  “Where’s your food?” He lingers in my doorway.

  I hold up the mini Snickers, the one the woman rejected.

  Beckham scoffs. “All right.”

  “You missed your friend.” I could smack myself. I told the girl I wouldn’t say anything, and in a desperate moment of wanting him to stop wondering what I was just doing, I panicked and changed the subject.

  “Friend?”

  “Friend. Girlfriend. Whatever.”

  “I told you I don’t date.”

  I don’t believe him. A man who doesn’t date wouldn’t have chased me out of his building this morning, he would’ve walked away, hit the shower, and forgotten my name in the hour that followed.

  “Y
our personal life is none of my business.” I wave him away. “Forget I said anything.”

  I lift my laptop lid and sign out of my Facebook so I can get back to work. Beckham lingers some more. It’s hard to work with him staring at me like that.

  “You’re staring.” I type away, avoiding giving him too much of my attention.

  “Why’d you jump earlier anyway?” His arms fold, his shoulder bumped up against the doorframe. “Were you…were you Googling me?”

  Narcissist. “Absolutely not.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to believe me.”

  “Show me.”

  “I will not.”

  “It’s a legitimate request, Odessa. If you’re working for me, I want to ensure you’re preoccupied with your job duties and not wasting time researching my personal affairs.”

  “First of all, I’m not working for you, I’m working with you. Your company hired me to help. Second of all, you’re the last person on earth I’d be preoccupied with. You’re honestly not my type. At all.”

  “Likewise.” He lingers, and I wish he’d get on. “If you weren’t researching me, you should have no issue showing me what you were just doing.”

  I could claw that smug look off his infuriatingly handsome face if it wouldn’t cost me this consultancy. Two-hundred dollars per hour times forty hours times three weeks is not worth sacrificing. Not for him.

  “It’s personal,” I say, realizing it doesn’t help my case. Everything I say, my protective body language, my apprehension, only serves to fuel his insane notion that I was Googling him. And now it makes me want to Google him because obviously there’s something out there with his name on it or he wouldn’t make such a big deal.

  “Everything’s personal.”

  “Still not going to show you.”

  “Then I stand by my assumption.”

  “You do that.” I’m not budging. I don’t have to prove anything to him.

  He’s gone before I have a chance to fling some smart mouthed comment back at him. I need to be nicer to him, at least for the sake of making the next three weeks bearable. But it’s so hard to be nice to someone as arrogant and self-assured as Beckham King.