by Beck, Jamie
“So perhaps we should talk through some softball questions, like what inspired you to write this memoir?” He forked a neatly cut slice of cantaloupe into his mouth and waited.
Never a moment to relax with this one.
She’d succeeded in putting off practice yesterday. Mitch had been so exhausted she’d insisted that he go straight to bed when they’d returned to the hotel. She’d meandered the streets, grabbing a gelato al bacio and sitting on the edge of the Fontana della Barcaccia to people-watch.
There’d been moments during chemo when she’d closed her eyes and pictured herself in some of her favorite spots in Europe, praying for the chance to see them again. Basking under an Italian summer sun once more had made yesterday’s afternoon gelato a particularly blissful start to this trip. To her surprise, the brief meet and greet with the Italian editorial and marketing team had also been less painful than anticipated.
It seemed that those experiences had lulled her into a false kind of complacency, if Mitch’s “the ‘real work’ must begin” attitude foretold the days to come. His anxiety now increased hers.
“The cantaloupe in Italy is succulent, isn’t it?” She smiled and ate more of the omelet before swigging a healthy gulp of coffee.
He nodded, then swallowed. “It’s excellent.”
She took another sip of coffee, waiting for the caffeine buzz to awaken her nerve endings and engage her mind. Stalling, she gestured toward the grand chandelier in the middle of the room. “That looks like Venetian glass, doesn’t it?”
He scarcely looked, shrugging before dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Have you thought more about what you’ll say if you’re asked about posing for your brother?”
“Would you like to try this croissant?” She forced another smile and thrust it toward him. “Super flaky.”
His gaze dipped to the pastry and then lifted back to meet hers.
“Peyton.” He set his hands on the table. “You’re deflecting. Why?”
She tossed her napkin aside, giving up pretenses. “I told you, I don’t want to rehearse. It’s stressing me out, and to be honest, there’s only so much of my day that I want to spend thinking about this stuff. I think it’ll be best if I show up and be myself.”
His unnerving eyes stayed fixed on hers while he thought. She liked and hated this quality—his directness and comfort with taking his time to form thoughts and speak.
“I’d be more willing to agree with you if I were certain you’d given any thought to the potential questions—and prospective answers—before today.”
“I don’t need to. We’re talking about me. My life. My experience. My feelings. I mean, I wasn’t the greatest student, but I’m pretty sure I know this subject better than anyone. It’s not a test I can fail.” She snickered, as one does when being clever.
The grim line of his mouth suggested he was unamused. It didn’t, however, prepare her for what came next. “I know this tour is about you and your work, but please don’t forget I have a job to do, too. People to answer to, who expect me to perform to the best of my ability, and others who are counting on me to make my payroll. Therefore, I’d appreciate some cooperation, if you don’t mind.”
Peyton sat back in her chair. Albeit in that nice way he had of saying unpleasant things, he’d basically called her selfish. Well, well. Maybe those days weren’t as far behind her as she’d believed.
He raised a fair point, of course. She understood the stakes for everyone involved, and the time and money invested in bringing the book to market. But she also resented how everyone else viewed her memoir as a product and treated her like a paid spokesmodel.
No one cared that she’d be subjected to the judgment of strangers as they picked through each passage, all of which were interlaced with the fear, hope, panic, and loss that had marked every second of every minute of every day for a year. To this day she still fought those feelings from time to time. How could Mitch, Logan, and others not get that it physically hurt her to remember the days in the oncology wing, or the people she’d met who hadn’t survived, or the naked emotions Logan had captured in all those photographs?
She didn’t even want to be on this book tour, yet here she was, going along, preparing to spend her day locked in a room, being grilled by strangers about her treatment and her feelings rather than revisiting the Pantheon or heading to the Amalfi Coast.
To the extent anything she’d written could help others, she’d do her best to promote it. She would show up to read, answer questions, and sign books. But hitting lists had never been her goal, nor would she accept that burden. She didn’t want her life—or any measure of it—to be defined by the success of the memoir. So to her, everything about this tour was a form of sacrifice, not selfishness. If Mitch thought it okay to scold her, then she would have no problem being frank, either.
“You want the truth? Nothing inspired me to write this memoir. It was all Logan’s idea. He pushed me into it. Convinced me that redirecting our emotions and distracting ourselves during the great unknown of my cancer treatment would help—help whom, I still don’t know. Us? Others? He’s always looking for meaning in everything instead of accepting things as they are.” She paused long enough to motion for the waiter to bring more coffee. “And I already told you about the photo shoots. Again, I didn’t love doing those, but I trusted him and his instincts. I knew—somewhere in my very foggy, messed-up brain—that it’d be better to go along and reserve the option not to publish any of it in the end than to regret not documenting it at all. Right now, I’m having second thoughts about that.”
Mitch sat there, spine erect, arms crossed, gaze absorbed in thought. She waited for his reply to her fit of pique. After a minute, she huffed. “What?”
“The second part is good. Makes sense. Not sure about the starkness of the first, though.” His calmness suggested that he was managing her with his tremendous self-control, like a warning that he would not be manipulated or deterred. He intended to push her to her limit where his job was concerned. Strangely, his battle of wills excited her. “If readers think you were bullied into this, or that it isn’t authentically you on any level, it could hurt sales.” He frowned while spreading a bit more orange marmalade on a croissant.
She hadn’t expected that reply or considered that, while she might know all about the subject of her experience, she had no idea about publishing or anything else related to selling a book. It would not do to concede this battle so fast, though. And she would never confess the truth behind her reluctance.
“Are you asking me to lie in order to sell more books and line everyone’s pockets, including yours?” She set down her silverware and stared at Mitch as he sank his teeth into his croissant. Had she let his handsome face and nice manners obscure the fact that he, like so many others before, was using her for her name and what she could do for his career?
“We are here to sell books, Peyton.” Like a stone tossed at a mirror, his words shattered any hope she’d held that she’d been wrong to doubt him. “Believe it or not, most authors are excited by that prospect. But, no, I’m not asking you to lie. Perhaps you could reconsider how you deliver the message—admit that it was Logan’s idea and it took some encouragement, but that you got on board and felt empowered or braver because of it. Something like that, which I suspect is all true.”
His expression told her he needed that to be the truth.
Truth—a flexible concept based largely on one’s perspective. In her case, spells of doubt didn’t diminish her pride in what she and her brother had created. Nor did they devalue the way she and Logan had worked together through the most trying time of her life to produce something that might benefit others. “I see your point.”
She picked up her fork and stabbed at the last bit of omelet, refusing to look at him in case he was the type to gloat over his victory while she accepted the reality of their relationship. “Any other practice questions?”
He tapped the face of his watch. “I wish
, but now we’re out of time. We need to be at Stampa Coraggiosa by nine thirty so we have time to set up before the bloggers and press start showing up to speak with you.”
Her stomach clenched. Now the rich omelet seemed like the worst decision she’d made since writing the damn book. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and end up in a fender bender with one of the world’s craziest drivers. Then we’d have a legitimate excuse to miss the interviews.”
“That’s not funny.” He rapped his knuckles against the wood table, his face paling like it had in the airplane.
“I’m sorry.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at his superstition. “But prepare yourself. I bet you’ll hate driving through this city more than you hate flying. It’s certainly riskier.”
He stared at her, frozen with what appeared to be indecision. Of course, he wouldn’t cancel the interviews, much as she’d love him for the rest of her life if he would. She reached across the table to pat his hand. “Bring something to read and don’t look out the windows. Maybe you won’t notice.”
His gaze dropped to her hand, lingering there a moment before he withdrew his own. He stretched his fingers, then grasped his coffee cup and swigged the hot drink down in one gulp. “Let’s go.”
Mitch squeezed into the back of the small car, his gaze passing blindly over the notes on his iPad. He suspected his heavy-handed approach had not been the best way to ensure her cooperation on this trip, nor had it been sympathetic. Self-reproach was only somewhat responsible for the nausea rolling through his gut now. The taxi’s high-speed zigzagging through traffic made up the rest. He started at the blast of the tenth—or twelfth—angry horn, then tensed when a Vespa passed within inches of his window.
Peyton was leaning against her door’s armrest, chin in hand, staring at the city through her window. He envied the way her eyes scanned the scenery as if committing it all to memory. Closing his own, he then forced his chin up and faced his own window.
Ten seconds later, they blew by the Colosseum. Photos and movies had not prepared him for its magnificence. The mammoth, crumbling ruin rose amid a modern city—a testament to the best and worst of humanity, and to the humbling truth about time and his own insignificance.
An elbow poked his side. When he turned, Peyton was smiling at him. Her beautiful face was as entrancing as the ancient city around them. The fact he wished he could protect her as much as promote her work posed a major problem.
Like the gladiators of yesteryear, he needed a shield against that smile—and her acerbic wit—so he could do his job, for both their sakes.
“Pretty awesome, isn’t it?” She grinned. “Too bad we won’t have time to tour it.” She sounded disappointed, although he knew she’d already visited it in the past.
“Maybe someday.” A nonanswer of the variety he often made to clients. Safe conversation.
“Don’t think you can out-deflect me, mister.” Peyton’s low chuckle tickled something inside his chest. “Maybe after all of these cities and flights, you’ll risk another trip to return for pleasure. From what little I’ve gathered about you so far, you’ve spent too little time enjoying what the world has to offer.”
That she saw him so well should’ve bothered him, but it had the opposite effect.
He could think of several things he’d like to enjoy right now, but none had to do with flying or touring. Yet he’d already slipped up with Peyton by wading into personal territory instead of treating her like a client he was counting on to help build his new business.
Luckily, the cab stopped in front of the publisher’s modern multistory glass-front building before he had to respond. Just as well, because he hadn’t a quippy rejoinder. Cleverness was the realm of those raised like her—with privileges and trust funds and such. In a life driven by needs, he’d taken comfort in the routines established to set and meet goals. Throwing caution to the wind? Slowing down just because? He couldn’t even pretend to imagine himself doing either.
The driver said something in Italian as he gestured toward the entrance.
“Well.” Peyton paused, hand clasping the door handle. “Here goes nothing.”
She opened the door and stepped onto the sunny sidewalk while he paid the fare. He caught up to her at the front door, where she stood, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun as she gazed up at the building.
“Dammit, Mitch.” She grimaced. “I hate to admit it, but I’m a little petrified.”
She didn’t strike him as a woman who liked to be coddled, although in another circumstance, he would’ve enjoyed wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“I promise you’ll be fine. When you need a break, give one of those signals you talked about on the plane, like tugging your earlobe.” He waited for her to nod her consent before he opened the door and ushered her into the lobby. Italians loved marble and gilt, and this space had no shortage of either.
She whipped out her phone and took a selfie while he signed them in, then they went to the elevator.
“Am I allowed to refuse to answer a question?” Her face remained a mask of calm, but he noted the artery at the base of her neck pulsing beneath her skin.
He dragged his gaze from that vulnerable spot, but that didn’t help much when he was left staring at her pretty face. Everything about her made his job harder. “Is there something in particular you’re worried about?”
“No.” Her brows pulled together as she glanced at her feet before her expression morphed into a polite, plastic smile. “But I’d like to know the rules.”
He didn’t believe her. Perhaps his stomach wouldn’t be twisting if he’d read the whole book instead of depending on Rebecca’s summary. He might not have put it down for good if the snippet he’d first attempted hadn’t touched on bitter memories like a rough towel on sunburned skin. “You can always refuse to answer, although in my experience, that usually makes reporters dig even deeper. My best advice is to pause and think of an answer you are willing to share.”
That always worked for him, anyway.
“What if that doesn’t work?”
He crossed his arms and tipped his head. The fact that this otherwise playful, confident woman was so wary set his mind racing. Neither of them could afford a PR catastrophe at this stage in the game. “Like I said before, give me some sign and I’ll be the bad guy and shut it all down. Deal?”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his forearm. Despite the sedate outfit, she’d painted her nails a vibrant plum color. For the briefest second, he imagined their soft scratch on his back and then hid the slight shiver his daydream had wrought.
“You’re welcome.” Enough. The last thing a woman in her situation would be thinking about now was men, especially a “robot” like him.
Within minutes of their reaching the reception area, Regina Barsotti, the acquiring editor they’d met the day before, greeted them and walked them to the conference room reserved for the day’s events.
Regina couldn’t be much older than his sister. Today a formfitting red dress hugged her generous curves as she strode down the hallway in spiky high heels. As with yesterday, he could feel Peyton watching him as if curious about his reaction to the overtly sexy editor. His sole interest in Regina was how hard she was pushing the marketing team to sell the book.
“Did you both get enough rest?” She tossed a waterfall of dark-brown curls over her shoulder.
“Enough. I think I’m ready.” Peyton nodded, although the palm she placed on her stomach suggested otherwise.
“Good. Your work gives me—how do they say—all the feels.” Regina smiled and squeezed Peyton’s hand. “We are so proud to publish the Italian translation, and we want the media to feel as we do.”
The two women made an odd pairing. Regina was short, brazenly sensual, and brimming with energy. Peyton, a statuesque, restrained, ethereal beauty.
Another woman, thin and cute with freckles and a warm smile, stepped forward. “Hello, I’m Valeria, your translator.”
“Nice
to meet you.” Peyton looked at Mitch. “Won’t the reporters and bloggers speak English?”
“Most will, but some might not, and others might be able to better clarify their questions or your answers with some aid.” He should’ve prepared her better. He would’ve if not for his infatuation and sympathy.
“Okay.” Peyton shrugged, her gaze wandering the room until it stopped at the far corner. “Is that a coffee bar?”
“Yes. Would you like a cappuccino?” Regina asked.
Peyton clasped her hands in front of her chest. “God yes.”
Regina spoke to one of the assistants in Italian and then directed Peyton to a comfortable chair at the far end of the table. “Angelina will touch up your makeup to cover the shiny spots for any photographs, and then we can begin. Francesca from Tutto Sui Libri will be your first interview.”
Mitch had already become familiar with some of Peyton’s mannerisms, like the twitch of her lips that betrayed her nerves before she smiled. Another tidbit that proved he was too consumed with her and her expressions.
The assistant delivered the cup of coffee to Peyton, who now sat still while Angelina dusted her face with powder. Regina and Valeria entered into a rapid-fire conversation in Italian, leaving Mitch to himself. He scrolled through his notes, happy to reconfirm that they’d scheduled only one hardball journalist. Peyton would be warmed up by the time that round of questions arrived.
A text came through from his mother. This was not the first text she’d sent him during the wee hours. He’d accuse her of being a vampire—except that she didn’t sleep during the day, either.
I need glaucoma surgery. When will you be home? I’ll need some extra help for a couple of weeks afterward, and I want to get this scheduled soon.
Mitch sighed. Lauren would be little to no help. He’d rather move his mother to his place for a week than commute to work from hers, but she’d never go for that.
I’m working now. Will call later. I return on the 8th. Go back to bed!
