by Score, Lucy
I dialed my office. “Rowena,” I said when my head research nerd picked up.
“What’s up, D?” she asked, her mouth full.
Conveniently enough, my head researcher and my media liaison had crushes on each other and “worked late” flirting over Thai takeout several nights a week. I could give a flying fuck if my employees dated. As long as no one let a breakup damage the teamwork, they could do what they liked.
I was a firm believer that relationships and their ensuing breakups didn’t need to be messy. People complicated relationships with ridiculous expectations. If you were honest about who you were and what you wanted, no one could sanely accuse you of misrepresenting yourself, could they?
“How are we trending?”
“Mmm, lemme check.” She chewed. “I was just plotting a few data points that Lance gave me.”
Rowena was an Ivy League dropout who, under my tutelage, had developed a program for digesting and weighting media reports, then spitting out complex probabilities of public opinion.
She made presidential approval ratings look like an elementary school vote by raised hand.
“We’re looking at a solid twenty-six percent positive,” she said. “Up four points from last week.”
Four points. Good. But not good enough. A smiling appearance at a gallery could have nudged her up another point. Ms. Stanton and I were going to have a discussion about priorities. A loud one. In front of her date.
* * *
Half an hour later, I pulled up to the security gate at Bluewater.
“Would you like me to announce you to Ms. Stanton, man?” the guard at the gate asked.
“She’s expecting me,” I lied. “I’m on the list.”
“Have a nice visit,” he said, buzzing me through.
Indeed.
She was home, I noted, pulling into the circular driveway. Lights were on, and I could distantly hear music. Was she entertaining? Was I about to walk in on her and some mystery man?
The thought irked me more than it should have. This was the type of thing I needed to know about my clients. A secret boyfriend? That was definitely something I should know.
And I was going to explain that very clearly to her.
Avoiding the security cameras on the front of the house, I skirted the building. It was a series of white stucco boxes, connected by arched walkways. I crossed between the garage and the master bedroom and came up on the beach side. If the front of the property was luxurious, the back of it was positively decadent. Emily had two hundred feet of pristine, private beach. Chaise lounges under palapas dotted the white sand. Her white coral stone terrace included a kidney-shaped pool with a sunning shelf and hot tub, a professional grade barbecue, and enough seating for the better part of a senior class on spring break.
None of it looked like it was used.
I crossed the terrace, sticking close to the house. The glass accordion doors off the kitchen were open, and music poured out.
So Emily was having a little party.
Wasn’t that nice, I thought grimly.
I stepped inside, ready to shock her, annoy her. Ready to impress upon her boyfriend the importance of doing exactly what I tell him. Namely, get lost.
But there was no boyfriend. There wasn’t even a party.
The commercial grade refrigerator door was open. Beneath it, I caught a peek of bare feet and long legs.
The music—Abba, if I wasn’t mistaken—blared through hidden speakers.
And then the door closed, and there was Emily Stanton, billionaire, CEO, society princess in men’s boxer shorts and a tank top performing a truly terrible rendition of “Dancing Queen” while jiggling a cocktail shaker.
There was a martini glass—only one—with two skewered olives on the blue Brazilian stone countertop next to her open laptop and neat piles of paperwork.
Emily shook and sang, whirling in a tight circle. Her blonde hair whipped out behind her.
“Ha! Stuck the landing,” she said with a little shoulder boogie.
“You certainly did,” I agreed.
She shrieked and, on instinct, hurled the cocktail shaker at me. I caught it, but the lid came off.
It wasn’t a fearful scream, I noted as cold vodka soaked its way through my shirt and pants. It was a battle cry.
She lunged for the kitchen shears on the counter. I wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or if she actually intended to kill me.
“Relax. It’s me,” I bellowed over Abba.
Emily was wielding the shears at me even though recognition lit her eyes.
“I know it’s you!”
“Now, Emily,” I began calmly, putting the shaker down on the countertop.
“Don’t you ‘now, Emily’ me,” she yelled. “You do not get to come and go as you please in my home!”
She had a point. So I went on the offensive.
“What are you doing at home on a Wednesday night in men’s boxers that is so much more important than repairing the damage you’ve done to your reputation?” My voice raised to carry over the music.
She threw a dish towel at me. Judging from the material, it cost more than most people’s bed linens.
“What makes you think me paying you gives you the right to enter my house whenever you feel like it?” she shouted.
“Turn the music down!”
“Get out of my house!”
“Not until you stop willfully endangering the IPO you say you want!”
She snatched her phone off the counter and punched in a code. The music cut off abruptly, leaving more space for our angry silence to fill.
“Listen up, Price. I can take a night off. One night. That’s all I get. I don’t take vacations. I work weekends. I rarely leave the office or the lab before nine every night. I deserve one uninterrupted night alone.”
The flashing anger in her eyes was Morse coding D-A-N-G-E-R at me.
“Valerie told me you left early for a date,” I said.
“Yes, with myself. You’re interrupting. And you owe me a martini.”
I glanced down at my wet Oxford. The alcohol fumes were strong.
“Then I’ll make you another,” I said, unbuttoning my shirt.
“Stop it!” she said, still pointing the shears at me.
I dropped the shirt on the counter and unhooked my belt.
“Why do you keep taking your clothes off in my house?”
“You’re just so welcoming, Emily. Such a lovely hostess. I feel so comfortable here.”
“Bite me.”
I dropped my pants and dared her to look.
She didn’t disappoint. I could feel the heat from her gaze as it trailed over my chest and torso before it paused on my Dolce & Gabbana briefs. “Where’s your vodka?” I asked.
“In a puddle on the floor. What are you doing here, Price?” she asked, suddenly weary.
I felt it, too, as I toed off my shoes and left the pants on the floor. It had been a long couple of weeks, and my desire to fight was gone as quickly as it had come. “Ah, here it is,” I said, finding a stash of high-end liquors in one of the cabinets. “How dirty do you like it?”
“Don’t be an ass,” she said, slumping onto a barstool.
I helped myself to ice from the dispenser and went to work on the martini.
“Aren’t you the least bit embarrassed?” she asked me, watching me as I worked.
“Not at all. I happen to think I have an excellent body.”
“You burst in here thinking I had a date, Derek.”
“I burst in here because you didn’t feel the need to explain to me that you needed a break. I would have worked it out. If you need something, tell me. I will get you anything that you want. If you can be bothered to be honest with me.” I capped the shaker and wrapped it in the very expensive hand towel.
“If I need something, I take care of it myself.”
“Ah, but, Emily darling, we’re a team. Remember?” The cheerful sound of ice and alcohol melding filled the kitchen.<
br />
“I can’t watch you shake that,” she said, turning away to take in the ocean view, ignoring my flexing pecs and abs.
“Then how will I earn my tip?”
“I’ll give you a tip. A sharp one plunged into your chest,” she offered. This was not the cucumber-cool, pristine flower petal that the rest of the world saw. This was the real Emily Stanton, and I was enamored.
“You’re a little mean on your night off. I quite like it.”
“Sometimes I really, really want to punch you. Just one shot in the middle of a sentence. I fantasize about it,” she mused.
“Yes, let’s talk about fantasies,” I said, conversationally as I poured the martini into her waiting glass then slid it toward her.
She stared at it for a beat, too stubborn to taste it and tell me what a magnificent bartender I was.
I opened the fridge and dug around for a beer.
“Are you purposely tensing your ass cheeks right now?” she demanded.
“Oh, you noticed? Perhaps you’re not dead on the inside after all.”
“I’m going to go watch the sunset,” she said. “You can let yourself out. Or I can call Jane and have her stun gun you for real this time.”
I found a Belgian beer on the door. “Promises. Promises.” But she’d already left the room and was climbing the stairs in the foyer.
I followed her.
The stairs went up another tastefully decorated level before leading out onto a rooftop deck.
“Very nice,” I commented, appreciating the view of Biscayne Bay.
Emily glared at me. “Why are you here?”
“If I’m being honest,” I said. “I find you annoyingly irresistible.”
Her eyes flitted down to my groin again. “For the love of God, would you please put on a pair of pants before I get a call from Cam next door? The woman’s got a telescope.”
I glanced down in mock contemplation. “You’re certainly not saying she’d need a telescope to see this, are you?”
A beach towel hit me in the face.
“Cover up, Mr. Confidence.”
I obliged, wrapping the blue and white striped towel around my hips and taking the seat next to her. To be obnoxious, I scooted it closer to her.
“I really don’t like you right now,” she said.
“Unfortunately, that seems to do nothing to my attraction to you,” I observed.
19
Derek
Emily said nothing, sipping her martini and quietly staring off at the horizon.
“I was jealous,” I admitted finally.
“Let’s let the topic drop before one of us humiliates himself any further,” she suggested primly.
“Let’s not. What’s life without a little humiliation, a little pain? A little honesty?”
“A little honesty? Okay fine. You are under the idiotic assumption that I’m some ladylike wallflower who needs a boost of confidence,” she scoffed.
“I certainly didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your ‘let me save the day’ cape.”
I gestured at the towel. “Do you want this to be pants or a cape? Because I’m willing to do whatever makes you happy.”
“Then leave me alone on the only night that I get to be myself by myself.” She enunciated every word like it was a threat.
“No.”
She stood, and I thought for a moment that she would try to strangle me. But once again, her magnificent restraint kicked in.
“You’re a piece of work, Price.”
“You want to shock me? Then show me. Show me the real Emily,” I demanded, rising to my feet.
She spread her arms wide, vodka skimming the rim of her glass but not daring to spill.
“This is it. I’m wearing boxer shorts that I stole from an ex-boyfriend who thought he wanted to marry me until he found out that I cared about him less than starting my own business. I squeezed in a kickboxing class between here and the office because spending all day every day toning it down for the world is frustrating. I block out every Wednesday night to be alone. And you are ruining it. I’ve done every appearance you’ve scheduled. Dressed the way you asked. Smiled the way you instructed. I deserve my Wednesday.”
“Toning it down?” I repeated, purposely ignoring the rest.
“I’m not some shrinking violet or other delicate flower. I’m a badass, Price. I’m aggressive, very, very smart, and powerful. I’m intimidating. And if I don’t ‘tone it down,’ people start to whisper things like ‘bitch’ and ‘gird your loins’ when I walk past. I have things that I need to accomplish. And I can’t do them all if everyone is terrified of me or too busy cracking jokes about how I’m a Devil Wears Prada boss.”
She was finally coming into focus for me. And oh, did I like what I saw.
“If you’re such a badass, why are you letting people like me and Lita and your mother tell you where to be and what to do?”
Unexpectedly, she flopped back in the chair. “That’s the billion-dollar question. Isn’t it? What’s your theory, smart guy?”
“Oh, you won’t like my theory,” I chuckled.
“There are a lot of things about you I don’t like. What’s one more?” she said airily.
Oh, yes. If the prim and proper Emily Stanton was tantalizing, this unedited, confident version was irresistible to me. I was going to make a very big mistake, and it was likely going to be quite costly.
I’d enjoy every second of it.
“I’ve spent three weeks watching you. You’re a chameleon. Competent in front of the directors. Terrifying for your assistants. Temperamental teenager to your father. The passive-aggressive good daughter to your mother. The unreachable CEO to your colleagues. The question is, which one is the real you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Price.”
“Oh, but you do,” I said, stepping into her space. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I could see her temper flaring just below that flawless surface.
“Your job is to make this situation go away not get inside my head,” she reminded me.
“Let’s discuss the psychology of vulnerability, shall we?” I said. We were as close as we could be without touching.
“You’ve seen my calendar. I don’t have time for a psychology class.”
“You’re in the business of selling things,” I said. “Tell me, Emily, do you lie about your products? Make outrageous claims?”
“Careful, Price,” she warned me. “Questioning my integrity is not the way to a long and healthy life.”
My smile was hard. “Or are you transparent? Authentic? Are you clear about exactly what your products are?”
“You already know the answer to that, and if this is how you earn your astronomical fee, I’m going to want a refund.”
“How am I supposed to sell you, Emily?” I asked.
“Sell me?”
“That’s what I’ve been hired to do. Sell you to the public. Make you relatable, desirable, trustworthy. Show the world that their money is safe with you. And I can’t do that with a mask. I can’t make a facade likable. If you want to win, you need to do it as you.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“And you’re hiding behind the pretty ice queen routine. If you don’t show me who you really are, then how am I supposed to sell you?”
“You can’t be serious. The entire world revolves around photo filters and airbrushing. Sound bites written by professional manipulators. Paid advertising. Nothing is real anymore,” she shot back.
I laughed without humor. “Only if you’re playing the small-time, love. And you’re not small-time.”
She huffed out a breath. “I don’t have time for a philosophical discussion. Lay your insanity out for me.”
“Happy to. When you are vulnerable and authentic, people automatically gravitate toward you. They are reprogrammed to like you because you aren’t wea
ring a mask. You aren’t hiding from them. You’re brave enough to be real in a world full of people too terrified to be themselves.”
“You want me to go out there in that world full of people who already openly hate me? Who would give anything to see me fail and be destroyed in the process?”
“You’ve already been torn down,” I reminded her. “Now it’s time to rebuild you. And if we rebuild you as you, you’ll be untouchable.”
“Untouchable? You’re awfully confident in your abilities.”
“Trust me, Emily,” I urged. I needed her to trust me.
She shook her head, took a sip of her drink. “Is this your approach with all your clients?”
I laughed. “God, no. Some of them are simply terrible people. Those I give shiny masks. But you? You’re playing it safe and small. Whether it’s fear or just all that you know, there’s a much bigger, brighter world out there for people like you.”
“People like me,” she repeated.
“I’m not here to kiss your ass, darling. I’m here to strip you down and make the world fall in love with you. That’s not possible with all my clients.”
“I’d rather have a mask.”
“Do you want to change the world or hide from it?” I asked.
“Why can’t I do both?”
“Because you’re Emily fucking Stanton, and you have something to say. You’re not some media mogul with two mistresses and an angry wife. You’re not some vapid starlet with a DUI and a drug problem.”
“Do you really believe you can get me out of this mess?” she asked, showing the first real hint of rawness.
“I know I can. In fact, I’ll guarantee that you’ll be in a better place than you were before you got in that idiot’s Ferarri. But in order for that to happen, you have to trust me.”
She stared out at the horizon for a long beat. “What do you see when you look at me?” she asked finally.
“You’re passive aggressive rather than direct,” I said. “Your apologies are purposely lackluster. You do things just to annoy your mother because you have to do something to make her realize she doesn’t run you. You let Lita, your CMO, take the office that should be yours and then meet in hers because ‘there’s more room.’”
