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I needed someone who’d understand but not judge. From his question, however, I’m thinking I may have picked the wrong guy.
“I didn’t fuck up.”
I may have fucked up.
My hotheaded remarks went viral, and now I’m getting canceled. People took my rant as stupid predictions about troubles down the road for our company because I was frustrated and felt like stirring up trouble.
We really should be looking out for the planet. I stand by that.
I’ve said minor shit like this before, and no one’s made such a big deal out of it, but this time, for whatever reason, investors got bent out of shape.Reallybent out of shape.
Exhaling a long breath, I watch the cloud of steam drift into the cold air. It’s so sunny today. Cloudless sky. Yet still cold enough to frost the tips of my fingers and snag my breath at the bottom of my lungs.
“Was there a life-or-death reason you needed to take the media bait and spout your mouth about the company’s prospects and future losses?” Archer’s growl sounds like a hungry bear pissed off about an empty trashcan.
“No.” I hate people who ask questions when they already know the answers in order to prove a point. Right now, Archer tops that list.
“So you fucked up.”
His logic leaves no room for subtle deliberation. “Yeah.”
“Lawsuits?”
“Probably. Shareholders are pissed. Stock’s in free fall.” I haven’t said these words to anyone on the chance that not saying them would make them less true. But I can’t lie to Archer. He knows me too well, for one thing. He also reads the news.
Without a second thought, Archer offered to put me up at his family’s winery for two weeks while I “cool off” and avoid the reporters who’d lined up outside my company headquarters and my home, baiting me into the stupid things I’m just itching to say.
“You getting good counsel?” he asks.
I nod.
“Great. I’ll make you a little deal. While you’re here, we’re just old friends with a few weeks at our disposal to drink wine and talk about old times. You don’t ask me about my problems, and I’ll leave you alone about yours.”
He presents his hand to shake, even though neither one of us needs such formality. This is why he was my first phone call. He cares enough to leave me the hell alone when I don’t feel like recounting my wrong moves for the eighty-seventh time.
We sit by the lake for so long that the sun finally rises high enough to offer a little heat. It’s still crisp and chilly—an unusual mid-summer snap of cool weather—but I don’t mind it one bit.
The way the media’s had my feet to the fire for the past two days, I’d be happy in a cave made of ice.
Chapter
Three
PJ
Staring at a host of splashy news items about Colin Hathaway on my office computer, I berate myself a little for not paying more attention to science, if only because the astrophysicist is very nice to look at. Then again, despite his recent troubles, the man himself is famously aloof and media-shy.
From a spin control perspective, it’s a smart strategy. The less time the head of a company spends talking to the media, the less likely there is to be trouble. Colin should have just kept his head down and continued in that vein.
But like the dummy most people are, he eventually said the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place.
Andkaboom.
I feel a little sorry for him, but only a little. Guys like him need to learn to keep their dicks in their pants and their thoughts to themselves. Not necessarily in that order.
I have no evidence about what Colin does with his dick, other than what I read in the tabloids while I’m waiting to buy Greek yogurt and cheddar cheese at the market. I’m savvy enough toknow very little of that breathless blather is true. Or all of it is true, depending on who you ask.
“Billionaire heartbreaker,” according to one breathless exposé. “Tech’s most eligible bachelor,” declares another. “Mogul seeks heiress”—I don’t even know what to think about that one.
