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As the day progressed, emails flooded in, and I didn’t move from my desk except to grab a slice of pizza the company ordered. I learned that Thatcher’s first speaking engagement would be at the Midwestern Textile Symposium in Kansas City. According to an email Layla’s assistant sent out, my job was to create branded media kits specific to local outlets in the Kansas City area and deliver them to McGee—hot, tattooed McGee—at the building’s loading dock by six o’clock tonight. After that, I needed to begin preparing similar kits for the event in Wichita that would take place the following day. Those could be overnighted if they weren’t ready to go on the bus.
It turned out Nataly was right—Thatcher did have a tricked-out ride on standby. When I finally made my way to the loading dock with three markets’ worth of media kits boxed up and labeled, a sleek maroon tour bus had already pulled up to the door, and Thatcher’s driver was transferring suitcases out of a Mercedes sedan into the cargo area.
“McGee?”
“Yep,” he said without turning around. His inked fingers absently carded through wavy blond hair as he examined the stuff he’d already loaded. One clear bin was filled with snack foods like granola bars and cans of nuts.
“I have some marketing materials for Th—uh… Mr. Pennington.”
“Set ’em down. I’ll load ’em in.”
I stared at McGee’s back, realizing I’d been low-key hoping to catch sight of Thatcher on the loading dock to make sure he was doing okay and wasn’t looking as tired and worried as he had in the meeting.
Disgusting. Like you haven’t seen enough? Now you’re a groupie, hanging out by the stage door, all concerned about him?
But as I stood there like a dumbass, I heard myself say, “Guess you’re leaving soon, huh?”
“Soon as the boss arrives.” McGee rearranged boxes with a little grunt.
“And Layla, too,” I reminded him. “Layla James.”
At this, McGee turned and looked—really looked—at me. His face was devoid of any expression, which made me squirm, but when I really focused on his eyes, I could see he was younger than I’d thought beneath his tough-guy swagger and weathered face. Younger, even, than me. And his pierced eyebrow gave him all kinds of ruthless, bad-boy sex appeal.
This did nothing to dispel my not-jealousy.
“And you guys will be driving through the night?” I went on.
McGee inclined his head.
I hesitated, then finally blurted, “If you or, uh, Mr. Pennington had a rough night last night—” Good job, Reagan. Could you be more obvious? “I’m not saying you did. I mean, how would I even know? But if someone had a sleepless night, and a long day, too, and needed a coffee, there’s a cafe on Third with these amazing espresso shots, and…” I clenched my jaw to stop my babbling. “Anyway. Safe travels.”
I left McGee staring at me in bemusement as I scuttled back upstairs, two minutes too late to avoid making a fool of myself. What business was it of mine if Thatcher Horror-Eyes Pennington was tired? Literally none. Since when was I this guy?
I punched the elevator button for my floor with excessive force. Thank fuck Thatcher would be gone for two weeks. In fact, he couldn’t leave fast enough. I was ready to go back to him forgetting my existence.
The elevator door opened, and I stomped out into the lobby.
“Being stubborn about this isn’t going to work,” a woman’s voice insisted, stopping me in my tracks.
A crowd of employees had gathered in the lobby, and the air was thick with tension. I sidled over to Nataly to find out what was going on and quickly realized what had caught everyone’s attention. A young woman in a pantsuit and a surgical mask with her arms folded across her chest appeared to be guarding the elevator from Layla James… or a version of Layla, anyway.
The woman who’d been so put together that morning looked like she’d been trampled by horses at some point during the day. Sweaty tendrils of hair had fallen out of her bun to straggle limply against her face and neck. Her nose glowed like a warning beacon beneath glassy eyes, and she clung to the handle of a rolling suitcase like it was the only thing keeping her wobbly knees from buckling.
“You—” Layla’s cultured voice had become a bullfrog croak. “—might be Thatcher’s assistant, January, but you are not in charge here. Thatcher needs me. Please step aside.”
The woman in the mask shook her head resolutely. “You’re sick, Layla. If you’ve caught the same flu that Stephen and a bunch of other employees have gotten, it’s extremely contagious, and if you get on that bus, you’ll get Thatcher sick, too. What good would that do?”
“Non—” Layla broke off in a weak cough but raised her chin stubbornly. “Nonsense. My immune system is bulletproof. I haven’t had the flu in a decade. I’m simply tired, and I probably have something trivial.”
“Trivial like a zombie apocalypse,” Nataly said under her breath. “The poor thing.”
Nataly wasn’t wrong. Beneath her red nose and cheeks, Layla’s skin had a distinct, pasty-gray Walking Dead look.
“I suggest you take a flu test,” January said matter-of-factly. “If you don’t have the flu, I’ll leave the decision to Thatcher.”
“But I’m the head of PennCo Fiber. The trip was my idea.” Sickness made Layla sound whiny. “Thatcher can’t go alone.”
January squared her shoulders. “Then choose someone else to go. Perhaps someone from PR can assist Thatcher for the first leg of the trip, then you can join him when you’re feeling better.”
