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“But there’s no one left in PR.” Layla openly slumped against her suitcase handle now. “Everyone is sick or on vacation.”
At any other time, under any other circumstance, I would have stepped forward, raised my hand, and seized this opportunity to make a good impression. Instead, I took a slow step back into the crowd…
A second too late.
“There’s Reagan!” Nataly cried. She grabbed my arm and raised it like a trophy. “He’s in PR.”
January’s head swung in my direction.
I pulled my hand down. “Oh, no. No. I mean… I’d love to help, but I’m so new to the company… I’m not sure I’m the best choice.” Especially since I know what the CEO looks like when he orgasms.
“I’m sure!” Nataly cried. “Reagan is brilliant and innovative and hardworking. We all think so.” She was laying it on thick, probably trying to make up for not supporting me in the meeting earlier. I tried to sign quit it with my eyes, but she ignored me. “He’s formatting and printing all the media kits, too, so he’s very familiar with the tour stops and can make sure Mr. Pennington has the information he needs.”
January nodded, relieved. “Perfect. Thanks for volunteering, Reagan.”
“But I…”
“Your willingness to step up on short notice will be noted in your employee file.”
I shut my mouth. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? How was I supposed to tell her I was the last person Thatcher would want to share a tour bus with? If I refused to go, would that be noted in my employee file instead?
This situation had not been covered in my teenage etiquette lessons, damn it.
“Maybe you should check with Thatcher before deciding?” I suggested, knowing full well Thatcher would never agree. “A bus is a small space to share with another person.”
January waved this away. “Thatcher’s easygoing. He won’t even notice you’re there as long as you stay out of his way. But I appreciate you trying to keep his comfort in mind.”
I huffed out a breath that might have been a chuckle if I’d been capable of feeling humor in that moment. “I’m really, really trying,” I told her. “Maybe you can note that in my employee file as well?”
January laughed like I’d been joking. “It’s settled, then. You can meet the bus downstairs, and I’ll ask McGee to stop by your place so you can get your stuff. And Layla…” She gave the older woman a sympathetic smile. “I’ll get a driver to take you home.”
“I…” Layla sniffled. “I just don’t understand how everything went so wrong. I had a plan.”
I sympathized completely. Except Layla was bemoaning a press tour plan she’d created a few hours ago, and I was thinking about my life.
January glanced down at her phone. “Reagan? McGee says Thatcher will be ready to go in twenty.”
My stomach swooped into my shoes. “Okay. I guess I’ll just… grab my stuff and get downstairs, then?”
She gave me a reassuring smile. “Everything’ll be fine.”
I nodded. “Of course,” I agreed.
But I knew without a doubt that fine was not what it would be.
Chapter Four
Thatcher
I shoved the last few necessities from my desk into my travel bag and took a final glance around my office. It would be two weeks before I stood here again. Two weeks of drowning in small talk, speaking at conferences, and sharing barely drinkable coffee with textile executives across middle America.
Not my ideal way to usher in the new year.
I’d planned to spend this week at my beach house, attempting to repair my relationship with my son, but after Brantleigh had blown me off with a last-minute text about an “unmissable opportunity”—probably a tanned and muscular “opportunity” with a fast car and a sparse acting resume, if I knew my son—it had proved impossible to stay away from my office.
January had reminded me with a disappointed sigh that even if I filled my days with “fun work” like checking on my personal real estate investments and researching new project ideas between my increasingly frequent attempts to pin Brant down for a conversation, being here wasn’t “an actual vacation, boss,” but I didn’t care. I was an unapologetic workaholic, and my office was my safe haven. Here, I trusted my instincts. Here, I had a proven track record of success. Here, I could turn ideas into reality. Here, I was firmly in control.
Outside of work, on the other hand… Well, just look at the fallout from last night’s clusterfuck.
