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Thatcher stared at me while my heart pounded its way out of my chest, and my breath came faster. “I told you before,” he said in a soft voice that reached right into my brain and snatched away all logic. “I’m not interested in games.”
My muscles locked tight as I waited for him to say something more, to close the space between us?—
“Holy shit! Reagan Wellbridge! I didn’t expect to find you in Wichita, of all places.”
I whirled away from Thatcher just as Chris Acton strode out of the meeting room, all bright eyes and delighted smile.
“And you’re looking good,” he added with an appreciative up-down that took in my tailored pants and crisp Oxford. “As usual. I haven’t seen you since we?—”
“Met at the leadership conference in June,” I cut in quickly. “Yes. Hi. Good to see you again.” I shook his hand and managed to smile, but I couldn’t come up with a single word to continue the conversation because all my attention was focused on the man standing like the world’s tallest, most impenetrable fortress at my side.
Be charming, I reminded myself. Be professional.
God, I was beginning to loathe that word.
“I’m here on business,” I said, trying to recover. “I work in PR at PennCo now. I’m assisting Mr. Pennington today.” I tilted my head in Thatcher’s direction.
“Oh.” Chris darted a startled glance in the direction of my head tilt, almost as if he hadn’t noticed Thatcher—the man he was supposed to interview—until that moment. “Of course. I remember hearing that somewhere, but I was expecting to meet Layla James today.” Chris dropped my hand so he could offer his to Thatcher. “Chris Acton, Mr. Pennington. Not sure you remember me from our quick meeting last year…”
I waited for Thatcher to turn on the charm, but despite our conversation about this just minutes ago, he simply nodded and shook hands without saying a word. In fact, he looked grumpier and more aloof than I’d ever seen him.
I could practically smell disaster in the air.
Shit. I closed my eyes and bit back a sigh of frustration. This was supposed to be a friendly interview that would hopefully convince Chris to say good things about Thatcher and his company. But there was a reason a PR person accompanied a CEO on a press tour, and this was it. I needed to fix this. Head in the game, Wellbridge.
“Actually,” I said, throwing Chris an apologetic smile. “Can you give us a moment? There’s a message I forgot to relay to Thatcher from his assistant, and I want to make sure it’s not urgent.” I gave Thatcher a pointed look and directed him to the hallway.
“January did not call you.”
“No. I just…” I leaned in close and lowered my voice. “You remember that man is here to help you help PennCo, right? So maybe stop frowning at him.”
“I’m not frowning.” His eyes flashed a warning. “And stop telling me how to conduct my business. I told you I don’t need to be managed.”
I threw up my hands. “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” I hiss-whispered. “I’m just reminding you that you’re here to schmooze the press, even if you don’t like it. Even if you don’t trust them. If you’re going to act like you have a stick up your ass, what’s the point of this whole tour?”
Thatcher’s gaze seared through me. Up close like this, I noticed a faded freckle tucked in a laugh line next to one of his eyes… which were not laughing now. “You’re acting like I’ve never done this before. I know what I’m doing, Reagan.”
I opened my mouth to remind him that he’d once been quoted by a Wall Street Journal reporter saying he hated giving interviews. But then I remembered that I’d read the quote during a late-night drunken internet search one hot summer in Honeybridge when Thatcher Pennington lay only a few doors away from my bedroom and shut myself up.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Fine, then.” I nodded at the doorway. “Proceed.”
Thatcher cocked his head in challenge, as if he knew I wouldn’t be able to leave it at that.
Unfortunately, he was right.
“But it wouldn’t hurt to smile,” I blurted, because I was right, too, damn it. “Just smile, okay? Chris is gay, Thatcher. He’s not immune to another sexy man.”
One eyebrow lifted, and he gave me a look that was hard to read. “I’m not going to ask how you know that about him.”
My face heated, and I straightened my shoulders defensively. “Just… be nice to the reporter, and he’ll be nice to you. You said you trust me, so… trust me. Okay?”
Thatcher’s nostrils flared as though he wanted to argue, but he gave me a clipped nod and thrust a hand toward the door, ushering me ahead of him into the room.
Chris either didn’t feel the tension in the air or chose to ignore it. Neither option said much about his journalistic instincts, but I was grateful for it. I needed time to get myself back under control.
Chris waved Thatcher to the far side of the long conference table where he’d set up his microphones and recording equipment, then took the seat opposite with his back to the door. Instead of taking a seat, I leaned back against the wall behind Chris where I could keep an eye on the proceedings… and yes, fine, watch Thatcher without being noticed, because apparently, I hadn’t seen the man enough in the past few days.
“Ready?” Chris asked Thatcher as he got comfortable.
