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Chris cocked his head. “While preparing for today’s conversation, I discovered you invested recently in property in a small town in Maine called Honeybridge. The property is being used to expand Honeybridge’s unique mead offerings. Is this an indication of a new direction Pennington Industries is moving in?”
Thatcher’s face was granite. “Not at all,” he said. “That’s a personal investment of mine, unrelated to Pennington Industries.”
Chris nodded like he already knew this. “That’s a great segue to my next question. What’s on the horizon for Thatcher Pennington? Tell us more about what you have going on… personally.”
The question, or maybe Chris’s arch tone, made Thatcher stiffen in his seat. At first, I worried that I’d missed something, but then I remembered how Thatcher had looked on the bus yesterday when he’d talked about how he’d made tabloid headlines after his second divorce. Defiant. Lonely.
This was not what Layla had agreed to when she’d set up the interview, I was sure, and I was furious that Chris had taken advantage of the situation. Thatcher didn’t owe anyone anything, damn it.
“Pennington Industries and the people who work there are my primary focus, both personally and professionally,” Thatcher said, firm and cold. “They always have been.”
“Of course,” Chris agreed in a voice that said something else entirely.
I shifted on my feet, ready to intervene and tell Chris that our time was up. I wasn’t sure if that was what a true PR handler would do, but I didn’t want to subject Thatcher to any more of this.
Before I had a chance to speak, though, Chris stood and offered Thatcher a handshake and a polite thank-you. Thatcher barely shook his hand before muttering his own goodbye and striding from the room without glancing at me.
Great.
I pushed off the wall to follow when Chris turned and offered me a handshake as well, all smiles now that the interview was over. “It really is good to see you, Reagan. How have you been?”
I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance. “I was doing fine until five minutes ago. What the hell was that?” I thrust a hand at the conference table. “PennCo didn’t set up this interview so you could rake my boss over the coals or try to get the gory details of his personal life.”
Chris’s easy smile didn’t fade. “Please. That wasn’t raking, and you know it. I asked him a couple of off-the-cuff questions. Getting to the deeper story is my job.” He shrugged. “Besides, your boss handled them well enough.”
“Because there is no deeper story,” I insisted.
“There’s always a deeper story. But enough about that.” Chris’s grin turned friendlier, more open. “Are you staying at the Sheraton while you’re in town? I’d love to buy you a drink later.”
Chris was sexy—unquestionably so—and a few months ago, I would have jumped on that kind of opportunity in a heartbeat. Had jumped on it, in fact. Even a few weeks back, I might have been tempted to go for a repeat. But at the moment, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted less than a quick hookup, especially with someone who’d upset Thatcher.
This was concerning on many levels.
“Can’t. Work trip, remember?” I said shortly. “We have a business dinner thing. And since we’re traveling by bus, I think we’ll be leaving for Colorado tonight anyway.”
Chris tilted his head. “Bus? Oh… right. That makes sense. I, ah… I saw Thatcher’s driver earlier. Not that I know him. The driver, I mean. I don’t know him at all, really. Just saw him the one time I had a quick interview with Thatcher. And then again earlier today at the coffee stand.” He cleared his throat. “McGee is his name, I think. Right?”
I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying because I was still hot with embarrassment about the way I’d tried to handle the situation between Chris and Thatcher. “Yeah, so we’re heading to a dinner later and then getting back on the road. It’s a whole PennCo whistle-stop tour thing.”
Chris shifted away from me to slide his messenger bag over his head and onto one shoulder. “You know, when I heard you were working for PennCo, I almost didn’t believe it,” he said off-handedly, reaching for his coat and frowning at it. “I’d figured you’d end up working for your father’s campaign. You seemed eager to get involved last summer, and you’re killing it on Instagram. God knows the Senator needs someone on that team who actually understands how to use social media.”
My face went hot, but I fell back on my default politeness. “There’s no deeper story there either, Chris,” I said. “My father’s team is very experienced. He trusts them implicitly.”
“Sure. But who could he trust more to lead them than his own son?” Chris seemed genuinely puzzled.
Movement near the door caught my attention, and I saw Thatcher pacing a few feet away, possibly within earshot. I really hoped he hadn’t been listening. Of course, Thatcher probably knew my father’s low opinion of me as well as anyone did, but I really didn’t need him to be reminded of it. Coming on the heels of this interview, it would only highlight how wrong Thatcher had been to trust me himself.
“Always nice to see you, Chris,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I’ve gotta go. Can’t keep the boss waiting.”
“Yeah.” Chris glanced at Thatcher before his own smile faded. “You’re sure everything’s alright, Reagan?” he asked, suddenly serious.
I waved this off. “Of course,” I said over my shoulder. “Perfectly fine. As always.”
But as I hurried out of the room, I felt the opposite of perfect. I was unsettled and frustrated—feelings that only increased when Thatcher marched beside me, utterly silent and wearing the scowl of the deeply, rightfully pissed—as we made our way through the convention center.
Guilt and shame clogged my throat and made my stomach ache. When we exited the building and headed toward the bus, I almost broke the silence with a blurted apology. Thatcher had been right about Chris, and I’d been wrong, and now he was angry. He had every right to be.
Trust me, I’d said. And look where that had gotten us.
