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McGee came out of the bathroom just in time to overhear. “I told you!” He pointed at Thatcher. “Didn’t I call it, boss? The creepy Mrs. Pennington wannabe doesn’t wanna share you.”
Thatcher flashed McGee a glare. “And I told you, it’s nothing like that. Layla’s a trusted employee, and when she’s on this bus, you’ll treat her with respect. Understand?” But when he turned his gaze to me, it was clear McGee wasn’t the only one he was annoyed with. “Layla’s been in charge of PennCo for a long time, and I allow her to handle most matters at her discretion. I told her yesterday that you were staying on the tour, and apparently, she assumed it was a suggestion. It was not. Please email Layla’s assistant and explain the situation to her. Tell her to cancel your reservation. That’s a direct order from me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said while McGee climbed back into the driver’s seat.
God, it was hot when Thatcher was commanding, even when it wasn’t me he was bossing around. My fingers flew over the tablet screen as I responded to Alena’s email, and while I tried not to sound too smug as I relayed Thatcher’s command, I probably failed.
Once it was sent, Thatcher seemed preoccupied with his ever-present emails, so I went back to my inbox to handle a few less-urgent emails of my own. I got a revised list of talking points from the PR team, sent the marketing folks notes on some posts they’d drafted, and chatted with the event organizers in Madison, who were very eager to see us later in the trip.
What I did not do was pull Thatcher away from his work and drag him back to the bedroom to lick every inch of his body. I was still determined to show that I could be professional… though admittedly, I’d allowed that to fall much further down my priority list in the last twelve hours than I should have.
Thatcher had made it clear that this thing between us was temporary, so part of me wanted nothing more than to enjoy it while it lasted. After all, I’d have all the time and energy in the world to prioritize work once the tour was over because Thatcher would probably—god, the idea turned my stomach—go back to ignoring my existence. And for right now, I realized, I was happier than I’d been in a really long time.
My phone clattered across the table, and both Thatcher and I glanced over to see my mother’s name and picture appear.
I sighed. “Hello, Mother.” I stood and stretched, moving back toward the bedroom so I wouldn’t disturb Thatcher.
“Reagan, darling, I’m so pleased!”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen. The voice sounded like my mother, and the call was coming from her number, but…
“Is this one of those things where you want to let me know you’ve been kidnapped but can’t say so directly?” I demanded. “Cough if you need me to call the police.”
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Reagan, honestly.”
There we go. “Sorry, Mother. How have I pleased you?”
“Oh, not you, dear. I’m pleased because your father’s just informed me that Thatcher agreed to attend the awards ceremony after the Festival of Ice. Such a coup having him here in person! I’ve let all the organizers know. Of course, I’ll expect you back in town well before then. By… oh, Wednesday at the latest.”
“What are you… Wait, Wednesday? This Wednesday? Three days from now Wednesday?”
“Naturally. We have more events than ever this year, and it’s so important that the Wellbridges present a unified front at as many of them as possible. Oh, speaking of which! You’ll need to bring your dark Ralph Lauren suit to coordinate with my dress for the Friends of the Honeybridge Art Council luncheon. None of that flashy stuff you get from your internet friends.”
I ignored her swipe at my sponsors and gritted my teeth. “Mother. I’m working. I’m on a work trip. I know I’ve told you this?—”
“Yes, and I told you, Thatcher will understand. I’ll call and check with him myself if I have to. Your father and I are very proud of you for doing your… work things, I’m sure, Reagan, but reporters will simply be flocking to town to cover the festival and the awards ceremony, and we cannot miss this opportunity. You know how small-town family values ignite your father’s voter base.”
I opened my mouth to ask how Maine voters would feel about a mother contacting her adult son’s boss to arrange time off so her son could pose for pictures, but then I caught myself. “Wait… reporters?”
“Yes! Dozens of them. From Maine, mostly, but Channel 5 in Boston might be sending up a crew for one of their features on scenic New England towns, and I believe your father’s convinced the Wall Street Journal to give him—I mean, the town—some coverage, too. He reminded them the Honeybridge Investment Summit is happening the same week. It’s a veritable whirlwind of newsworthy events here in Honeybridge!”
Right. I was sure the Wall Street Journal would be sending a team of journalists to cover a meeting of ten commercial real estate investors in a tiny, rural Maine town. For as savvy as my mother could be about certain things, she was utterly delusional about the importance of Honeybridge on a global scale.
But if there really were going to be a bunch of reporters and an investment summit in town…
“You know, Mother,” I said thoughtfully, “you might be onto something. Let me speak to Thatcher.”
“I felt sure you’d be reasonable about this… eventually. Oh, and don’t forget to get a haircut, dear. Something tidy this time, hmm? Your internet friends don’t have the same high standards as our family.”
I’d learned long ago that trying to get the last word with Patricia Wellbridge was an exercise in futility, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I said goodbye and made my way back to the kitchenette.
“What’s wrong?” Thatcher demanded.
“Not wrong exactly.” I slid into the booth and drummed my fingers on the tabletop, still pondering. “The Honeybridge Festival of Ice starts this week, and my mother insists I come to Honeybridge to fill my usual spot as a member of the Senator’s faithful family in press photos, especially since there might be some national reporters on the scene. I told her no, but then I got to thinking. You already committed to attend the awards ceremony at the end of the festival?—”
“Did I?” he demanded.
“Yup. You told my father so this morning, and my mother is over the moon. It’s a good thing the Senator didn’t ask you to sign over your company or donate him a spare kidney, eh?” I grinned.
