Could Rich tell?
His obnoxious bark of laughter popped through her laptop speakers. “Peeling back layers, huh?”
Conspiratorially, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You aren’t screwing him, are you?”
Just then, Brinton’s phone buzzed with a new text from Shay.
Shay: If you don’t let that sweet-talking man butter that biscuit, I’m telling mom. Actually, I’m telling her anyway.
Brinton clenched her jaw until she heard a deafening pop. She wasso closeto getting what she wanted.
She hadn’tscrewedJamie, but she almost had, not twenty-four hours ago. And while it stoked a long-dormant flame, her awoken desire had jeopardized her objectivity.
In more ways than one, she had gotten too close to the story. To Jamie.
“Because that would be a huge conflict of interest,” Rich added, steepling his fingers. “And I can’t have that.”
She eyed her discarded cut-offs on the bedroom floor. Why did she feel guilty? Why couldn’t she lie, like everyone else who’d sped past her to climbLandmark’s totem pole?
Brinton grasped for the words to save herself, but came up short. Because she wasn’t a liar.
“Rich, I have to tell you something…”
Sneering, his hands flew up in mock defense. “I’m kidding. Jamie Crawford Jr.’s body count includes first- and second-generation supermodels. And you’re a regular…No offense.”
Brinton wiped her slick palms on her jeans. She didn’t know whether to be incensed or amused that Rich had the social grace of an amoeba.
“Oh, in case Deb from HR is listening, I apologize for my spirited, off-the-cuff joke. I’ll do better to temper my enthusiasm.” Rich winked, one hand obsequiously over his heart. “Your generation’s got no sense of humor.”
Sighing, he continued. “You wanted to say something?”
The blood rushed back into her limbs. Brinton was safe, for now. But she had to cut off her budding relationship—if you could call it that—with Jamie.
She couldn’t let the way every single muscle in her thighs clenched at the sound of his name derail her future withLandmark.
She smiled weakly. “It’s nothing.”
“Anyway,” Rich went on, looking at his phone, “good work. When can I get a draft?”
“As soon as possible.”
Satisfied, Rich nodded and ended the call.
Needing to channel her scattered energy, Brinton slipped on her headphones. She pressed play on her new favorite playlist of Black country music artists. She had started curating it when she first arrived in Iris.
Mickey Guyton, Shaboozey, Brittney Spencer, Breland, Reyna Roberts, and The War and Treaty were on repeat, and she found more each day. But not even Mickey’s sweeping vocals could save Brinton from her free-falling thoughts.
Simple compartmentalization was not for anxious baddies after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Later that night, Brinton showered and slipped into a pink cotton camisole and matching shorts that unceremoniously rose up whenever she blinked. But she wasn’t dressing up for anyone tonight.
Instead, she sat cross-legged in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom with a tiny squeeze bottle of hair oil she’d packed in her carry-on.
Doing her hair was a point of pride and one of the few self-care practices she could still manage. It made the heaviness of everyday life—the hulking weight of New York City and asphyxiating fear of the future—slightly lighter.
Section by section, Brinton meticulously gathered the braids at her temples, applied the golden elixir to the neat partings, and massaged it into her scalp. She was in a trance as she worked, fingertips gliding on auto-pilot.
