“Are you okay?” I ask, feeling honestly concerned. This is so unlike Simone that it’s jumbling my brain. Everything feels sort of upside-down, like I’m in a dream sequence.
Am I . . . still asleep? If so, this is an incredibly realistic dream. I’d love to wake up. To a world where curses don’t exist and bosses don’t call out when they never have before.
I look at Tessa for answers, like she might be the one to tell me if I’m awake. She only gives me a shrug, her blonde bob bouncing around on her shoulders.
“I’m fine,” Simone snaps, and even through the phone I can picture her perfectly—ebony skin, sharp eyes, the kind of face that gives nothing away unless she wants it to. “I just need a couple of days to deal with something, that’s all.”
The butterflies slow their churning in my stomach. I was honestly feeling a little anxious, like something was seriously wrong.
I sit up straighter in my chair. Simone is trusting me to do this handover, and it’s a big deal. I need her to know that I’m fully capable and will not let her down.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” I tell her.
Simone lets out a long breath over the speaker. Like I finally said the right thing.
“Okay, so River’s new firm is Pulse. Whoever’s repping him will meet you at the Velvet Olive at noon. You need to give the new rep any necessary information and then work together to draft a joint statement, which needs to go out before the press starts filling in the blanks themselves.”
Translation: It needed to go out yesterday.
“Everything you need for Bailey is in her file,” she says.
“Got it,” I tell her, typing on my phone while Tessa writes furiously into her notepad.
This is Public Relations 101. I can write statements in my sleep. And I have, actually. It’s my most common work stress dream.
The phone is quiet on Simone’s end, and I wonder if she’s hung up. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s ended a call this way. In fact, it’s usually how they end.
“Simone?” I ask, looking at my phone to see if she’s still there. Sure enough, the call timer is still running.
“You can handle this, Claire,” she finally says. I think it’s meant to be a vote of confidence from her, but it comes off flatter, like a statement.
“Yes,” I tell her. And Icanhandle it. It’s a handover and a press release. I’ve done both before. No big deal.
Turns out itisa big deal. Perhaps the biggest deal that has ever been dealt.
I left the office determined to do right by Simone, stopping only to give myself a quick once-over in the bathroom—retucking my white blouse into my black pencil skirt—before heading out.
The Velvet Olive, a Mediterranean restaurant where Simone likes to have her lunch meetings, is a fifteen-minute drive from the office—twenty-five in LA traffic—and I gave myself plenty of time to arrive first to get a table and my bearings. However, the rep from Pulse has beaten me to it.
And that person is Luke Wilder.
Of all people.
“Archie,” he says, with a mischievous-looking smile on his face as I approach the small round dining table covered in a white tablecloth. A single purple calla lily sits in a small vase at the center, with a menu in front of each seat. The restaurant smells of warmbread and roasted garlic. Not that any of that matters, since I have now completely lost my appetite.
I purse my lips, readying myself for what is sure to be a battle—because it always is with Luke—and at the same time berating myself for not even considering that this would be the person I’d have to meet with.
Luke works for Pulse. Pulse is now representing River Rhodes. How did it not occur to me that he might be here? If it had, I might have told Simone I'd developed an allergy to Mediterranean food. Overnight. Very suddenly. Anything to avoid this.
Focus, Claire. You’re a professional.
I let out a long-suffering breath as I slide my purse strap from my shoulder, hanging it on the back of my chair before taking a seat across from him, his gaze following my movements, that same annoying grin on his face.
“Claire Archie,” he says once I’m seated, his eyes doing a crinkling thing that would be endearing if I didn’t have the intense desire to slap him.
“It’s Archer,” I tell him.
“Is it?”
