Page 46 of You Fall First

Worst uncle ever?

How am I going to do this for two whole⁠—

“Noah?” Maureen flashes me a stern look from the opposite side of her desk. “How does that plan sound to you?”

I snap back to her wood-paneled office. To reality and our present issue, not the imaginary ones I’ve been predicting for the future. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, nodding and contracting my brows, like I’ve given deep consideration to whatever plan she’s talking about. “That all sounds great to me.”

Brilliant.

I have no idea what the plan is.

My only purpose for being away from Dutton right now is to bring my A game to whatever this latest PR stunt is. And so far, I’ve been bringing C-minus at best. I need to get my head straight and get back to the task at hand.

“Then we’ll get started as soon as you’re changed,” the head of PR tells me. Her name is … umm … Iris? No, Izzy.

“The suits are in there.” Maureen nods across the hall, toward the conference room. “Inga brought a whole rack.”

Inga. Right. She’s from Sweden. No, Denmark. Wait. Was it Norway?

Crap. This is a D-plus game at best.

Also, did Maureen say …

“Suits?” I squint at the women, then cast my eyes toward the team of men standing in the corner. One’s got camera equipment. The other’s taking notes, furiously scribbling down Maureen’s answers to Inga’s questions.

“Choose whichever one you like,” Inga says. “Maureen gave me an estimate of your size, but I think she undersold you. Only a few things I brought will likely fit. Tight isn’t necessarily a negative, though. I think you’ll look amazing in anything.”

I glance down at my scrubs. They are clean and appropriate, not to mention what I wear to work most days. If Inga’s creating content that demonstrates a day in the life here at Havenwood, me in a suit isn’t it.

“I’m pretty much always in scrubs,” I tell her. “Or some kind of athletic wear. One of the major perks of this job is getting to dress casual, unless we’re at a fundraiser.”

“Exactly.” Inga flashes me a wide smile. “Pretend you’re at a fundraiser.”

“As Inga already explained”—Maureen’s gaze pins mine—“her team wants to capture all the formal footage first. Then we’ll shift to you in your usual work clothes.”

I bob my head, wishing these scrubs had pockets to stuff my hands into. Maureen’s the boss and Inga’s leading this campaign. I should’ve been listening to them in the first place.

I’m gonna do better. These women deserve my full attention.

So does Havenwood.

Until a few days ago, this place had my entire daily focus. I put my heart and soul into our program. Into the people here. What we’ve achieved for the residents is one of the things I was most proud of in my life. But now I’m completely preoccupied by Dutton’s wellbeing. His sleep, food, clothes. His state of mind. Such a drastic shift in so little time is nothing short of staggering.

How do actual parents do this? Especially single parents like Paige?

And here I go again. Losing focus. Crap.

“So pick a suit, go change, then meet us in the lobby,” Maureen directs.

“By the atrium would be best,” Inga adds. “Such a beautiful background.”

“Yes, ma’am. Will do.” I back away toward the conference room, hands splayed in what I hope looks like a gesture of full cooperation. “See y’all soon.”

Inga and her team spend the rest of the day getting still shots and video of me reenacting every role I’ve ever played at Havenwood. And even some I haven’t. So much for authenticity.

First I’m an attendee at a fundraiser. Then I’m working one-on-one with the residents. Meeting with loved ones. Interacting with staff.

We move through each section of the property from the dining halls to the gardens to the spa facilities, and I get what they’re going for. Their endgame is a montage of all the good we do here.