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When I got to the office, everyone was buzzing with excitement about the previous day’s meeting with the NFL superstar and today’s meeting with a potential client from the music industry. My assistant was running around like a chicken with his head cut off and the three empty coffee cups on his desk indicated he’d been at it for a while.
“Good morning, Tomás, is everything ready in the conference room?” I asked on my way past his desk to my office. I already knew the answer, but asked him anyway. Maybe in the process of reassuring me we were all set, he’d realize it himself and calm down.
“Absolutely. Also, I heard from Bomber’s agent. She said they liked what they heard yesterday and will make a decision in the next couple of weeks while he’s doing those commercial shoots,” he said before thinking of something else. “Oh, and I confirmed he prefers to be called Bomber just like you said, but Chase has all the appropriate legal name info for the contracts. Also, Delphinia and her entourage should be here in about a half hour. I found out how she takes her coffee and have everything ready to go. And, uh, I’m pretty sure I’m going to piss myself when she walks in. Just be prepared.”
I let out a laugh. “Please don’t. Thanks for your help getting everything ready. Tell Chase I’ll meet him in there in twenty minutes.”
Tomás started to leave the room, but stopped and popped his head back in and said, “Oh, and your father called again.”
I paused in what I was doing and drummed my fingers on my desk. The familiar mix of pain and want leeched through me before I managed to shake my head. “You know what to do with that message,” I murmured.
Tomás sighed and said, “Yeah, I do.”
He disappeared, leaving me to unpack my laptop and boot it up. Even though we hadn’t secured the contract yet, I still needed to be on top of the latest news in regard to Bomber Flynn. Which meant regularly monitoring any additional news stories or social media posts about him. Unlike the previous times I’d checked, this time there was a picture of Bomber and his latest wannabe supermodel girlfriend on the red carpet. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. What stood out was the headline asking if Bomber and his girl were on the outs since a reporter had apparently heard them arguing vehemently backstage at whatever event they’d been at. Bomber’s agent had denied the accusation, but hadn’t bothered to try and put any kind of spin on the rumor.
I thought about his girlfriend. She was the type of person whose greatest hope was exposure by association. I knew from having watched her previous relationships in the media that no matter how shitty Bomber treated her, she’d stick around and milk the relationship for all she was worth. If he was going to continue dating the model, we’d need to come up with a plan to keep their private squabbles private.
I made a mental note to talk to Chase about it and send Bomber’s people a suggestion on how they could remedy the situation. It would go a long way to proving why Bomber and his team needed to pick us as his PR agency.
As I moved to close my computer bag before stowing it on the floor behind my desk, I caught sight of the little journal I’d basically stolen from the coffee shop. The richness of the buttery leather cover drew my fingers to it like a treasure. I smoothed my thumb over the raised initials. Who are you? I thought. For the second day in a row I’d forgotten to give it to Emily in case the owner returned to the shop in search of it.
And I knew exactly why I’d forgotten.
An image of pale blue eyes and a soft smile flitted through my head and I couldn’t help but smile myself.
I glanced at the journal and despite my intent not to spend even another second pondering the author’s haunting words, I couldn’t stop myself from flipping through the pages again, peeking up at my office door to make sure no one was heading my way before looking back down at the worn pages. The collection seemed to be poetry or… song lyrics, maybe. Something stark and emotional. I couldn’t help but feel my heart kick up at many of the images the words portrayed. Whoever had written them seemed to be both talented and humble in a way. Sweet, almost.
Despite feeling like an absolute creeper for reading someone’s innermost thoughts, I couldn’t bring myself to put the thing down. A note was scribbled sideways along the edge of one page.
This time I’m going to do it. I have to do it. I CAN do it.
