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“Britt—”
“Promise,” she insisted.
Logan sighed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Fine. I promise.”
“Okay, good.” She nodded. “Then let me help you perfect your story. Because, like most men, your delivery needs a little work . . .”
CHAPTER NINE
MARTI
SHE JUST BARELY STEPPED through the door of POPNEWZ Monday morning when her phone rang. For the millionth time. Since Sunday.
Marti didn’t need to glance at the screen to know who it was. She was well aware her mother, amongst a million other nosy people, had been clamoring to get a hold of her since the story ran over the weekend. Marti had made herself conveniently scarce. The last thing she felt like doing was explaining any of this to her when she had no idea what would come of it.
She knew she’d have to respond to all the inquiries filling her inbox and social media sooner or later, but she wasn’t ready. Not until she got her story straight. And even after a weekend of wracking her brain, she still had no clue how to approach this. Logan wanted publicity for his foundation so they could take it to the national level, and she needed a boyfriend for her column. It was the perfect trade, a fair one. But she had yet to devise a way in which she could propose this without revealing she, too, had an agenda. Groveling was not one of her stronger qualities, and she’d rather eat lead than admit that she needed him in any capacity—even if it was as a fake boyfriend.
Marti let her phone go to voicemail as she traversed the hall toward the office. When it rang again, she grumbled and yanked it from her messenger bag, then snapped, “Yes, Mom, I saw the papers. Clearly, I was there as you saw from the photo. And, yes, I realize this is so unlike me. And, no, I’m not going to fill you in right now. I have an article due—”
“I should have known you wouldn’t answer if you knew it was me.” Her father’s voice filled the phone, and she froze. For a moment, she debated faking a bad connection, then hanging up. So tempting . . .
“Dad,” she acknowledged on a sigh.
“You’re a hard girl to get a hold of.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty busy these days.” She started walking again, picking up the pace. “Um, what do you need? I’m about to go into a staff meeting.” Liar.
“I need to know who you’re bringing to the wedding for the place cards.”
“Do I need to know yet?”
No way was she enduring that particular evening alone. But since she had yet to find a way out of attending that didn’t involve faking her own death, she hadn’t decided on a date yet.
“I saw your picture in the paper, but I didn’t want to assume. If you need more time—”
Marti chuffed and angry snort. How lovely. Keeping tabs on her. Of course he saw the paper. “Yeah. More time would be great.” Like forever.
Marti strolled past the large reception desk, shooting a quick wave to Karen, almost grateful for the phone call so she wasn’t bombarded with a million questions about Logan and the buzz surrounding their date.
“Okay,” her father said. “How about we get together for dinner next week and discuss it?”
“Fine, sure. Look, I gotta go,” she said, only half listening as she rounded the corner toward her cubicle.
“Wait,” her dad said in a rush. “Chrissy and I also wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to being in the wedding?”
“Uh, can’t say that I have. It’s a big time commitment, and with me being so busy and all . . .” She let her voice trail off, hoping he’d get the hint.
Maybe not even considering it was unfair to her father, but she couldn’t do that to her mother. She was probably a crap daughter. But an eye for an eye, right? He hadn’t exactly been the best father. When he ditched his family for another woman, he didn’t have Marti’s feelings in mind.
“It’s doesn’t need to be a big deal,” he added.
She said nothing, letting her silence speak volumes. To her, it was a big deal.
“I spoke with your mother about it this morning.”
What?
Marti slowed for a second, momentarily halted by this new information. A spark of anger ignited in her chest, and she regained her stride. With every stab of her heel on the hardwood floor, she released a bit of tension. Once she got to her cubicle, she threw her messenger bag down and tightened her grip on the phone, suppressing her urge to chuck it across the room.
