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“Yeah, just some spam. Has Morgan gotten your permission for merch yet?” I try to lighten my mood, but while Cameron laughs softly at my joke, his eyes penetrate mine in search of what’s really bothering me.
“Yeah, I agreed to give her ten percent. What spam?” He’s not going to let that go, probably because he’s the most perceptive man I know. I breathe in deeply and pull my phone out to show him the string of missed calls. I underestimated, there are eleven.
“You call it back?” He arches a brow.
“Oh, God, no!” The thought of calling back an unknown sends my anxiety roaring like a five-alarm fire. The only thing that could make that thought worse is actually following through with it. Which, of course, now that Cameron’s stolen my phone, is happening . . . right . . . now.
“Cam! Stop!” I whisper and grab at my phone. He holds me away with a stiff arm and presses the phone to his ear. He holds up a finger when I assume someone on the other end has answered.
“Yes, hi. I’m Brooklyn Bennett’s assistant. She’s busy right now, but can I tell her what this is regarding?” His professional voice is deep, and it would be dreamy if it were any other situation, and if his forehead wasn’t creasing deeper with every second that passes.
“I see. Yes, I will let her know you called and what you’re looking for.”
He nods at her response.
“Yeah, you too.”
He hands me my phone back then leans forward, resting his elbows on the lunch table as he knots his hands together into one big fist.
“It was the press, wasn’t it?”
Cameron nods.
That’s what I was afraid of. It’s happened before, after my dad was appointed to the Energy Department. There are a few reporters who seem able to outmaneuver anyone. They get to the root of stories faster and catch people off-guard, getting them to spill details that aren’t meant for public debate. Private things that aren’t meant for public sharing. Embarrassing things that should remain buried.
“Holly Knight. Examiner,” he says.
I let my eyes fall shut. I actually gave her my number because she was the only one who wrote a fair story after my father’s appointment. It was a rash decision, one made with emotion. I figured if the time ever came that I needed someone to be fair to him, I’d reach out and see if Holly could help. And in return, I let her have unprecedented access.
“Did she say what she wanted?” My gut tightens with my hunch.
Cameron nods. I lean in close, and he turns to press his lips to mine briefly then rest our heads together side-by-side.
“She wants comment on her story about how your dad did a favor for his daughter’s boyfriend’s father. She has a copy of his letter, and I guess someone saw him visit my dad.”
My eyes close. I remain at Cameron’s side, my head resting on his, the faint smile I’m forcing on my lips tingling with the want to protest. Two steps forward, eight steps back. I’m sure one of the guards mentioned it to someone who dropped a call to the press. To Holly. My dad has a lot of supporters, but there are a lot of people out there rooting for the other guy. It doesn’t take much to spawn a firestorm in local media during an election season.
I expect I’ll be hearing from my mom again before the day is done.
* * *
When my mother called later that afternoon, I readied myself for the lay-low advice. That’s my family’s typical response to bad press, not that granting a man parole who has done the work and earned it should be bad press, but it’s all about the spin. And my dad’s opponents are good at flipping things completely sideways.
Surprisingly, though, renewed warnings to stay away from Cameron didn’t come. Instead, she wanted to let me know she booked my dress fitting for the gala. The party of course is no longer hosted by Welles Academy, part of the cold war my dad now has with the Powells. The Women’s Club will be the official host on the program, and since it was always to be at the Ocean Club, it’s not strange to change the host.
“Remind me again why you have to try on a dress you’ve already tried on to make sure itreallyfits?” Cameron holds the heavy door open for me as I cradle my gown like a baby and carry it into the tailor’s business.
“Because Cavalli deserves to fit like a glove,” I say, blowing a kiss in the air.
“Ah, of all of that, I understood the word glove,” he jokes.
My mother and I have been using this tailor for years. Alice is in her seventies and still the best at making a woman feel like a supermodel with just a little nip and tuck of fabric. She learned to sew from her grandmother when she was a little girl and despite living in Boston for most of her life, still holds on to her thick French accent.
She greets me with open arms when we walk in. Not to hug me, though; she wants the gown.
“Ah, let me see,” she muses, taking the bag and laying it down on the large ottoman in the center of her room. She unzips the bag and unfurls the Champagne-colored satin and netting.
“Okay, that seriously looks like a cake,” Cameron says, earning him a glare from every woman in the room. “I mean that in a good way. Like, the woman in that dress could sit on top of a cake. You know, like wedding gown pretty? Ha . . . ha.”
