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“I sent Khloe home.”
A moment of silence, and then, “Why is that?”
“Because she’s a reporter. She was here to do a story on me.”
Ice rattles in a glass and then, “I think you’re mistaken, son.”
“I have proof, Granddad.” I push to my feet and fist my hair, the gorgeous view below doing little to calm the storm raging inside me.
“What kind of proof?”
I turn, lean against the rail and catch my unkempt reflection in the glass door. “She’s been writing about me in a journal.”
“Do you have the journal?”
“In my hand.”
“Open it.”
“I’m not opening it. I don’t want to see the lies she’s written in there.” Restless, uneasy, I pace to the patio door and back to the rail. “How could you have hired her?” I ask, not wanting to make him feel old and senile but needing to get to the bottom of matters.
“Because she’s perfect for you,” he says smugly.
“Perfect for me?” As his words sink in, my mind takes me to our conversation about the French maid outfits. What was that she asked? If I made all my assistants wear them. My gut tightens. “Granddad, tell me you d
idn’t...”
“Didn’t what, son?”
I swallow. “Did you arrange for all those French maid outfits to be in Khloe’s closet?”
A hoot of laughter follows my question, and then what sounds like him slapping his leg. “That was Summer’s idea. She’s a brilliant one.”
Holy fuck.
“You were...matchmaking?”
“Of course I was.”
“She’s a reporter. Did you know that?”
“Yes, boy. I knew that.”
I shake my head and try to wake myself up from this nightmare, but no, I’m not dreaming. This shit is really going down.
“Then why did she keep it a secret?” I ask.
“I asked her to. I know how you feel about reporters.”
“Then why her, Granddad? Why hire her if you knew how I felt about reporters?”
“She came to me to warn me that her boss wanted her to do an exposé on you, but she was fired because she refused. Just as well she left Starlight. Her dream is to write for the New Yorker. That place was only holding her back. But she’s too proud, too much like her father to let anyone give her a leg up, even though she’s talented.”
My fuzzy brain spins. Wait, what was that she’d said about being out of work?
My boss wanted me to do something, and when I refused, he canned me.
Christ. I’d thought it was about sex. But it was because she’d refused to do a story on me? I grip the journal harder, my world sinking around me.
