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“Well, Mason will ...” I trail off. Mason will back me up, I was going to say. Mason knows about the “lost” invitations. Mason helped me to call all of the people on that list.
Mason, who just threw me under the bus and didn’t even have the freaking cojones to tell me to my face.
“Mason will what?”
I shake my head. I could tell her to call and check in with a number of people on the list who I had personally called and asked if they’d received the invitation.
But that really wouldn’t prove that Amanda was the one who lost the invitations. And what’s the point?
I take a deep breath. “Did you talk to Mason personally?” I ask.
She winces. “He was the one who made the call. I am sorry. You did an excellent job with this campaign.”
“Thank you. We’re about 90 percent done with it anyway.” I switch to my ruthlessly practical mode. “So where does that leave us with the promotion?”
“I am going to have to think about it. I don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s very important that my publicists don’t let their personal and professional lives intersect, if you know what I mean.”
I nod sharply, too angry and hurt to speak.
Realistically, if Amanda gets the promotion, I’m going to have to leave the firm.
As if reading my mind, Cecelia smiles at me sympathetically. “I don’t want to lose you. You are a very talented and valued employee. Your campaigns have been amazing. Here’s what I think that you should do. Email Amanda all of the information she’ll need to take over representing Mason—you don’t have to speak to her directly. I don’t think that would go well.”
“It wouldn’t.” I am gripping the desk so tightly that my fingers hurt.
Mason, what the actual hell?
“I would like you to take the next couple of days off, so you have time to cool down. You have a bright future here. I have other tasks I would like to assign to you, but we’ll talk about it when you come back.”
“Certainly,” I say coolly, as if the bottom hasn’t just fallen out of my world. I leap to my feet and grab my purse.
“Rowan?” Cecelia says, but I’m already moving past her to the door. I keep walking, my heart pounding in my chest, and she tries to follow me, but there is a client in the lobby.
“Cecelia.” the owner of a chain of sushi restaurants cries out, hurrying over to speak to her and I manage to escape the building.
I shouldn’t do it, but I head to where I know Mason will be.
He goes to Central Park three days a week to meet with a dog trainer.
If I hurry, I’ll catch him. I grab an Uber and head on over. Surely there must be a reasonable explanation for this. Like ... he’s been kidnapped by aliens and they replaced him with a Mason clone. I’ll be able to tell immediately because he will be lacking a sense of humor and he’ll think that bubblegum is an acceptable ice cream flavor.
When I get to the section of the park where he meets his trainer, though, Mason looks fine. He’s got Puck on a leash. He’s talking to the trainer as if everything is fine. The trainer is drinking coffee from a to-go cup and chatting away happily.
All is well in his world.
Well fuck him very much, because he’s single handedly screwed mine.
I walk over to Mason, who looks at me in surprise. I have to admit, he doesn’t look great. Well, he’s Mason, so he always looks hot, but he’s got stubble like he hasn’t shaved since yesterday, his hair is tangled rather than tousled, and there are faint circles under his eyes.
Still. The motherfucker basically fired me and now he’s ghosting me.
“Rowan. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Puck barks happily in greeting, and I bend down to give him a quick pat.
“No kidding,” I say pleasantly. “Anything you want to say to me?”
“Can we go talk in private?” He glances at the trainer.
“Answer me one question. Did I do a terrible job as your publicist?”
