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“The billboard.” I protest, blushing. “The underwear company, Joxx, that he endorses?”
And quite well, I have to admit. If Chocolate Orgasm ever put his underwear ads on their ganaches, they wouldn’t be able to keep them in stock.
“The billboard. Of course.” Cecelia stifles a delicate, ladylike snicker.
I give her a wounded look. “Hey. I am a proud member of the increasingly shrinking ‘I haven’t slept with Mason Raker’ club, thank you. I don’t go for immature man-hoes.”
“He does have that reputation.” Cecelia nods. “Well, these days he does. He dated that model and influencer Lexi Caton exclusively for six years.”
“But even then, he was known to hit the nightclubs and bars quite a bit,” I say, not willing to allow her to think highly of a scumbag like Mason. “After they broke up, the tabloids were all over him, snapping pictures of him leaving bars with different women almost every night.”
She nods. “And then he was sent off to rehab to try to save his career.” A heavy sigh escapes her perfectly outlined lips. “This fight risks ending his career. It’s not good for the team’s image.”
“Why don’t they just let him go, then? He’s twenty-eight, right? Probably only a few more years left on the ice, if that ...” I feel bad saying that. I hate ageism. Twenty-eight is very young to be put out to pasture, but hockey is not an older man’s sport. There are plenty of other things he could do with his life. He already has endorsement deals out the yin-yang.
“He’s still a huge hit with the fans. He’s the reason they sell so many tickets and the reason the Rovers merchandise flies off the shelves,” Cecelia says. She sneaks a glance at the chocolate, then shakes her head and looks away. “Mr. Talman’s not going to put up with it much longer, though, and there’s worry that his star power is starting to lose its shine.”
“All right. Got it. We need to help turn a sinner into a saint, at least as far as the public is concerned.” I nod. “Thank heavens I’m not assigned to work with him directly. I am more than happy to write up a crisis plan, though. Is that what you’re looking for? I can get it to you within the hour.”
Cecelia just looks at me, her brows pinched together the teeniest little bit.
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. “Cecelia. No.” She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
Cecelia smiled. “Yes.” She had.
“I thought you loved me.”
Cecelia smiles fondly. “I do love you. Like a daughter. Like the daughter I never had.”
“I am right here.” Suzanne calls out indignantly as she walks in the room carrying a to-go bag from Greenbacks, a salad bar in the lobby of our building. A tall, slender girl with a bright streak of blue in her black hair, she was Cecelia’s late-life oopsie surprise. Cecelia had her when she was in her mid-forties. Suzanne is working for her mother as an assistant for the summer before returning to NYU film school in the fall. Her style is post-punk, with safety pin earrings, flower-painted Doc Martens, and an anime T-shirt, the opposite of her mother’s power-dame classic style.
Suzanne sets the bag on the coffee table in front of her mother.
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten all about you.” Cecilia smiles at her. “Mostly because you spent an hour flirting with the barista at the coffee shop instead of getting me my lunch. I’ve got eyes everywhere, you know.”
Suzanne stomps off to the desk in the back of the room, muttering about child abuse.
Cecelia returns her attention to me. “Anyway, here’s the thing. You’re one of my best, Rowan. You have handled every task I have given you and handled it well.”
“Thank you, Cecelia. That means a lot to me.” It really does. Cecelia ladles out her praise very sparingly, and that’s what makes it so meaningful. If she praises you, you’ve earned it.
“But if you ever want to be lead publicist for the Rovers, you need to be able to handle the worst they can throw at you.”
“And Mason is certainly the worst,” I agree glumly. Then my mouth drops open.
“Wait. Did you just say lead publicist?” I gasp. That is my absolute dream job. And even more than that, it would fulfill a promise I made in my teens, a very important promise.
Cecelia nods. “Yes. This is strictly confidential, just between you and me.”
“I’m right here,” Suzanne yells.
Cecelia waves at her daughter, but her gaze stays fixed on me. “But yes, I’m going to be retiring in eight months. Ansley is more than capable of running the show behind the scenes, but she won’t be comfortable managing any of the accounts herself.”
Ansley is Cecelia’s younger sister. She’s amazing at crunching numbers, organizing and rallying the troops, but she isn’t as outgoing as Cece.
“I’ve got an extended tropical vacation planned. Complete with sexy pool boys.”
“And now I need therapy,” Suzanne calls out.
