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“Paparazzi aren’t journalists, they’re…bottom-dwellers.”
“Bot…” His mouth turns down in distaste.
“Exactly.”
“What are they here for? Who is shooting today?”
“Well…” Fuck, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. “I don’t think they’re here for anyone we’re shooting today.”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Mia? You?”
I nod. “I have no idea why they’re out there, Meric, I swear. We haven’t left the house except for a family barbecue yesterday.”
“Garrett—oh, sorry. I’ll come back.” Claire walks into my office and stops suddenly, eyes pinging between Meric and me.
“Ah, our talented director. Claire, I apologize for not popping in to see you. How are things going?” Meric greets her. Why does she look nervous?
“Er—they’re okay.”
“That is not a ringing endorsement,” he responds. “Whose video are you working on today?”
“Um…” She looks at me with panic-wide eyes.
Shit. What the fuck is going on?
Meric’s attention shifts from her to me and back again.
“Claire?” The light-hearted tone is gone, replaced with the boss voice. He’s asked a question and expects an answer.
“Well, um, that’s why I was coming to see Garrett.”
“Here he is. And as a bonus, you have found me as well.”
She swallows, and I can see the apology in her eyes. I shake my head. I know Meric has an expectation that she’ll tell him what’s going on as well.
“Jillian told me that the artist we had on tap this morning canceled. They pulled into the parking lot, saw a massive crowd of cameras, and want to reschedule.”
Fuck.
Meric’s eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Okay, I’ll call them. Apologize for the mob in the parking lot. Find out if there’s another day that’ll work. Then give them an alternate entrance strategy. I’ll get updated dates to Jillian for your schedule.”
“Okay.” She waits for a minute, and I nod slightly, letting her know everything’s fine.
She no sooner leaves the room than Meric turns toward me with a sigh.
“I do not usually mind publicity, Garrett. But it seems as if whatever is going on”—he gestures to the window—“is now impacting my business.”
“I know—I’m sorry. I didn’t anticipate—”
“You cannot always plan for everything. Even you are not able to see the future,” he interrupts. “Perhaps more experience would be the best path forward.”
You are too young to run Arabesque. He doesn’t say it outright, but his message is clear.
“No. I have enough experience. This is what I want.”
The look he gives me is full of pity. Shit.
