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Then the program for the gala flew in over the video, zooming in on and circling my name under the platinum donors. Next they fetched my hospital ID photo from the website profile that I’d been so proud of, displaying it side by side with a very old headshot of Everett’s.
Okay, maybe now I looked like he did ten years ago. And we both looked like huge dorks, him trying to fake a smolder in a neutral T-shirt, me in a suit looking so pleased and proud of myself for my lowly middle management job.
I didn’t need to read the captioning of the hosts’ debate about whether Harper and I were together to spite Everett, to get his attention, or what. It didn’t matterwhyHarper Tyne had gone kamikissy. It only mattered that the Tynies didn’t hate me. Or that I found a good personal security service here, pronto.
The image of Cassidy’s indignation last night, burning just below the surface, flashed through my mind. I knew it made no sense. The Tynies didn’t have a reason to hate me because their idol had assaultedme, but I’d lived in my father’s household long enough to learn that anger and logic weren’t exactly besties (two months before he dumped me back on my mom). Just like my dad’s, the Tynies’ version of justice was merciless and swift.
Time for damage control. My home address likely wasn’t in circulation—I hadn’t had time to change it hardly anywhere. So I didn’t have to worry about a repeat of the time ten teenaged Tynies attacked our terrace with hand tools. My Bentley was in a secure garage, so no more egg incidents, especially if I didn’t drive to work.
Work. Would the Tynies put together the Beaufort fundraiser gala and my job there, or would they only see me listed as a donor? I supposed it depended on whether there were any copies of the speech circulating, or if the gossipmongers cited their sources for my hospital ID photo.
Did I need to quit? Move? Buy another car?
My head was already beginning to ache. I hadn’t handled all the logistics of moving to Philadelphia in the first place yet; I’d never find the time to start all over again.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and finally stepped off the hill climber. No way could I go up against the Tynies without backup, or at least some logistical support. My family was obviously out of the running—if they’d ever cared there was a race at all—and this sort of help was outside my former coworkers’ purview.
Against my will, one image kept popping back up while I wiped down the machine and headed up to my apartment: Cassidy Croft caring for her patients. I needed that level of support, but my new coworkers seemed even less likely to want to help than my old ones 3,000 miles away.
I’d have to do what Hardcastles always did when confronted with a problem: retreat and burn through money like you were setting up a smokescreen. I’d already paid off the photographers; now I’d have to take the defense to the next level. In my case, that would mean hiring an assistant to take care of a move. Possibly hiring security. We’d have to see what the Tynies did.
I gave myself time to shower to collect myself a little bit before I started to think about how I’d go about hiring help. Hiring help sounded like a full-time job by itself. If only you could hire someone to hire someone for you. I didn’t know where to start. Movers, decorator, real estate agent, all my other service providers had come from recommendations from my mother’s friends.
She didn’t need to know I was anything less than flourishing in a career and a move she’d discouraged from day one.
Once I was dressed—comfortable doesn’t necessarily mean sloppy; people know that, right?—I grabbed my tux from the chair I’d draped it over last night. Papers fluttered from the pockets and I stooped to grab them: the program, Tiffany’s cousin’s card—and Jake Quincy’s card.
He’d offered help. My one hesitation was that he knew Everett. He’d only attempted to talk about my brother three times last night. He could refer me to Everett for help.
Yeah, right. The last four times I’d come to him with anything less than an actual trophy in my hands, he’d ghosted me. He wasNeverett to me for a reason. He’d made his wishes abundantly clear: he did not want to know me, especially not if I needed help or had any sort of human weakness whatsoever.
Surely one short question to Jake wouldn’t bring Everett up. I hung up my tux and shot off a quick text asking if Jake knew of any good PAs.
I bet your brother does, lol, he replied right away.If you know what I mean.
Pretty sure the winking emoji was supposed to make that innuendo, but if Everett had started harassing the help, he’d fallen farther than I’d realized.
But seriously, Jake continued without prompting,I know just the guy. Wish I had room in my company for him, but I don’t think I could pay him what he’s worth—sure that’s no trouble for you.
No idea what the going rate might be here. A hospital administrator’s pay might be comparable to a good PA’s. If this guy was as good as Jake said, he could have my salary. I was already living off my annuity anyway.
Sounds great, I told Jake.
Awesome, I’ll hook you up. He sent a contact: Luke Westover.
I sent off another text explaining the situation vaguely—not the Tynies, just looking for a PA—and ordered myself lunch. At least the butterscotch buddino would give me something to look forward to.
Luke responded promptly, offering references and interview availability this evening. Definitely a positive first impression and also an audition of sorts. I asked him to arrange the logistics for a meeting at six.
My door buzzer sounded, and I went to answer it. “Delivery for Mr. Hardcastle?” the woman on the other end said.
That was more formal than most Delivrd drivers. Usually they texted. “Is this Delivrd?”
“Yep, yes, sir,” the woman assured me.
I checked my app: the progress bar did say the meal had been picked up and the GPS seemed to show my food on my street. “Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll come down.”
Normally I’d buzz them in to deliver, but that felt like too much of a risk. I hustled down to the doors and found a normal-looking girl, probably a college student, holding a bag.
