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She moved to the Keurig machine in her adjoining office and brewed him a cup, waiting impatiently for the machine to finish. Once it was done, she sweetened it, added creamer, and stirred, all the while mentally cursing herself for not broaching the conversation yet. She returned to his office with the cup in hand and set it on his desk.
Again, he didn’t look up.
“Dry cleaning today, Mr. Hawkings?”
“No.” He picked up the mug and gave her a suspicious look. “Something wrong?”
And here she thought she’d hidden it so well. Audrey clutched the folded tabloid in her hand, hesitating in front of his desk. “I . . . need some time off.”
Logan frowned. “Time off?”
Just as she’d thought, it hadn’t gone over well. In the three and a half years since she’d been working for Logan Hawkings, she’d never missed a day of work. She was here before he was, left after he did, and took her vacation time concurrent with his so as not to disrupt his schedule.
She was the model employee. She kept things quiet and running as smoothly as possible for Mr. Hawkings. When he needed something handled, she took care of it.
And she never asked for time off until today.
Audrey swallowed. “I’m afraid so.”
“How much time off?”
“I . . . don’t know. It’s a personal matter.” Very quietly she unfolded the tabloid and offered it to him.
Logan tossed it down on his desk, eyeing the picture on the cover. The headline was a bold yellow that screamed out of the grainy photo. POP PRINCESS CAUGHT IN A COKE-FUELED ORGY! PICTURES ON PAGE 17! And there was the unmistakable face of her twin, blade-thin, her hair matted and dyed a hideous shade of black, a dopey smile on her face as she snorted lines in a club bathroom and leaned on an equally dopey-looking pair of men. Audrey didn’t know who they were. She never knew who Daphne ran with anymore. Daphne’s manager handled all that . . . theoretically. She suspected Daphne’s manager took care of his own needs first, and Daphne’s second.
Logan glanced at the magazine, then back up at her. “Your sister?”
She nodded succinctly. “I understand that this is an inconvenience, but I’ve taken extra precautions to ensure that your schedule is not interrupted. I talked with Cathy in personnel, and she’s agreed to send a temp for me to train on the daily duties.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll make sure she’s prepared before I leave. I’ll have my phone with me so you can contact me—or she can—if you need something. And I’ve made sure that your address book and calendar are up to date. The meeting next week—”
“It’s fine, Audrey. Take the time you need.” He folded the magazine and offered it back to her. “I take it you’re getting her some help?”
She took it from him, her fingers trembling with a rush of relief. “She refuses to go to rehab, but she’s agreed to go away for a time if I go with her. No parties, no drugs. I’m basically going to chaperone her and try to get her to sober up.” She hesitated. “It might be a few weeks. It might be longer. If that’s a problem—”
“It’s fine.”
“If you need personal errands run—”
“I said it’s fine, Audrey.” Now he was getting annoyed with her. She could tell by the set of his eyebrows. “If I have personal errands, I’ll ask Brontë to step in and help. It’s not a big deal. Take the time that you need. Your family comes first.”
Your family comes first. Those were the kind of words that she’d never thought she’d hear billionaire Logan Hawkings say. His fiancée must have mellowed him quite a bit. She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Hawkings. I’ll make the arrangements with personnel.”
“Close the door when you leave.” He turned back to his computer and began to type again.
She quietly exited his office, then shut the door behind her. Only when it was shut did she allow herself to lean against it, the breath whistling out of her in relief.
That had gone much better than she’d anticipated. He was mellowed out, indeed. Two years ago—heck, six months ago—Logan would have given a few thinly veiled hints that if she’d valued her job, she’d find a way to make things happen. He paid her very well, and if she couldn’t find a way to perform her job to his satisfaction, he’d find someone who could.
Of course, that was BH—Before Hurricane. And before Brontë. Still, Audrey hadn’t relished asking him for the favor. Logan knew Daphne was her twin as he’d met her at a rather unfortunate dinner party once. Most people didn’t know she had a twin, and Audrey didn’t volunteer the information. She’d learned the hard way that the conversation usually went in one of three directions:
Scenario one: Oh, my God. You’re related to Daphne Petty? The Daphne Petty? The singer? Can you get me her autograph? Free tickets? A visit to my kid’s birthday party?
Scenario two: Daphne Petty? Really? You don’t look anything like her. She’s so thin and glamorous. You’re . . . not.
Or scenario three: Daphne Petty? You poor thing. Is she really like that?
