Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
And Hannah knows it as she gives me a serene smile. “Rather brilliant of you to think of something so gracious, huh?”
I fold my arms and eye her sourly.
Have I mentioned I hate this shit?
Some airhead who spends their days posting ten second puppy videos from animal shelters following me around, yammering and demanding selfies.
Godawful.
Any influencer with a working brain will want something I can’t give. I don’t buck up and smile for the same cameras that might as well shoot me in the face.
They’ll drive me mad in a matter of days.
And what, them talking about a marvelous work opportunity is going to cut through Vanessa’s bullshit?
Remind the world for the millionth time that I’m clean and kind and all that happy crap?
“You’re still skeptical,” Hannah says.
“How could you tell?”
“Consider it an engineered distraction,” she throws back. “No, you can’t address Vanessa’s accusations directly and come out on top, but you can remind people of what you’re doing here. Under your fearless leadership, Home Shepherd has done a lot of good for this world.”
“They won’t forget Vanessa that easily. They never do. Not since Aidan Murphy and the trial of the century,” I grind out, the memory so foul I can chew it.
“They will when her story doesn’t change—or especially if it does—and you don’t give it the time of day.” She leans forward. “Keeping your head down and doing what this company does best is your response, Mr. Foster. I don’t think you appreciate just how much weight these influencers have.”
Too much.
Still, it’s the best of several bad options, and Miss Cho has a point.
My fault, really, for not realizing Vanessa isn’t a stable woman who takes rejection nicely. I should have prepared for this when she didn’t respond to my nice email and an offer for one more all-expense paid trip to the conference of her choice just to show her there were no hard feelings.
I just don’t know how Vanessa thought I would ever be seduced.
Hell, Hannah handled most of our correspondence, and my assistant isn’t exactly a grinning cupid.
But this whole influencer scheme will only be temporary.
It’s an honest way to manufacture some good news with the name Shepherd attached for the press.
Me, I can sacrifice a little time if it solves the Vanessa Dumas problem and lets me focus on real work again.
I’ve been meaning to expand the corporate philanthropy program, anyway.
Right now, we’re posting record numbers thanks to our watchful lights. Every high-end home in North America wants a custom porch light that doubles as a solar-powered door camera.
It doesn’t feel right funneling all that money into my pockets. They’re heavy enough as it is.
Maybe it’s the guilt that comes with growing up a mob boss’ nephew.
Maybe it’s my atonement for sins I didn’t commit.
Or maybe it’s just me doing what I always do best—running from any whiff of drama. Anything and everything that gets in the way of honest money and fresh ideas.
Regardless, I don’t have time for an ongoing stew of rumors.
“Fine,” I say. “If you think it’s a good idea, I’m not about to argue with you.”
“Excellent choice, sir.”
I glower at her.
Hannah doesn’t even blink.
“If you’re going to pick someone from social media to follow me around like a lost puppy, at least make sure they’re squeaky clean,” I warn. “I don’t give two shits who just as long as they’ll get the job done.”
She allows herself a small smile.
“Of course. Have I ever let you down?”
I don’t dignify that with an answer she doesn’t need.
She already knows the reason I keep her on is because when she’s in charge, I can take my hands off the helm.
That’s hard when I hate relinquishing control.
“Wipe my calendar for the weekend. I’m going to clear my head,” I say, pushing my chair back and shrugging my suit jacket on. The evening sun is big and orange, hanging heavier and lower as it slips below Seattle’s glossy horizon.
If I’m going to get out of here before sunset, I need to get moving.
As always, she takes everything in with a polite nod. “Another one of your excursions, sir? I can’t say I blame you.”
“Yes. I’ll be back Monday.”
“I’ll have some candidates ready for you then.”
“Good.” I switch off my computer and leave my tablet on the desk without a second glance.
God, what a fucking headache.
Why did I ever drag myself out of witness protection when it was all said and done with Uncle Aidan?
I have regrets.
If I’d kept the name Billy Jordan, I could’ve had a nice, boring life in Gilbert, Arizona. I could’ve been married and settled on a nice middle-class income with a couple orange trees.
No criminal baggage.
No Serena and her mess.
No fucking billions and cutthroat women thinking they’ll have the cleavage that’s able to restart my heart.
Instead, I’ve got Shepherd Foster’s problems and money and no fucking orange tree whatsoever.