Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
We stepped onto the sidewalk and were immediately accosted.
“Court, we just heard that Jane Devney refused to take the plea deal. Can you comment on why she did this?” a reporter asked.
“Are you going to be at the trial?” another asked.
“Have you spoken to her about her thought process?” the first one butted back in, shoving the microphone in my face.
“Let him through,” English snarled. She was a force, walking through the press with her head held high and her gait exaggerated. “No questions. Just let us through.”
“Court, can you tell us how you feel about Jane’s impending trial?”
“No comment,” I said brusquely and then followed English into the building.
She hurried forward as if the press was going to come after us and jammed her finger on the elevator button. We stepped in together. I sighed and slumped back against the wall when the doors closed. But she was a ball of anxiety and energy, impatiently tapping her foot as we soared upward.
When the doors opened into my apartment, she marched inside like a drill sergeant. And I went straight for the wet bar.
“Can’t you do anything but drink?” she snapped irritably.
I ignored her and poured myself a double.
“I need you sober right now.”
I held the glass up to her and swallowed half of it in one gulp.
She narrowed her eyes and began to pace. “We’re going to have to figure out what the hell to do about this. We need to get our story straight. Then, we’re going to need to plan an interview with a sympathetic journalist. Probably do something drastic that puts you in the spotlight in a positive way.”
“English, could you just stop for one minute?” I asked as I sank into the couch.
She stilled and looked at me, as if just realizing where we were. She hadn’t been here since the night we fucked. Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.
“Can you find out what happened?”
She nodded. “I’m already on it. I was texting with a few people who could get me an in on the situation. I should have answers before we leave again.”
I blew out a breath. “Has my mother been informed?”
“Yes. I spoke with her assistant.” She frowned. “And Lark.”
“You did all that when we were in the car?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s my job.”
She’d been all high focus while I’d been silently freaking the fuck out.
“How do we fix this?” I managed to get out as I finished my drink and set it down on the table.
“The important thing is that we get ahead of it. Two, maybe three press people downstairs, we can handle. We need to get a statement out as soon as possible. Something short and sweet and sympathetic. And then we need a big splash. Something that screams golden boy.”
I snorted. “Good luck with that.”
“I can put together an interview and photo shoot. I think that will help, but it’s not enough. It’s not flashy. Like when we had the charity donation—that was flashy.”
“You want me to give away more money?”
I didn’t care about the money. The donation had been a good idea. No, a great idea. I’d played lacrosse my whole life. Had even played at Harvard. But I never would have thought of funding the rec league in the city.
“I mean… no. I don’t think that would work here.”
“Then what?”
She paused, turning slowly to face me again. She put her index finger to her lip and touched it there one, two, three times. I could see her considering. And all I could think about was how I wanted to drag that bottom lip into my mouth. Fuck, I needed to think of something else. She’d made her position perfectly clear.
“I have an idea,” she mused aloud.
“Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like it?”
“I don’t think it matters. We need something big. Something that will make people look twice.”
“My feelings don’t matter. Got it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. We’d never do anything you weren’t expressly comfortable with. But comfort is a degree when it comes to maintaining an image.”
“Okay. What’s the idea?” I asked, certain that explanation only made it worse.
“You go back to working for Kensington Corporation.”
My back stiffened. “No.”
“Just think about it. We can pitch it as the prodigal son returns to his company. A destiny or fate sort of thing. We can say that you’re on the road to taking it back over. Following in your family’s footsteps. It’s a perfect picture of the golden boy of the Upper East Side.”
English was so smart. But sometimes, she asked all the wrong questions. Always the what, but never the why. But my feelings were irrelevant. She had made that clear.
“I see the picture you’re painting. But no one will buy it. I left the company five years ago and never looked back,” I told her.