Page 44 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“No, it’s not like that.”

He fixed me with a laser-sharp gaze. “Hmm. I have a suggestion then…in case it becomes ‘like that,’ and he happens to be around, go with the assistant story. It’s clean and easy, and as long as you don’t get caught with your tongue down his throat, no one will think twice about it.”

“Seb…”

“I’m serious. New image alert”—he made a flashing-sign gesture and continued—“star immerses himself in charity work and is rumored to be datingoneperson. I don’t care who the person is, but I don’t want drama. It’s business, Pierce. Give the public what they think they want. Too much information always backfires. No one needs to know about your dumb-fuck brother or that the sweet old man who claimed to be related to you might be quackers. And if anyone sniffs that you’re interested in a man, you’d better be sure that man is ready to have a camera shoved up his nose when he opens his door in the morning.”

“No. That’s not going to happen.”

“It might and you know it, so…take my advice. Give him a ‘just in case’ title and take Daphne to the award shows. She wants the attention and—”

“And you just put her in a new series,” I finished.

Seb grinned. “Yep.”

“You’re a piece of work, Seb.”

“I’ve been called worse.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “But I’m also a marketing genius, and I’m on your side.”

“I know.”

And I did. Seb’s rulebook could be a tad unorthodox at times, but he knew how to play the Hollywood game. He was savvy, cunning, and fiercely protective of three things: his family, his friends, and his studio assets. I fit into that last category.

I was in an odd position of being on the inside without being part of the core team. I mattered, but I was ultimately replaceable. Story of my life.

Cue the violins, right? Hey, I appreciated everything he’d done for me, but sometimes, I wished I had something of my own.

7

LORENZO

Hi, it’s me.

I squinted at my screen, studying the letters and rearranging them in my head while Mrs. Hirschfield flipped through a textile book. She was on a quest to reupholster her outdoor cushions, and though I was fairly certain she’d just bought that furniture last summer, she was one of Brandon’s most loyal customers, and I wasn’t about to dissuade her.

I begged her pardon, wandering to the register to respond to the text.Who?

Pierce. What are you doing?

Working, I replied.

Three dots. Nothing. I rang up a sale, dropped another sample book off to Mrs. Hirschfield—who’d taken up camp at the dining room vignette in the middle of the store—and hurried back to check my cell.

When are you off?

I sent a thinking-face emoji.Is this a booty call text?

Three dots. Eye-roll emoji, laughing emoji.I wouldn’t say no, but I need to talk to you. It’s important. I can pick you up whenever you’re done.

Important?

I’m going to the hospital after work, but I can meet you afterward.

Five lightning emojis.What a coincidence! I’m going too.

I frowned at my phone, then gave up and called his number.

“Going where?” I asked in greeting.