Page 7 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“It better fucking not,” Seb scoffed, pushing away from his desk and moving to sit in the chair Janet had abandoned next to me. My blood pressure rose on cue, and I hoped like hell my deodorant held up. “Listen, we haven’t had this chat in a while, so maybe you need a refresher.”

“No, I—”

“You do,” he intercepted, leaning into my space. “It’s pretty simple, Pierce. I don’t care who you fuck or what you do in your free time as long as you keep your nose clean and your name out of the fucking headlines. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Seb eased backward and propped his elbows on the armrests with his fingers steepled in a casual pose that didn’t mesh with the waves of intensity emanating from his pores. “One more thing. I like Janet’s idea, but I don’t want you to sign up for anything that’s going to mess with your head. I know your mother was—”

“No.” I held up a hand and flashed the lopsided cocky half smile synonymous with Baxter. “I’m fine, Seb. Thanks.”

He pursed his lips but didn’t argue. “All right. Then here’s what’s happening. You’re going to be a fucking Boy Scout for the next three months. Lay low, chill, do some yoga, learn to surf…and immerse yourself in the world of philanthropy. We’re gonna make you so squeaky clean, you’re gonna fart soap suds.”

“Nice image,” I snarked. “What do you mean three months? I thought we were supposed to begin filming in Toronto in a few weeks.”

“It got pushed to spring. Hal is stuck on another set, and there was some issue with permits.” He shrugged irritably and stood. “You’ll have the script soon and plenty of time to memorize it. In LA.”

“Are you telling me I can’t leave the state?” I gaped incredulously.

Seb gave me a paternal smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t put it like that. You’re not under house arrest, for fuck’s sake, but I want you close by. These are tricky times, Pierce. It’s award season, and that means free publicity we can’t afford to squander. You’re my number-one box office sensation. You’re a studio gem, a legend before your time. I need you to represent us by doing all the good deeds…right where I can see you.”

“That sounds…like hell.”

He snort-laughed, patting my shoulder, then checking his watch. “Save the drama for the screen, baby. I gotta run. I have a call in five minutes, and I still have to come up with—you don’t look so good. Do you need some Gatorade? I’ll ask Trish to…”

I tuned him out.

My brain was mushy, and my stomach roiled. I had to get out of here. Fast. I mumbled something incoherent, grimacing as my insides lurched.

Oh, fuck.

Do not get sick. Do not get sick. Please, let me have this one shred of dignity.

I took one step…and another, thinking I might be okay when I reached the sofa that anchored the viewing section of Seb’s office. But no. I licked my dry lips and raced to the en suite bathroom, where I promptly puked my guts out.

So let’s recap.

In the space of less than twenty-four hours, I’d gone from riding the high of my life to praying to the porcelain god in my boss’s office. Those were the kind of dizzying extremes that would make anyone take a hard look at their life.

Problem: I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.

2

LORENZO

“Thank goodness you’re here! Come in. Hurry.”

Enid motioned for me to enter, pausing to scan the street like a mad sentry before ushering me into Mr. Gowan’s grand foyer. I set the two shopping bags I’d lugged from my car onto the black-and-white marble floor, then shook my cramped fingers to encourage blood flow while regarding her curiously.

“Is Mr. G okay?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s fit as a fiddle today.” Enid beamed, pivoting toward the ornate gold-framed mirror to check her reflection. She patted her short red hair, fussed with the collar of her pink cardigan, and smooshed her lips together as if to ensure even application.

This was not normal behavior on so many fronts.

Enid was a middle-aged caretaker and nurse who wore basic button-downs and polyester pants with sensible white Crocs, bless her soul. And she touted organic skin creams and balms so often that I was sure she had an allergy to cosmetics. Yet here she was, all gussied up with rosy cheeks and fuchsia-stained lips.

“Good. Um…what’s going on?” I gestured at her pearls and narrowed my gaze. “Do you have a date?”