Page 48 of Now That It’s You (The Can’t Have Hearts Club #5)

Amber

Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)

What’s it like being the youngest of six? [dramatic eyeroll]

I mean, my siblings are great. Mostly. Our mother still introduces me as “the baby.” Yeah, I know. I’ll be twenty-eight next year.

[sips from mug that reads “It’s too peopley here”]

You know what a director said on my last big PR gig before I left Hollywood?

“If I want some little girl to shove sunshine up people’s butts, I’ll give you a call, creampuff.”

Yes, I’m serious.

I gave him a helpful, alphabetized list of alternatives I would cheerfully shove up his butt.

“So, we all feel good about how the season wrapped?”

Big brother Dean snaps my focus off the notepad I’m clutching. That’s my cue to jump in. To sit just a tiny bit taller in my chair.

“I think we’re in good shape.” I tap my pink pen twice on my equally pink notepad. “ People magazine calls it Hollywood’s strongest season finale.” Never mind that our show films literally a thousand miles from Hollywood. “The article hits newsstands tomorrow.”

My siblings nod like I’ve said something smart, and maybe I have. Only Mari looks worried as she tickles her infant son’s cheek. Count on our shrink sister to spot the elephant in the room.

“What’s public sentiment around… the incident ?”

Ah, the incident.

“It’s like I’ve said from the start,” I begin, glad I’m on top of this. “Everyone loves a grumpy chef.” Admittedly, Chef Dal Yang calling a restaurant guest a twatwaffle might’ve gone a step beyond grumpy. “It helped that the guy really was being a twatwaffle.”

“Waffles.” Cooper looks up from his fidget spinner. “Anyone else want one of those stroopwaffles from the bakery?” He’s already out of his chair and headed for the counter. “I’ll grab six.”

“About the finale.” Dean drags us back to the business of running our little self-contained community. “That could’ve gone sideways fast. We’re lucky it was a jackass journalist and not another resident.”

“We certainly are.” Lucky isn’t the word I’d use. Skill sounds closer, but I’m not one to brag.

It’s true, though. My public relations magic made the jackass journalist back off before things got ugly. It wasn’t just that, though.

“You saw the footage.” I look at Lauren and Gabe, who filmed the damn footage. “I’m not saying the guy deserved to have a saltshaker upended on his head, but he was out of line.”

Lauren gives a curt nod. “I would have used the hot sauce.”

Of course she would. “Anyway, it’s over,” I continue. “Our ratings are good, viewers are happy, and Dal Yang’s got approval ratings up the wazoo.”

Thank God Cooper’s still at the bakery counter. He’d make some smartass comment about me wanting Dal up my wazoo, whatever that means.

Brothers suck sometimes.

My oldest consults his notes. “All right,” Dean says. “So on with the next season’s show arcs.”

The chatter shifts to filming schedules and new community members joining the show. I take copious notes, but who am I kidding?

My brain’s still stuck on Dal. About what set him off that day we filmed the finale at his restaurant, Serenade. Some pipsqueak reporter from a shady online news outlet showed up saying he’d spill the beans on how Dal’s brother wound up in a wheelchair.

“Do it,” Dal snarled, with cameras rolling.

“Hell, I’ll make it easy for you— I caused the fucking accident.

” He struck his chest with a fist and faced the camera.

“You heard me. I’m the reason my parents got killed.

I’m why Ji-Hoon lives in a fucking wheelchair.

I was horsing around in the backseat like the twelve-year-old dipshit I was.

You got that?” His dark eyes flashed on the screen.

“That’s reality. No excuses. No sugarcoating.

It’s the truth. And I’ve never fucking run from it. ”

It was brave. It was honest. It was heartbreaking.

And it was damn good television, even with the bad words bleeped.

“Sound okay, Lana?”

I blink myself back to Dean’s question. “Chowder contest.” I consult my notes, which apparently I kept taking even as my brain wandered. “Ji-Hoon entered his brother’s coconut curry chowder in the Best of Oregon contest, but he wants it to be a surprise if Dal wins.”

Mari looks fretful. “I don’t like keeping secrets.”

Says the woman who kept a whopper from the guy she was banging. It’s all good, since the secrets spilled out like they tend to do, and she married Griff and had the cutest baby boy on earth. I lean over to tickle Sawyer’s plump cheek as Gabe speaks up.

“I think a secret about chowder is fine.” He takes a stroopwaffle from Cooper, who’s passing them out like blue ribbons. “We’ll break it to Dal on camera if he wins, and if he doesn’t?” Gabe shrugs. “No harm, no foul.”

“Moving on.” Dean clears his throat. “More ideas for getting Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge into the public eye?”

I’m full of ideas, thank you very much. Like the good little sister I am, I raise my hand.

“Yes, Lana?” Cooper points with the hand not gripping a stroopwaffle. “You have something to share with the class?”

I maturely do not command my brother to bite me. “Organic gardening’s very on-trend, and there’s a reporter at Entertainment Weekly who owes me a favor,” I report. “I guarantee they’d do a puff piece if I ask.”

My siblings nod like I’ve thought up the cure for chronic hiccups. Could be they’re humoring me, or maybe it’s an excellent idea.

“We’re having dinner tonight with Tia.” Cooper grins, still tickled to speak as we . Marriage suits him. So does having his pretty cop wife primed to bust out a baby any day now. “I can ask Tia if she’ll talk about her role in the gardens,” he adds. “She helped with agricultural setup.”

Mari bounces my infant nephew in his holster on her chest and Sawyer responds with a squawk. “Good idea.” She pats her son’s back. “Aren’t the gardens more Dal Yang’s domain?”

Aaaaand, we’re back to Dal.

“That’s true.” Lauren slides her eagle eyes to me. “He wanted more fresh produce in the restaurant.”

Big sister’s watching me, searching for clues to how I feel about Dal. She’ll have to do better because, dammit, I’m a professional. So what if his name plops a fizzy pink bath bomb in my belly?

“Tia consulted on the project, but Dal spearheaded it.” I meet Lauren’s piercing gaze with my perkiest PR smile. “And your husband built the deer-proof enclosure, so I’d love to include him in interviews.”

She smiles, placated, and I pat myself on the back. Knowing which buttons to push is part of my job. My key to public relations success. The reason I’m really fucking good at putting the best possible spin on anything life flings our way.

Almost anything.

My gut spits out the bath bomb with an uneasy lurch. There are parts of this job—this role as the Judson family’s official sunshine spinner—that I don’t love. So what? It’s not like my brothers and sisters love their jobs all the time.

“All right then.” Big brother Dean folds his hands on the table. “I agree Dal Yang’s got the leading storyline this season. Let’s tee him up for that.”

Mari nods and types something on her laptop. “Let’s clear things with the appropriate parties and get rolling.”

We all stand up, assignments in hand. A figure of speech, since Mari’s plugging marching orders in our spreadsheet that tracks who’s doing what. Baby Sawyer flails his little starfish hand and gives me a toothless smile.

“Hey, buddy.” I tickle him under the chin as my siblings start for the door. “Got a kiss for Auntie Lana?”

Gabe bumps me like a butthead as he files past. “Auntie Lana sounds like a laxative.”

“Or an antidepressant.” Cooper slips into his Hollywood voice as they head for the door. “ Now presenting Auntie Lana—may cause dizziness, fatigue, and anal leakage .”

Flipping the bird at my idiot brothers, I let Sawyer wrap a finger—index, not middle—in one chubby fist. “Who’s the cutest baby in the world? That’s right, it’s you!”

Mari nudges her glasses up her nose. “Did you have a question?”

“Nope!” I paste on my perkiest smile and aim for nonchalance. “Just offering to talk to Dal Yang about the community gardens piece. I’m meeting someone for dinner at Serenade tonight, so I can stop by early and?—”

“That’s great, thanks.” My sister scrolls to that field and types in my name. “You’ll have the best luck anyway. He bit my head off last week when I asked him to set up a therapy session.”

That sounds like Dal. “I can mention the therapy thing when I talk to him.” I’ll do no such thing because I want him to like me. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Put it in the spreadsheet,” she calls as I sashay toward the door. “Nice mug, by the way.”

I glance at the insulated cup in my hand and smile at the cheerful inscription.

Don’t tell me what to do unless you’re naked.

I chug some coffee and mentally scroll through my day. I’ve got a press conference at four and dinner at seven with my favorite reporter from the Today show. But for the next few hours, there’s time to kill.

My phone pings in my bag and I fish it out, wincing when I see the screen.

MOM: Call me, baby girl.

Another text pops up while I’m reading that one.

MOM: It’s urgent.

And another.

MOM: Sweetie? I need to hear from you.

I gulp back some guilt and shove the phone in my bag. Mom can hold her horses.

Or not, since the phone’s ringing now,a buzzy reminder that Shirleen Judson can’t be kept waiting.

With guilt gripping my throat, I send it to voicemail and type out a quick text.

ME: In a meeting. Will call later.

That buys me some time. And no, I’m not worried she’s hurt or hospitalized or has crucial news. Her last “urgent” communication was to let me know Prada released their new summer line.

Summer’s here, with no new Prada in my closet. I smile at my toes in their basic pink flip-flops from Target. My cutoff shorts aren’t the artfully slashed sort that cost a thousand bucks from Balmain, but an old pair of jeans I hacked with my own damn scissors.

Small-town living is my jam.