Page 18 of Reckless
“So, that’s what you’re in here waiting for? Them to trip up? How likely do you think it is for them to try something with you posted up in here with me?”
“I hope you aren’t suggesting that I leave you alone so they have the opportunity to get to you. Like bait.”
“No. No, that isn’t what I meant.” I let out a huff. “I’m just saying that if we’re waiting for them to do something, they won’t do it if they know you’re around.”
“I was around when you got the pictures of your front door.”
“You were.” I hate that he has a point.
“And you weren’t at home when they broke in. If they do something, they will do it when neither of us is watching, so think of this as me encouraging them to go after property instead of your person.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
He flips the page on the script. “How is Catherine taking everything?”
“She’s been wonderful, of course. She even tried to sweet talk me into letting her come and work on Oswald some. The stubborn old goat still isn’t agreeing to any interviews. You don’t think he’d take some suggestions from you, do you?”
“Still giving you the slip with that? That guy is a piece of work. I would think he wouldwantto promote the movie he’s so invested in. And no, the last person he’d take suggestions from is me.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I let out a light laugh. He shifts in his seat, trying again to get comfortable. “Griffin, you really don’t have to hang out in here. You can’t be comfortable.”
At this, Griffin looks up from the script again, but this time, he sets it aside. He uncrosses his legs at the ankles and sits forward, keeping his gaze locked on mine. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, Phoebe. Whoever this is, has to be someone we know. Maybe I’ll see something that helps me figure out who it is.”
“I can’t help but feel like I’m taking advantage of your help.” Maybe it wouldn’t matter if he backed off, but it would certainly make it easier if I wasn’t so distracted by his constant presence.
He leans back again, straightens the pages of the script, and re-crosses his legs. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”
Heat that has nothing to do with nerves burns low in my belly. He doesn’t mean that in a personal way. He’s only being friendly. Probably the sort of guy who can’t help coming to the rescue when someone is in danger. I bet that’s why he joined the military. It isn’t because he has any sort of feelings for me other than professional ones.
“Well, if this is how you want to spend your free time, then I guess I can’t stop you.”
Griffin nods, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiles. “That’s right. See? Isn’t it so much easier when you just agree with me?”
It’s no wonder the media has such a crush on him. The guy has an air of mystery about him that makes you want to know more. And I know enough based on my research. I know his favorite places to club. His favorite restaurants. Names, ages, weights, and Instagram handles for his last several girlfriends. I even know a little from Catherine about his time in the military and work with Jackson. But I don’t knowhim. The person that no one else gets to see. And the more time I spend with him, the more I want to know.
The door to my office bangs open, and in one smooth movement, Griffin is on his feet and between me and whoever just barged in. He doesn’t pull a weapon, but his hand rests on his hip where I know he conceals an M9. My heart leaps into my throat.
Arthur Oswald storms into what little space is left in my office, his face mottled with red and fury. “What’s the meaning of this?” he practically growls and shakes his tablet in my face, nearly hitting me with it, he’s so close.
“Excuse me, sir?” I ask.
“I just got an email from theHollywood Examinerabout an interview I’m supposedly doing with them tomorrow. I thought I made it clear I won’t be participating in any goddamn interviews.”
Griffin relaxes a little, but his hand stays within reach of his gun.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what interview you’re talking about. I haven’t scheduled any for you.”
“So incompetent. I have half a mind to report you to Catherine Cole,” Mr. Oswald seethes. “I’ve forwarded the email to you. See that it gets taken care of. Don’t let it happen again, or I promise you this will be the last production you’re affiliated with.” He whirls around and stalks off, leaving the scent of fury and cigars behind him.
Sighing, I pull up my email and see the message in question right away. I check and double-check my schedule and notes, but I already know I won’t find anything there. Mr. Oswald made it perfectly clear he isn’t willing to sit for interviews. It would have been counterproductive to schedule something without his explicit permission.
I send off a quick note to the journalist, asking to see the supposed correspondence between us. Then I check my sent messages to see if there is anything there, but I don’t find anything. All the while, Griffin keeps quiet. Alert and assessing, but quiet.
The journalist responds within a few minutes, forwarding our “conversation” as an attachment. I notice the difference in email right away. Mine is [email protected], and the email in the forwarded copy is [email protected].
Someone sent this on my behalf, knowing it would piss off the most important person affiliated with the film.
“I didn’t send this,” I say more to myself than to Griffin. “Can your friends track an email?”