Page 18 of The Publicity Stunt

And I don’t ever want to mess that up.

ChapterFive

Present Day

APRIL

Coffee in hand, I settle into the red swivel chair across Zawe’s desk. She’s not here yet, but that’s probably because I’m five minutes early.

I lean back against the chair and spin it to face the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Times Square. Polished white marble tiles and shelves are filled with files and binders, all arranged by color. Zawe has one of those offices that would show up if you entered “chic office aesthetic” on Pinterest.

My cubicle is down the hall, one-third the size and no glass walls. None.

I whip out my phone from my pocket and look at the time. Eight fifty-seven a.m.

These three minutes are going to crawl by. I wish Zawe had specified the reason for this meeting in her email.

Monday meeting @9am. Don’t be late.

That was it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sighing, I stare out the window, the tiny wheels of the chair squeaking with my movement, and watch the traffic undulate below. Somewhere in that crowd, there’s Parker. Getting coffee, crossing the street, going to work. I frown. What is his work? Ever since we were kids, all he’s wanted to do is publish his own comic book.Fireheart Chronicles.

“I thought I’d never see you again. I’m just trying to take it all in.”

I can’t believe Parker lives here. Everyone has a troubled past. I’m his. And he is mine.

My phone lights up with a text from Holly.

Hol: If you steal my yogurt one more time, I’m going to move out.

Hol: Don’t wait up tonight. Gotta work the night shift. Love you.

I lock my phone and stuff it back into my pocket. My sister still thinks this is too much of a coincidence. Neither one of us is above social media stalking. Parker always knew where I was, as I knew where he was. Did he move here for me?

Right then the door creaks open and heels clap against the marble floor.

I spin around and in waltzes Zawe Cooper. Dressed head to toe in black, sporting a beige Chanel handbag over her shoulder. She shifts her large round sunglasses to the top of her head. “Good, you’re here.”

Did I have a choice?

Hanging her coat on the back of her chair, she sinks down and opens her laptop. “You’ve heard of Tony Martin, yes?”

Straight to business, then.

I shift forward in my seat, silently questioning my own outfit: a deep red pantsuit and black stilettos. Not bad, but it’s impossible not to feel like a fashion disaster around Zawe. A superpower if there ever was one.

“April?” Zawe’s acerbic tone snaps me out of my daze.

“Right, sorry.” I clear my throat. “Yeah, I know him.”

Tony Martin. Zawe’s client.

Casanova, controversial, and cumbersome are only a few of the C words used to describe him in articles fromBuzzfeedtoVariety. Notorious for sneaking in a different type of drug every time he attends any formal event, the guy is a PR nightmare. Last year, he smuggled an entire flask of scotch to an award ceremony at Radio City Music Hall and tried to fight a fellow nominee for his award.

The incessant clicking of her keyboard fills the confines of her glass-walled office. “So you won’t have any problem handling him for the next two weeks?”

I gape, choking for a response. My eyes bug out. “What?”