She pursed her lips, indignation scratching at her cheeks. "Are you my therapist or my publicist?"
"Are you going to answer my question so I can do my job?" I countered.
She gave me a long, quiet look, showing the first signs that there was more to her than meets the eye. She opened her mouth, her lips quivering and I could have clapped with glee because for the first time ever, I had a high maintenance client that wasn't going to make me chip away at the layers to get to the root of why they needed me in the first place. Because when it came down to it, I was kind of a therapist. I was the number they called when the shit inevitably hit the fan. I picked up the pieces and I made sure the world didn't notice the cracks.
Jessica snapped her mouth shut, jerking to her feet in a single, angry movement. "I just remembered I have an appointment I can't miss." When her lips curled she made a smile look like a snarl. "I'm throwing a welcome home party tomorrow night at my apartment on 25th. You should swing by...or wait for the pictures."
And with that she breezed out of my office.
Did she just dismiss me? And threaten me with some party that was sure to make my job that much more difficult?
I mowed a hand through my unruly hair with a groan. I loved my job, but some days...
Needing someone to vent to, to tell me that I could handle the spoiled rich girl masquerading as a sorority girl, I abandoned my post and made the walk down the corridor toward Jacob's office.
Natasha's eyes lifted from her task, taking in my dejected expression. She smiled like Christmas morning. "Tough meeting?"
I ignored her. "Is Jacob with anyone?"
"No, but he's on the-"
Done with the conversation, I started down the hall towards my husband. I could already feel his hands around me, holding me tight. Telling me I had this under control. Telling me that we were okay.
The sound of Jacob's voice stopped me cold. Jacob Whitmore had a reputation for being a force to be reckoned with when you crossed him. His voice always commanded attention, an innate power that made you want to take a knee like he was a king on a throne. But whoever he was talking to would get no mercy.
"After what happened in Venice, I told you that I wanted no more lies. No more secrets. And then you come to me with this." He let out a growl that made me take a step back. "Mom, this changes everything!"
"Ahem."
I went rigid, my body so tight that I turned to face Natasha as slowly as possible to keep from snapping. And I was in no hurry to see the look of amusement on her face.
Mrs. Whitmore, ear to the door. Too afraid to walk in and face her husband.
As much as Natasha was smiling today, you'd think she was a kind person. You'd be wrong.
"Trouble in paradise?" she mused, all teeth.
I fled back to my office, not confirming the obvious.
THREE
****
"So I think we should flash them."
"Sure," I grunted, practically inhaling my glass of wine.
"I’ll rip my shirt off and do a shimmy. Maybe even a strategic nipple slip."
I coughed, nearly squirting Merlot from my nose. I looked at my best friend, Megan Scott, who stared back at me with green eyed innocence like she hadn't just threatened to go Girls Gone Wild. "What did you just say?"
"Does it matter? I've been talking for the past five minutes. Apparently to myself,” she spat.
I winced, pushing the wine glass a few inches away. Like that'll stop me.
She propped her chin on her hand with a sigh and leaned forward until she created a strawberry blonde wall that she hoped the cameras couldn't penetrate. "I'm still not used to it. Cameras following me when I'm running errands, waiting for me when I leave school-"
"I wish I had some sagely advice for you," I interrupted. "But I'm fresh out."
I expected her to pry, to at least call me out for not even flinching as people inched by, probably wondering if someone legitimately famous was near, then continuing on their way when they discovered we were just famous by association. I'd landed the billionaire playboy, and Megan was with Cade Wallace, an actor who currently had two movies tearing up the box office.
But Megan's gaze softened, her green eyes narrowing with concern, not suspicion. "What's going on? When we met last week you could barely take the smile off your face."
Memories hit me in a wave and I swayed in my seat. Or maybe that was due to the second glass of wine I'd nearly polished off in the last hour, paired with little more than cheese and crackers. I chalked up the warmth that took my face hostage to the alcohol, because admitting I was remembering how happy I was, and the cause of it, I was just reminding myself of how far I was from that place.
"I'm pretty sure you popped over fresh out of bed that day-"
My eyes bulged, imagining that everyone on the patio was tuned in to our conversation. "Megan!"
"It's not like I said the 's' word," she snorted, then raised an eyebrow with mischievous intent. "Then again, you're so hush hush about what happens behind those penthouse doors. Maybe you guys are a little closer to the 'f' word." Her lips split into a full on grin when I gasped. "Maybe the 'k' word?"
"That's none of your business," I spat, my cheeks on fire. "Do I ask what your sex life is like? No, because it's private. So just drop it."
The humor in her eyes froze over. "You're mad about something, but it's not my bad joke. How about we talk about that instead of you jumping down my throat?"
I knew she was right. I was taking my frustration out on her, because I didn't have the guts to face Jacob
“Talk to me, Lay,” she said softly.
All of a sudden the cameras seemed to zero in on us. Paparazzi leaned in for an exclusive, ‘The billionaire’s wife tells all!’
I gulped hard, but the knot was firmly planted in my throat with no intention of budging. It didn’t matter that the photogs breathing down my neck was all in my head; they were still camped out on the other side of the street, well out of ear reach. But I still couldn’t make the words come out.
Our waiter unloaded our food and I could have kissed him. It bought me a few moments of silence, stuffing my face so the truth was buried behind my spinach and cheese ciabatta. But I knew I’d have to eventually spill the beans. My sandwich was half gone and Megan was still waiting. And not so patiently.
“How’s your pasta?” I asked, deflecting her stony glare.
“Delicious,” she answered shortly, dabbing her mouth. “Are you going to tell me what’s up or are we going to make awkward small talk like we’re on our first date?”