“You look bright and chipper today.”

Natasha Lancaster, Jacob’s secretary, didn’t mean it as a compliment. The tip-off wasn’t her usual tell-tale sign, her painted lips pointed downward when I entered her orbit like she smelled something rotten, if she bothered to look up at all.

Today, she tried something new—her petite arms were crossed against her chest as she leaned back in her chair like a queen on her throne. Her frigid eyes practically turned me to ice as she evaluated me, her accusatory tone almost taking the wind right out of my sales.

Considering Hope could care less that Mommy had a full plate in the morning and spent the evening and wee hours of the AM being hella cute and wide awake, I decided I’d take it as a compliment, regardless. My blouse was wrinkle free, my slacks were popping, my hair wasn’t a bird’s nest, and concealer did its job and hid the bags beneath my eyes. I was feeling like a million bucks. Nothing, including Natasha’s bad juju, could bring me down.

“Thanks!” I stretched the sides of my mouth as far as they would go, flashing her every pearly white. “Love that lip color on you.” The blood colored scowl made it impossible to mistake her as anything but a predator.

Natasha wavered, uncrossing then re-crossing her arms, eyes narrowed like she was trying to ascertain if I was blowing smoke up her ass. “...thanks.” She nodded at the stack of folders peeking out from beneath her bottle of water. “Those are for you.”

I knew there was no love lost between the two of us and it used to bother me that she did the bare minimum that was required, like not bothering to hand me anything unless Jacob was around, and using my folders as a coaster, but I decided I’d kill her with kindness.

I carefully retrieved my documents without disturbing her items, still wearing my smile. “Have a great day!”

She gawked at me for a few moments like I’d flipped her the bird before she went back to smoldering at her computer. “Uh huh.”

I left the negativity behind me, flipping open the folder. I had to have a thick skin in this business and considering my first client for the day had to be escorted from the building the last time we met, I needed to conserve my energy.

I stopped at the break room, eyes glazing over the bullet points.

Rich O’Connor, 32. He started in soap operas, lighting up the television screen with his tall, dark, and devious shtick. His skills at playing the bad guy made women and men alike swoon, catching the eye of some producers in Hollywood. His new, star-studded connections translated into a slew of thrillers and blockbusters hits.

Unfortunately, he didn’t turn off the bad boy persona when the cameras stopped rolling. His more recent alcohol and drug field rants had gone viral. The last one, where he berated a waitress for refusing to join him for dinner, led to the hashtag #effrichoc

I fueled up on caffeine, heading into my office and closing the door behind me with a finality that I didn’t feel. I used to have to get in the zone with  music, drinking in the desk and chair and knick knacks. This was my domain. My kingdom. And I was damn good at my job.

Today, I lowered myself in my chair, pausing to check the app that connected me to my little girl. My mother was changing her diaper, and even across town I could see how happy they both were, poop and all.

My phone hummed, a text from Jacob popping up on my screen. I tapped the alert, a genuine smile on my lips before I even read his words.

You snuck out of here this morning before I could give you a pep talk for your meeting.

“A pep talk?” I snorted, thinking out loud. There were only two things we liked in the morning: caffeine and getting tangled up in each other. Talking was not on that list, pep or otherwise.

I almost typed something flirty, but our truncated fun from the other day made me erase it, blushing like he was across from me. After all this time, he still had that power over me. Even through a handful of characters, Jacob Whitmore could make me feel l was some awkward, virginal thing that was dying to be deflowered. I was no virgin (duh), but I still hadn’t mastered the art of the sext. Or the art of just speaking up and saying, “I need you to fuck me tonight.”

From his follow up text, he had no problem in that arena.

I’m going to ravage  you tonight, little sub.

I gasped, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip like I’d been caught. Like he’d read my mind. My fingers trembled, my body already screaming yes as I plucked out the most awkward reply.

Sounds good!

I deleted it, just in time for him to get down to business.

I have security on standby. If that asshole breathes at you wrong, they’ll be at your disposal.

My reply flew out of my fingers. I didn’t excel at sexting, but I had a black belt in snark.

My hero. I even added an emoji with its eyes rolled to the sky.

Watch it. He added an emoji of his own, a devil that made me tingle. I was tempted to provoke him, ensure that whatever happened tonight would include a spanking, but my computer screen shut that down.

My previous assistant, Jessa, had been promoted and was working in Claudia Joy’s department, living the life at a film festival in Prague.

Moments like this made me miss her.

My current right hand woman was a stereotypical millennial which meant she preferred to communicate via app. Simone Ritter was half my size with enough personality that she was Facebook friends with everyone in the building—and she was still trying to convince me to go all digital. I was probably old school, but I preferred to have memos and information that I could touch.

Simone: Hi Leila! Richie just arrived, should I send him up?

Before I could navigate over to the keyboard, she added, And don’t worry, I already told him if he tries anything like he did last time, I’ll drag him out myself.

That made me literally laugh out loud, picturing the spunky, barely five foot tall blonde, sweeping the virtual giant and dragging him out by his hipster ponytail.

Leila: Thanks, Simone. You can send him up.

I pressed enter and went back to Rich’s folder. Even though she grumbled and told me just how inefficient word documents were in this day and age, Simone did a damn good job creating Rich’s life story in black and white. The bullet points hit the highlights: he was from humble beginnings, but a couple of big breaks and he left the bright eyed kid from his early headshot behind.

At the peak of his fame, people were willing to put up with the dickhead behavior. The former assistant Simone hunted down even went far enough to call him charming. Personally, I didn’t find anything adorable or swoon-worthy about a man who referred to women as ‘bitches’, thought it was okay to stiff wait staff if they didn’t worship the ground he walked on, and routinely trashed hotel rooms and dressing rooms...but to each their own.

I stared into the bottomless, onyx colored eyes and tried to imagine when he decided that he’d rather be notorious than liked. At the end of the day, he got his wish—and he was on the verge of being blacklisted in this town. And if he rolled into my office like he had a week ago, he’d be out a publicist as well.

I wasn’t perfect and I believed that everyone deserves a second chance, but that man almost made me hand him off to someone else. My office had been throughly cleaned from top to bottom since that day, but I still shuddered, replaying our last encounter in disturbing, vivid color.

*

I LEANED BACK IN MY chair, waiting for the knock. The sound that my new client, Rich O’Connor, was ready to make a change. To be honest, I was just glad he was taking a break from personally responding to the women who called him on his BS, digging himself even deeper by calling them some form of a bitch. Calling them fat. On the rag. Offering to sleep with the ones he deemed hot enough because, ‘clearly you need to get laid’.

I usually greeted my clients with a handshake, offering them refreshments, but I decided to employ a different strategy with this one. He had a chip on his shoulder and clearly little to no respect for women. I needed to establish who was in charge and that I would suffer no fools before he even walked through the door and-

“Hey Leila!”

I froze, sure that exhaustion was making me hear things. Someone, and I really hoped wasn’t who I thought it was, believed it was appropriate to yell for me. To summon me.

Just to confirm this was real life and I was in for one hell of a ride, he repeated himself.

“Hey. Where’s Leila Whitmore?”

I clenched my teeth and drew a couple of steadying breaths as I heard Natasha’s voice slice down the hall, taking him to task. I changed my tactics and booked it to the door.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but this isn’t a sidewalk or some bar or club. You don’t yell for a woman like some drunk frat-”

“Who crawled up your snatch?”

I yanked open the door just as that word came out of his mouth.

Natasha and I had never been friendly, but in that moment, we were united in our shock and disgust. I barely had the time to take him in before the smell hit me like a punch to the nose. It was just shy of 9am and he smelled like he didn’t cut himself off until a few minutes ago—several bottles too late. He lumbered down the hall in his black tie and jeans, a man bun precariously stacked on his head like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. His coal colored eyes darted back and forth between me and Natasha, the leer on his face turning something that might have been attractive, if he was sober, into something utterly gross.

He made a sloppy line with arm. “I would have brought some condoms if I knew this was gonna be a menage a trois.”

I thought Natasha’s eyes would pop out of her head. Heck, I thought my own would fall out. Was he for real? I knew this was a desperate cry for help, but I would not be disrespected. And even though we had our ongoing beef, I wouldn’t let him disrespect Natasha either.

“I’m going to call security.” Natasha was already making good on her word, but I stopped her.

“I’ve got it,” I assured her. Said it with a little more authority that I actually felt. I wasn’t too excited about having some belligerent, towering asshole in my office, but this was my job, and even Rich O’Connor wouldn’t keep me from doing it. “And you—trust me, we’re not remotely interested in anything you have to offer.” My face was impassive, every feature hardened to stone. I dared him to test me. “If you’re ready to get to work, let’s go to my office. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.”

He looked genuinely surprised. Flabbergasted that I wasn’t cowering or kissing his ass. He sobered up enough to snap his mouth shut and followed me into my office. I held my breath, making my first stop the mini fridge to get him a bottle of water. I perched it on the edge of the desk and took my seat, drawing a deep breath as he strolled around my office like this was a social call. Before I could tell him to have a seat, he swiped a picture of me, Jacob, and Hope.

“Good looking family you have here,” he whistled. “I bet that Whitmore dude is even cuter in person.” He threw a wink at me over his shabby shoulder. “Almost as cute as you.”

That comment, coupled with the fact that he smelled like he drank a liquor store, almost made me gag. “Put it down and-”

‘Let’s get to work’ was left unsaid when his hackles raised. “Don’t you work for me?” The way he wiggled his eyebrows almost made me wish Natasha called security after all, but I wasn’t some wet behind the ears publicist.

You’ve taken down bigger jerks than him.

“Sit down,” I growled.

He tossed the picture, the clang as it collided with the wall almost rattling my bones.

Almost.

“Or what?” he challenged. He advanced, his chest out like some testosteroned up idiot, then stopped like he hit a brick wall, his face going pale.

I knew it was coming, but there was no time to grab the trash can.

He vomited all over the floor.

*

"MISS ME?"

I tried to count my many blessings instead of turning on my heels and telling our security guard, Frank (a vet that was dying for anybody to make his day) that he needed to remove Rich from the grounds immediately.

Blessing #1: Rich’s words weren't slurred, and he didn't look and smell like he was fresh off some sort of alcohol-fueled bender. He was the picture of cool in a crisp, white V-neck tee, dark wash jeans, and Ray Bans that he was naturally wearing indoors.

Blessing #2: He went straight for the chair in front of my desk instead of meandering around like this we were old friends.

It told me he was at least putting forth some effort.

I sighed when I rounded my desk and had that hair-raising-on-the-back-of-your neck feeling when you realize someone was watching you. I didn't need the confirmation, but I peered over my shoulder and saw two onyx colored eyes blatantly taking stock of the curve of my behind.

Baby steps, Leila.

I ignored his statement and his leering. "Did you bring what I asked you to bring?"

He let out a low whistle, perching his shades on the crown of his head. "All business, eh?" The playfulness in his voice was nowhere to be found in his eyes. He was a man that was used to getting what he wanted, or else. In his warped worldview, I was insulting him by not being reduced to a giggling, blushing mess because some famous dude was ogling me.

I didn't have the time or patience to nurse his bruised ego. "That's what you're paying me for."

I regretted my choice of words as soon as a lascivious grin curved his lips. I opened my mouth to curtail any jokes about hookers or escorts, but he beat me to the punch. "I didn't say it! I might have been thinking it, but I didn't say it."

I took my seat, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. He was acting like he deserved some sort of medal for not being a douche. Like he was expecting me to make a grand announcement that I was nominating him for the key to the city. "I appreciate that." I steered us back to one of the conditions of this rescheduled meeting: a heartfelt, handwritten apology for the behavior that led to him going viral. "What do you have for me?"

Even that got a snicker. Jesus, was he a grown man or some 12 year old boy that drew penises on his desk and made 'that's what she said!' jokes?

I must have had my Mom face on because he went dead serious, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of paper. He unraveled it, trying to straighten it out like it was his last dollar and he had to make it go in the vending machine. "As requested."

I leaned forward, gingerly picking it up. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but I was suddenly wishing I had something to drink.

I pushed it back across the desk at him, crossing my arms. "You can't be serious."

"What?" He shrugged two cotton clad shoulders to his ears, the picture of innocence and naïveté. "My mother always told me the best kind of apology you can give someone is 'I'm sorry'." He nodded at the paper for good measure, the dangerous good looks that melted other women's panties completely lost on me.

I was considering Hulking out and flipping my desk. Spinning my head around The Exorcist style. Anything to fully express how crazy he was making me, and we weren't even half an hour into our meeting. Luckily, I caught a glimpse of my irate reflection, and chugged some water instead. Took a few deep breaths to cool me down before my annoyance bubbled from my mouth like lava and just further stoked the flames.

He likes attention. A reaction. He's probably keeping track of every mention on Twitter.

Before I opened my mouth, I tried to remember I was a professional and I'd taken on worst than Rich O’Connor—and fate probably had a surprise or two left up its sleeve.

I could do this.

I was born to do this.

I looked into the ruggedly smug face across the desk from me and did the last thing he expected. I under-reacted. In fact, I gave him the praise he craved...with a dash of sarcasm.

"Y'know, I think this will go over great!" I held up the paper, the hotel's figurehead all smeared and crumpled, his two word apology glaring up at me in Sharpie. He probably had a sharpie or two on him right this minute, just in case someone asked him for an autograph. "It's tweetable, it sums up everything we're trying to broadcast to the world. You're sorry. Case closed."

The swagger that oozed off of him like body spray, invading your nostrils with heavy handed testosterone, dissipated. He tugged his shades from the crown of his head, his shaggy locks spilling into his eyes.

"Case closed?" He frowned, showing the first genuine emotion I'd seen since he walked in the room. He was confused. "That's it? 'I'm sorry' will keep those feminazis off my back?"

I had to dig my nails into my palm to bite back my groan. "I'm not sure how sorry you really are using that term. I’d stick with the two you scrawled on that paper. Just say it, over and over again, and maybe it will sink into your thick skull."

That got his full attention.

I got a whiff of the fire and brimstone, his signature glare. When he was up on the big screen, that look meant danger. Now? It just looked pathetic. "I'm not sure what you want from me, woman. I did what you asked and wrote the goddamn apology-"

"Save your bs for your fan club, Rich," I interrupted, holding up a hand to silence him. I was through with this little game. I regretted giving him a moment of thinking that it was charming or deserving of my time. Of anyone's time. There would be no rehabbing his image until he was serious. "If you truly think some half assed, two word apology is going to address this huge mess that you created, you should take your business elsewhere." I pushed back from my desk, a little melancholy that I wouldn't have the challenge of working with him, seeing behind the curtain, seeing more than this butthole he showed the rest of the world. There was a reason he tried so hard to be unlikable, pretending he didn't care what the world thought of him.

I had a feeling he cared a lot.

Unfortunately for him, I had a long list of clients who actually wanted my help. Who may have screwed up their first meetings like he did, but came back ready to get to work and save their career. He wasn't done with his downward spiral, and I wasn't going to grab the popcorn and watch.

"Thank you for your time-"

"What do you want from me?!" His voice was a thunderclap, but it had nothing to do with his volume. He wasn't crazy enough to yell at me after our last run-in. The fists that he'd used to get himself barred from countless bars and clubs were wrapped around the arms of the chair like he was holding on for dear life. The eyes that sent narrowed 'Don't eff with me' signals had changed and were so open, so desperate that I sat back down. It was the loss that cracked his voice in two. The sound of someone who read those mentions after all, but not to stroke his ego.

He read them to pour salt in the wound.

This man, this career villain, the badass who could have probably given Cade a run for his money, looked like...a man. Not a star, not a mouthy, raunchy, douchebag. He was just a dude who'd fallen asleep somewhere along the way and woke up and realized that all those choices he made had consequences. And those consequences were beating down his door.

I felt a knot that I hadn't allowed myself to feel in the heat of the moment relax. I uncoiled the fight in me. It was time do my job. Sometimes, that included walking away. Other times, I had to knock some sense into the client. And then there were days like today. Days when I had to listen.

I cleared my throat, swiping that piece of paper and I put it where it belonged—in the garbage.

I turned back to Rich, giving him another chance.

"I want you to tell me who you are. The real you, beneath all the lies and pretenses and blustering and snark and cruelty." I reached into my drawer and pulled out a fresh tablet, taking a Whitmore and Creighton pen and balancing it on the empty lines. "Then I want you to write a real apology so we can save your career."