Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
CHARLOTTE
I lied.
I don’t have a dress. Not one fit for a gala, anyway, in the suitcases I brought to Los Angeles. The nomadic lifestyle has its downside sometimes.
But the smug look on Aiden’s face when he suggested I buy a dress on his dime… No, thank you. I can’t forget even for a moment just what company he’s the CEO of.
So I bought one, a floor-length strapless gown that doesn’t look too cheap, even if it’s more of an off-the-rack prom dress than haute couture. I can’t imagine needing to go to many more events like this in the future.
It’s funny, thinking of how many costumes I’ve worn in the past few years. When I lived up in Alaska, interviewing the national female champion in dog mushing, working on her memoir, I was in thermals and braids and not a stitch of makeup.
When I worked together with William Young on his memoir, it was all slacks and white button-downs to fit in with his slick Silicon Valley vibe.
And now I’m in heels and a long dress, waiting on the sidewalk outside my rental unit, with my hair softly curled and smokey eyeshadow highlighting my eyes.
Being a chameleon has been an asset in this job.
The Los Angeles evening air is pleasantly warm. Cicadas sing in the background, and I look down at my shoes on the beige concrete. They’re old block heels I’ve used too often. But they’ll have to do.
A black car pulls to a stop right beside me. Aiden gets out of the back, leaving the door open. He’s in a tux without a bowtie, clean-shaven. No mussed hair. No sweat. He’s back to the neat, dashing celebrity he so often resembles.
“Charlotte,” he says. His eyes look over the deep emerald of my dress. “You look…” His voice trails off.
“I pulled something together,” I say quickly.
His lips curve. “You certainly did.” His eyes travel from me to the nondescript condo building behind me. “This is where you live.”
I square my shoulders. “This is where your company arranged for an apartment for me through the contract with Polar Publishing, yes.”
“These are student accommodations.” His smile is gone now.
“Mm-hmm, but I imagine it was affordable.” I walk past him and slide onto the plush backseat. The last thing I need is for him to be patronizing, too.
Aiden climbs into the car after me, and the driver pulls away from the curb. Game time. I open my clutch and take out the three neatly folded documents I prepared.
Because come hell or high water, I will write the best memoir about him. The deepest, most emotional, interesting portrait of a man who’s overcoming the difficulties of his father’s indictment and turning his family company around.
I have too much riding on this not to hit it out of the park.
“You brought… what is this?” he asks.
I unfold the first page and clear my throat. He won’t throw me off. “This is a list of questions that will greatly help me. I understand that you’re not a big fan of interviews, but for a successful memoir, I need some answers. It might be hard to tell me outright, in person. And that’s fine.” I push the paper into his hands. “I’ll also email a copy of this directly to you. Feel free to answer in an email form or through voice notes. I’m flexible.”
“Homework,” he says, his eyes scanning over the list. “You want to know about my first girlfriend? If I had a childhood pet?”
“Yes.”
He gives a low chuckle. “My reaction to my father’s arrest. Well, you’ve really gone high and low with this list.”
“I’m building the character sketch for you.”
“I’m not a character.”
“Of course not,” I say, and my voice stays calm. Neutral. Professional. I unfold the next piece of paper and hand it to him, too. “This is the rough outline I’ve laid out for your memoir. All of it is changeable, and I’ll probably have to move the chapters around when I gain more information. Please look it over when you have the time and see if it’s acceptable to you.”
It’s a neat little document, with a two-column table. Chapter by chapter headings, with descriptions of what I’ll need for each.
“You’ve decided what narrative you’re going for, then,” he says. There’s a faint frown on his lips, his head bent slightly to look at the documents in his hands. Outside the car windows, the city passes by in a blur.
“A classic hero’s journey,” I say.
His eyes skim the list. “The Start. The Legacy…” he mutters, reading the working chapter titles. “The Crash, the Trial, the Rebuild, the Strategy, the Comeback, the Philosophy… You have it all figured out.”
“It’s a preliminary sketch,” I say. “Something to work with. I’d love your thoughts about this narrative, your input on what you think is important to be covered in each section. We can start with these bulleted points and expand upon them in order.”
“Methodical,” he says.
I don’t know if his tone is one of admiration or admonition.
But it doesn’t matter much. I try to let it roll off me and reach for the final piece of paper.
Hand it to him.
There’s a punch of silence, accentuated by the sound of traffic outside us and the rumbling engine.
“This is a list of people,” he says, voice quiet in a way that makes him suddenly feel dangerous.
I force my voice to be strong. “Yes. These are people who either know you well or know the various aspects of you. Facets. Talking with them would greatly help me form a more holistic view of you.”
He turns to look at me, his fingers tightening around the paper. “This list includes over twenty people.”
“Yes.”
“Eric and Elena are both on it. My driver. Board members. Old friends from college. My mother. My sister.” He doesn’t add the final person, but it hangs in the air.
His father.
It had been a crazy streak of defiance when I added his father’s name to the list. His father—the man who made this entire project necessary, and who is serving time for fraud in a prison upstate.
“I need to get to know you, and that requires access,” I say briskly. “Think about it. You don’t have to agree to all of them, and not everyone will likely agree to participate. But if they do, they may speak on or off the record. I’m open to just having their views as background info.” I reach over and tap the paper still in his grip. “I’ll also be sending this directly to your email and will include Eric in the cc.”
Aiden’s handsome features are so blank, it looks like I’ve shocked him. I wonder how often that happens.
Then his eyes narrow. “You’re good at your job, Charlotte.”
It sounds like an accusation.
“Yes, and I take pride in a job well done. Just like you do, it seems,” I say. “We both want this memoir to be a bestseller. I’m willing to do my part. Are you?”
He doesn’t look away from my glare.
I don’t avert my eyes, either. Let him give me the CEO stare, the one that’s probably won him negotiations and intimidated lesser people. I won’t be one of them.
I’ve faced worse than Aiden Hartman in my day.
There’s a sharp clearing of a throat from the front seat, and it breaks the standoff between us. Aiden looks at his driver.
“We’re here, sir,” the chauffeur says. “I’ll be on standby. Five, maybe ten minutes away, tops.”
“Thanks,” Aiden says. He looks back down at the papers in his lap for a second before folding them up in precise squares. He slides the bundle into his inside pocket, out of sight.
Out of mind?
He still hasn’t answered me.
“Aiden?” I ask.
He looks at me then, his green eyes appearing nearly black in the dim lighting. “Time to go, Charlotte. You can ask more of your questions inside.”
“I can be an observer tonight,” I say. Seeing how he interacts with other people, hearing their conversations, is a great way to gain information. A fly on the wall.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Can you? Well… let’s see.”
There’s a crowd of people, attendants, guests, and security. And a gold carpet rolled out from the event hall.
Aiden extends his arm.
I hesitate, looking at his hand and the hint of a watch peeking out from beneath his sleeve.
“There are photographers here,” I say. Why hadn’t I thought about this? I’d thought about everything else.
“There are,” he says.
“They might think we’re dating. That I’m like… your date.”
There’s a tug to his lips. “You are my date.”
“I’m your plus-one.”
“Semantics.”
“I can’t be involved with my subject,” I say. My voice comes out prim, and I hate that, hate how his lips curve further.
“You’re not involved with your subject,” he says. “Unless you want a repeat of Utah, which?—”
“I don’t,” I hiss and look over at where the carpet beckons. The CEO of Titan Media. In pictures. With me.
He’s a public figure. I’ve tried to stay out of the spotlight in the last few years. Fought for my privacy, and it worked, damn it. It worked, but all it’ll take is a bored internet sleuth for things to come crashing down again.
“At this point,” he says in a drawl, “I’m taking this a bit personal, Chaos. Is it really that offensive if a stranger or two think we’re here as a couple?”
I take a deep breath.
“I see. It is.” He lowers his voice. “There’s a boyfriend in the picture, then. Someone who doesn’t… know about Utah.”
I shake my head. “No, of course not. No. There isn’t.”
“Right,” he says, but I’m not sure he believes me. His arm is still outstretched my way. “If you want to avoid photographers, I can make that happen.”
It’s not a big deal. Not weighed against the enormity of what I’m doing already.
I put my arm through his and ignore the faint energy that runs through me at the touch. He’s an enemy. A means to an end. A good memory.
Nothing more.
“Just as long as you know,” Aiden says in a low, deep voice as we start walking up the golden carpet and past the red ropes, “that the other guests will still think we’re dating.”