Chapter 4
. . .
Will
“What’s the matter?” I ask Drew, pulling into the restaurant’s valet parking and killing the McLaren’s engine.
She scoffs and shakes her head, still staring out the windshield. “You do realize that this place won’t have any tables for another three months?” Drew points a pink manicured finger at the restaurant entrance. “You can’t just walk in there and expect to be served.”
I look confused because I am. “I have the last three times I ate here.”
Her head whips to me. “Three times?! You’ve only been living in Seattle for two weeks.”
I shrug, and the valet opens the driver’s door.
Stepping out, I hand him the keys, and Drew climbs out when one of his colleagues opens her door.
“What’s the big deal? They sell delicious food, and the owners are nice.”
Standing under the bright entryway lights, the girl I splashed around in baby pools with looks every bit my date for tonight, and I’d be a liar to claim otherwise.
The black bodycon dress she’s wearing hits mid-thigh while hot-pink sandals match her nail polish perfectly.
She’s kept her hair in the tight, low bun she was wearing when I showed up at her place, which surprises me since I’ve only ever seen it around her shoulders.
It’s clear that work Drew is very different from the girl I’ve only encountered in social circles. I could sense it from the email she’d sent me to arrange a meeting, which I absolutely wasn’t going to have in an office on her twenty-first birthday.
Who the fuck doesn’t go out and celebrate a huge milestone like that?
Drew Callaghan is who.
Maybe I shouldn’t have called her Baby earlier, although I couldn’t help it. She’s always thought I was unprofessional, so I might as well go the whole way with a cutesy nickname.
“Mr. Jones,” the server who waited on my table last week immediately greets me before guiding us to a table set at the back of the plush restaurant.
I like the vibe in The Loft. Dark blue tablecloths, low-level lighting, and candles on the tables give it an exclusive feel, which goes with their insanely expensive menu.
The server’s eyes track to Drew as he pulls out a cream chair for her, and she takes a seat opposite me.
“Are we celebrating tonight?” he asks, adjusting the white towel over his arm.
I’m half tempted to call Drew Baby again and explain that we’re on a date, but I think better of it at the final second. I don’t doubt that she’d follow through with her threat and shove a can of whipped cream up my ass.
I tip my chin at Drew right as, “No,” leaves her lips, and I say, “Tomorrow is Drew’s birthday, so we’ll take a bottle of your best champagne.”
With a tight nod and a, “Happy birthday,” the server makes for the bar, leaving two unimpressed eyes boring into my skull as I examine the menu.
“The steaks here are really good and all grass-fed.”
“Are you for real?” Drew’s tone of voice tears my eyes away from the menu.
“Huh?”
“I said, are you for real?” she repeats. “You know I’m not twenty-one until tomorrow, so technically, I can’t drink alcohol until then.”
Closing the menu because I already know I’m having the mignon, I clasp my hands together and study her right as the server returns with a champagne bucket.
He takes the bottle and pops the cork. Another server sets a bottle of water in the center of the table, along with two champagne flutes and two water glasses.
After he’s filled our water glasses, the server goes to fill my champagne glass, and I set a hand over the top.
“Only for the birthday girl tonight,” I tell him, earning me a glare from across the table.
I probably shouldn’t be smirking at Drew as the server pours the champagne and asks her to taste it.
“Yeah, it’s really nice. Thank you.”
He fills her glass to the top, sets the bottle in the ice bucket, and leaves, confirming he’ll be back to take our food order in a moment.
Silence descends on our table as I pick up my water glass and hold it out in front of me.
“Happy twenty-first birthday, Baby.”
Full, peach-stained lips roll together. “You just couldn’t help it, could you?”
I grin around the rim of my water glass. “Loosen up a bit, Drew. No one here knows you’re only twenty, and they think you’re my date, so I doubt any questions will be asked.”
She leans forward and whisper-hisses, “And that’s precisely the problem—I’m not your date.
In fact, as of yesterday, you’re officially my client, and within the space of twenty-four hours”—she casts a hand over the table—“I’m sitting opposite you in a tight black dress with a whole-ass bottle of champagne while everyone around us thinks we’re banging! ”
I just grin again because this is way too much fucking fun. “I don’t personally see a problem. Let people think what they want. The staff here doesn’t gossip.”
Drew’s head lolls forward, an exasperated noise leaving her lips. “Since we’re here, I might as well lay some ground rules.”
When she lifts her gaze back to mine, the stern look in her eyes is unmistakable.
She goes to speak and then stops, picking up her black purse and unzipping it.
Drew pulls out a black pen and then a small notepad, and I burst into hysterics.
“Why did you bring stationery to your birthday meal?”
I don’t get a response, only a click of her pen and a quirked brow.
“Rule one”—she begins scrawling—“Never address the publicist as Baby.”
Thoroughly entertained with the way she’s lecturing me like I’m not the next biggest talent in hockey, I revel in the way it oddly puts me at ease.
“Rule two: From now on, all official meetings between the client and publicist must take place in the First Line PR offices.”
I wait for her to finish writing before clarifying, “This isn’t an official meeting. We’re here to celebrate your birthday as friends.”
I’m ignored once more.
“Rule three: The client should never show up at his publicist’s apartment without her prior knowledge or approval.”
I nod my agreement since I hate unannounced visitors too.
When Drew bites the end of her pen in thought, my throat runs dry, and I pick up my water glass to take a sip.
“Rule four”—her eyes lift to mine, mirth sparkling in her blue irises—“There is to be no judgment about what the publicist eats or drinks. That includes any working lunches the client and publicist might share or events they might attend together.”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand. “Why would you come to events with me?”
Drew blows out a breath, although I see the subtle pink flush as it stains her cheeks.
“Why wouldn’t I? I’ll be responsible for writing speeches you give and curating your overall image.
The best way to gauge how you’re received in the public eye is to witness it firsthand.
Obviously, I’ll be keeping a low profile. In fact, you’ll barely know I’m there.”
If you’re wearing dresses like the one tonight, I’ll definitely fucking notice.
I smile and nod my agreement. “Makes sense, I guess.”
“Rule five: The publicist will require the client’s credentials and around-the-clock access to all of his social media accounts.”
I balk. “Why the hell do you need that?”
She throws me a confused look and holds out a hand.
“Does that really need an explanation? To be honest, you might as well give me your usernames and passwords now so I can log straight in and start posting on your behalf. Our content creator already has a brief from me. First, we’ll start with a post that confirms how happy you are to be joining the Rogues since there isn’t any sign of that from you. ”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “No way. I run my social media. If I hand it over to someone, then people will notice a change.”
Drew’s chuckle is dark. “That’s precisely what we’re aiming for. We’re looking to create a more personable profile with less of the jackass attitude your followers have come to expect.”
I’m sure I look offended, and that only makes her laugh more.
The server returns to our table, and Drew orders … a fucking Caesar salad?!
“Have you turned vegetarian?” I quickly ask before the server leaves.
Drew’s eyes dart from the server to me. “Um, no. I just didn’t want—”
“We’ll go with two filet mignons, please. Both medium rare,” I confirm.
The server nods his head and makes a note. “Any side dishes to go with your filets? I can recommend the garlic greens.”
I can feel Drew’s eyes as I say, “One of each dish, please. My girlfriend has eclectic taste buds.”
“Wait.” Drew stops the server before he leaves, a menacing grin overtaking her expression. She picks up the menu again and flips to the dessert section at the back.
Don’t you fucking dare.
“And my boyfriend has a sweet tooth, so I’ll just go ahead and order our desserts right now.”
The server looks bemused but complies.
When her eyes stop scanning, I know my low sugar diet is fucked.
“A slice of your strawberry cheesecake, please.” She snaps the menu shut and hands it to the server. “With extra cream.”
Silence falls between us before she simply smiles and picks her pen back up.
“Rule six: To add further to rule four, the client shall never order food on his publicist’s behalf. Not unless he wants to be diagnosed with early-onset diabetes, courtesy of desserts being forced down his throat.”
I grind my molars at the prospect of eating the first dessert I’ve had in years. Hell, I don’t even have an Advent calendar at Christmas.
“You can eat the cheesecake,” I tell her.
“Well, I guess you’re enjoying two filet mignons and a ridiculous number of sides then, aren’t you?” she volleys back.
More silence to go with our stalemate.
“My username is the email you sent the meeting invite to.” I begin speaking after a few beats. “And my password is”—I lean forward—“Will has a really nice ass that I want to Kiss twenty-five. Capitalized W and K with the number expressed in numerals.”
Drew doesn’t even respond as she writes down my login details and pulls her phone from her bag, opening the Instagram app first. “Is that the password for all of your accounts?”
I nod once. “Yep. Apart from Facebook because I fucking hate that site and don’t use it.”
When she finishes entering the password, I hit Accept on a verification email, which grants her immediate access.
“Holy fucking shit,” she whispers, lips parting to form an O. “Will, you have over ten thousand notifications here. When was the last time you checked them?”
I shrug. “While you were getting changed. But I also have over a million followers, and I posted while I was waiting for you to get back home, so …”
She navigates to my profile grid and opens the post I made over an hour ago.
The first image is a picture of her white front door and nothing else.
“When you’re stood up for a date,” she reads the first line of the caption and swipes to the next image, which is a selfie I took of myself, smiling, “and you showed up, looking like this.”
To be fair, I look fucking hot, and that post one hundred percent warrants all the engagement it’s getting.
Slowly, Drew closes her eyes. “For the love of God, William, what if someone recognizes my door?” She tips her head across the room at our server.
“Or a certain someone starts talking about you showing up with me tonight as your girlfriend.” She pokes her pointer finger at her chest. “We both have famous names in hockey.”
“No one is going to talk, and if people can decipher your white front door from millions of others in the world, then they deserve their five minutes of going viral for being a smart-ass.”
She grumbles something inaudible just before a private message notification drops down. I can’t see the whole thing, but it’s obviously from a girl, and it’s for sure a booty call. The kissing-face emojis and wet symbols give it away.
Drew drops the phone to the table with a clatter. Almost disgusted. “Are you hooking up via Instagram?!”
I shrug and act like I’m not a little embarrassed.
“It’s safer than me giving girls my number. If we hook up one night, then this is a better way to keep in touch for round two.”
All the blood drains from her face.
“Rule seven: Moving forward, the client will never ever share private messages with random members of the public, especially for hooking-up purposes.”
“Then how will I … you know,” I ask, waggling my brows, which I know she hates, “arrange to meet up after a game or something?”
Drew throws up a hand. “I don’t much care. So long as it can’t be screen-grabbed, it’s not really my concern.”
“Are we done with the rules?”
“Yes,” she confirms, looking more than pleased with herself. “For now.”
Picking up her phone, she takes a picture for her own records and hands me the piece of paper. “This is for you. Sign it and keep it as a point of reference.”
I take the black pen she was using, sign at the bottom, and fold it in half. “Is this the usual contract you make with your clients?”
Drew makes a face akin to pride. “No. And I’m sure you’ll be stoked to know that you’re one of my more unique—and high-maintenance—clients.”
Drew’s List of Rules for William “Hotshot” Jones
Rule one: Never address the publicist as Baby.
Rule two: From now on, all official meetings between the client and publicist must take place in the First Line PR offices.
Rule three: The client should never show up at his publicist’s apartment without her prior knowledge or approval.
Rule four: There is to be no judgment about what the publicist eats or drinks. That includes any working lunches the client and publicist might share or events they might attend together.
Rule five: The publicist will require the client’s credentials and around-the-clock access to all of his social media accounts.
Rule six: To add further to rule four, the client shall never order food on his publicist’s behalf. Not unless he wants to be diagnosed with early-onset diabetes, courtesy of desserts being forced down his throat.
Rule seven: Moving forward, the client will never ever share private messages with random members of the public, especially for hooking-up purposes.
I, the client, hereby agree to comply with all of the above.
W. Jones #25