Chapter 17
It turns out Luke and I suck at picking photos.
“This is such crap,” Luke says, pointing at my laptop screen as we sit in my office the next day, watching the latest video from You Oughta Know.
“Notice Bailey’s left hand holding on to her bag,” she says, in front of a green screen, her mousy-brown hair curled and hanging around her shoulders, the picture blown up behind her. “This is classic defensive posture.”
“She doesn’t look defensive at all,” I yell at the screen, like I’m watching football and the ref just made a bad call.
“Then in this one”—the background picture changes to the one of them sitting at a booth in the coffee shop. Luke and I both agreed that it was a good, casual photo. “See how River’s smile looks just slightly forced? Like he’s trying too hard?”
“I told you he looked constipated,” Luke says, shaking his head at the screen.
“This is PR at its best, my Sunbeams. And my sources confirmed this, saying the studio is worried about this next season and the fact that their two major stars aren’t getting along.”
“What sources?” Luke asks. “She’s making this up.”
“I hate her,” I say, pausing the video. I can’t watch any more of this trash. It’s viral already, with people reposting and making stitches.
Luke pulls his phone out of his pocket. “That’s it. I’m reporting her account again.”
“It’s pointless,” I say. She’s not violating anything except my ability to do my job.
“Yes, but it feels proactive,” he says.
I wish it would work, because getting You Oughta Know banned from social media would probably solve most of my problems. But she’d just start another account, and everyone would follow her there. These accounts are like cockroaches. They keep coming back.
Luke slumps back in his chair, the one I pulled up next to mine so we could watch the video.
He swipes a hand down his face. “I’m not sure we can get ahead of this,” he says. “Everything we try is being torn apart.”
Just as he says this, a new message arrives in my email from Victoria, like we’re being kicked when we’re already down.
“Look,” I say, pointing at my screen.
It’s just two lines: “This isn’t working. What’s next?”
“What’s next?” Luke points at my screen. “Your guess is as good as mine, lady.”
He looks at me, a serious expression on his face. “Do you have any interest in running away to Aruba with me?”
I scrunch my nose. “Too hot.”
“Okay, then the coast of France. Or anywhere, really.” He drops his head back, dramatically. “Maybe I just need a different career.”
I’m about to ask him if he’s interested in being a mattress tester but think better of it. Luke would run with that. He’d have way too many jokes.
I let out a breath. “I’ve got to fix things for my client first; then maybe we can get out of here.”
“That’s probably the right way to do things,” he says, looking at me. “River’s a good guy. I can’t leave him hanging.”
“Is he?” I ask, curious. I don’t know all that much about River except that he does an amazing job of putting on pointy ears and playing one of my favorite characters.
Luke nods. “Yeah. Great guy. Good heart.”
I stare at him, unconvinced. “He started this whole PR war,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says, rubbing his chin with his fingers. “But he pushed back on a lot of what I pitched when the blind item came out. The stuff that did go out—he’d always ask me afterward whether it made Bailey look bad. He wanted to make sure he never crossed a line.”
I snort. “You definitely crossed some lines.”
Luke bobs his head side to side. “That’s your opinion.”
I roll my eyes at him. If I think about it, though, every move they made was in response to something that happened first.
I think I forgot that there’s another person—a human with feelings—on the other end of a PR war. I get so laser focused on my side that I forget there’s always more to the story, more nuance to the truth.
“Well, right now both of our clients look stupid. So what should we do?” I ask.
“Short of getting Bailey to fake getting back together? I have no idea,” Luke says.
“At this point, I don’t even think that would work.”
Luke stands up and walks out in front of my desk, pacing back and forth in the small area. It reminds me of old times, when we used to work together. I didn’t have an office back then; we had cubicles next to each other. He’d pace out in front of them when he was brainstorming.
“I feel like everything we’ve done so far has been reactive,” he says after a minute.
“Yeah,” I agree. We’ve been responding to every fire instead of preventing them. The blind item, the reconciliation rumors, the boycott threats, the body language breakdown. Every move we’ve made has been damage control, not strategy.
“We need to change that.”
“I agree. But how?”
“We need the show to be front and center,” he says.
“Yes, but we tried that with the statement, and it backfired,” I say.
He nods. “We didn’t really give them the show, though. We just promised that River and Bailey were committed to it.”
“Right.” I nod. “What if we could get some behind-the-scenes content?”
Luke stops pacing, turning toward me. “That’s a great idea.”
“Silverline is a closed studio because they don’t want any leaks. But what if we could get them to give just a little?” I say.
It would have to be benign things, nothing that would give away any spoilers. No pictures from the actual set and no script reveals.
Luke snaps his fingers. “They’re doing a read-through of the first couple of episodes on Thursday. What if we get a picture of them side by side, their scripts in front of them.”
“We could put it out Friday morning,” I say.
“Let’s run it by Victoria.”
Victoria doesn’t let us post it on Friday.
She wants it out by Thursday instead. I’m pretty sure she loved the idea, even if her initial email response was only one word: “Yes.”
But the fact that she wanted to fast-track the post made it seem like she was pleased with this plan.
We used the staff photographer, who sent us the picture in black and white. Luke didn’t like it at first, but I saw the art of it. Just Bailey and River, sitting together at the reading table, caught mid-laugh while holding on to scripts, the placards in front of them reading “Kaelric” and “Elora.”
The show’s official social media account posted it first, and then with the studio’s approval, both Bailey and River shared it to their personal accounts.
By Thursday afternoon the post is everywhere, and most importantly, it’s working. #EloraandKaelric is trending, which is exactly what we wanted—to get the focus on the characters and not our clients.
As long as this keeps going well, I think Victoria will let us do more behind-the-scenes content.
“I feel like we need to celebrate,” Luke says.
We’re in my office, and he’s sitting across the desk from me. We’ve been tracking Brandwatch and pulling up posts from delighted fans. Some of them were literally screaming at the picture of Bailey and River.
You Oughta Know said that she wasn’t getting excited yet, but that she didn’t hate the picture. So we took that as a win.
“Got any champagne with you?” I ask. It’s too soon for that, since we both know how quickly things can change. But a small celebration is warranted.
Luke pats the pockets of his jacket and pants. “Shoot, I think I left it back at my office.”
I laugh. It’s probably more boisterous than the joke warranted, but I’m feeling sort of euphoric right now. We needed this win.
“Should we maybe get some dinner?” Luke asks, eyebrows raised. “I’m starving.”
“Oh,” I say. “I mean, I was—”
“Come on, Archie,” he says. “Pulse is paying.” Now he’s wiggling his brow.
I was going to go home and eat some leftovers and watch more Kingdom of Flame and Moonlight with Sam. But a free dinner does sound enticing.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I say.
We take Luke’s car—the same white Audi he drove when he worked for Harrow & Finch—to a place he says has the best burgers he’s ever had.
It’s actually an Italian restaurant I’ve never been to.
But on Tuesdays and Thursdays you can get an off-menu burger, but only at the chef’s counter, which has six barstools along a narrow ledge facing the open kitchen.
Close enough to see the flames, smell everything cooking, and watch the chefs plate each dish.
“Okay, this is really good,” I say after eating a bite of the burger and swiping some of the aioli that dripped onto my chin with my napkin.
As a serial dater, I can say with full confidence that burgers are not a good choice for a first date. They’re too messy. Same with spaghetti or anything off the bone. It’s best to stick with something you can eat with a knife and fork.
So it’s a good thing this isn’t a date. Plus, I was starving by the time we arrived, and sitting here smelling all the amazing food they were cooking behind the counter made me ravenous.
Translation: I’m scarfing this thing down.
“I told you,” Luke says, glancing over at me, holding his burger in both hands.
There’s not a lot of space at the counter, so we’re sitting close together, our arms brushing up against each other as we eat. It’s . . . intimate. And would be a fun date, if this were a date.
I’ll file it away for a third date when this kind of food is more appropriate. That is, if I ever get a chance to go on a third date again. At this rate, that may never happen, since I’ve had zero time for even a first date.
His phone buzzes on the counter, just as he’s finished his burger and I’m too full to have another bite.
He turns it over to look at it. “It’s my mom,” he says, showing me the screen. “Is it okay if I take it?”
“Of course,” I tell him.
She called when we were at Common Ground too. Each time he’s answered her calls without hesitation. It’s sweet, actually.
I’ve ignored calls from my family so many times during work that they’ve stopped trying. Mostly. They’ve resorted to texting, mainly, with Gigi sometimes sending me out-of-context GIFs for fun. Her favorite is one of Kermit the Frog sipping tea. Just because.
I try not to watch Luke as he talks to his mom, but I can’t help but notice the way he smiles and laughs and listens intently as she talks. It’s kind of endearing. I like a guy who loves his family.
Not that I like Luke. I can appreciate it, though.
“Sorry about that,” he says when they hang up. “Her dishwasher went out again. I’ll have to go over on Saturday and fix it.”
“You can fix dishwashers?” I ask, picturing him sitting on his mom’s kitchen floor in his suit while he works. Until he came over to my apartment the other day in jeans and a T-shirt, it was hard to picture Luke in anything but a suit.
Not that I picture Luke all that often.
“Of course. I’m very handy,” Luke says, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk.
I shake my head, the double entendre landing just how he meant it to.
He chuckles. “Someone’s got to do it,” he says. “For so long, she did all that stuff. She was Mom and Dad for most of my life. Now it’s my turn to help her.”
“That’s commendable of you,” I say.
His brow pinches. “Commendable? Is it that hard to compliment me, Archie?”
My cheeks heat. That did sound a little robotic. I’m still getting used to feeling something other than animosity toward Luke. Old habits die hard.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “It’s . . . very sweet.”
He smiles. “That felt like it hurt you to say.”
“It really did,” I laugh.
He nudges me with his shoulder. It’s a thing I’ve noticed he does. Especially since sitting side by side has become a habit of ours as of late. On my couch, in the conference room, and now . . . here.
“You better be careful,” he says, picking up his soda, condensation dripping from the bottom. “Soon you’ll be telling me how amazing I am at my job.”
I scowl. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“Come on,” he says, bumping me lightly with his shoulder again.
I let out a frustrated-sounding breath, but we both know it’s fake. “Fine,” I say. “You’re not terrible at your job.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
“Try not to let it go to your head,” I tell him.