Chapter 3 Gwen
GWEN
My dad and I tended to text every day in the morning on my way to work. It was a game for me, finding new, ridiculous baseball memes to make him laugh. He’d retired from playing professionally when I was a baby, but baseball was still a huge part of his life.
Too funny! He texted back in response to the meme about sports mascots break dancing that went over his head. You doing okay?
I paused outside my office building to try to find the right way to answer him.
Was I okay? No, I wasn’t. Work sucked, my social life was nonexistent, and I had nothing to look forward to aside from watching my sourdough starter, Bubbles, come to life.
But I couldn’t let on to my dad that I was feeling low.
He’d been doing really well for the past several years, but it was an ingrained habit to keep from stressing him out.
Doing amazing! I typed back to my dad. Just had a couple of great intake meetings, one in Denver and one in Vegas. We’re about to sign that gamer who went on a rant about the genetic superiority of men over women. He’s an absolute dick, but it’s an incredible opportunity for me.
Truth was my bosses had insisted on signing him. The only reason I even got sent on the assignment was because the guy got a kick out of compelling a woman to schlep all the way to Vegas to fawn over him. No way would they keep me on his account.
Not that I wanted it, exactly, but it would be nice to have my boss believe even a little in my ability to do key parts of my job. Alan had no problem sticking me with the behind-the-scenes research and leg work, but they expected me to hand everything over once the client signed.
Good for you sweetie! It’s about time they started valuing your work!
I wished it were true. Damn, I missed working for bosses who actually respected my work.
On the other hand, staying at my old job hadn’t been an option.
It didn’t matter how valued my boss at Bryant we’d both seen and acknowledged one another with a sneer. I strode over to where he was waiting by the door.
“How was Vegas?” Harrison asked.
“You’re assuming I made the flight,” I sniffed as I walked through the door he was holding open for me.
“I know you did. I saw the manifest.”
I spun to face him. “Are you stalking me?”
He laughed in a way that made me feel stupid for even suggesting it. “No, I was merely prepping for the fallout of you not making it. I had visions of calling a press conference about how the Jetliner Jackass was at it again.”
“Ah, so you’re embracing the nickname,” I fake-smiled sweetly at him as we walked through the grand marble foyer. “Love that for you.”
“Speaking of stalking, maybe I should be accusing you?”
I pulled my badge out of my bag with a huff and held it up in front of Harrison’s face. “I work here. What’s your excuse?”
“I have a meeting, which you’re currently making me late for.”
He strode away from me, but I wasn’t done with him. There were a dozen businesses in the building, and none of them were even remotely related to private jets, unless…
Ugh, please no.
“With who?” I jogged over to where he was waiting at the reception desk.
He ignored me and focused on the receptionist. “Harrison Ashford for Alan Gentry at McPherson Media.”
“No!”
It slipped out, and I slapped my hands over my mouth when both the receptionist and Harrison turned to stare at me.
“What’s the problem?” Harrison asked me.
“I work at McPherson,” I said. The dread flooding through me nearly made me nauseous. “You absolutely cannot seriously be considering them for your Rushie war.”
Why was the one person I wanted to avoid suddenly everywhere?
“Wonderful,” Harrison said, thick with sarcasm. “And here I thought today couldn’t get any worse. I am, in fact, considering them. They’re meant to be real professionals.” The look he gave me made it clear he was now questioning that.
“Ah, so you weren’t expecting someone on their staff to be so…how did you put it?” I tapped my chin and pretended to think. “Messy and frantic, I think you said?”
The receptionist let out a shocked exhale, her eyes bouncing between us as we bickered.
It made sense that he was meeting with Alan. The company did have a great reputation for a certain kind of PR disaster. I happened to know that Harrison’s situation was the kind of thing Alan was almost guaranteed to bomb.
I knew how to make the Rushies stand down, but no one at my company listened to me, so it didn’t matter.
That meant I’d get front-row seats for even more Harrison slander. Perfect, this was going to be fun!
The receptionist finally stopped gaping at me and returned her attention to Harrison. She was typically gorgeous, probably another out-of-work actress, but Harrison didn’t seem to notice.
“I just need your ID for the visitor badge, Mr. Ashford,” she said, batting her lashes at him.
I understood her flirting. Harrison was hot as hell, and you could practically smell the money wafting off him. Shame about the shitty attitude, though.
“Seriously?” Harrison grumbled, sneaking another look at his watch. Yeah, he really didn’t like running late. “You already know my name. Does this place think I’m planning to impersonate myself?”
“It’s just policy, sir,” she replied, the wattage of her smile dimming.
I wanted to tell her not to waste her time with him, but Harrison’s true nature would take care of getting that message across for me.
“Fantastic,” he muttered as he pulled out his wallet. “Because nothing says efficiency like taking a photo for a meeting I’ll be out of in ten minutes.”
He practically threw his license at the poor woman. She was fully frowning at him now, and I couldn’t resist butting in to gloat at his expense.
“Aw, Flyboy, I didn’t realize waiting five minutes was such a herculean task for you. Should I grab you a juice box and some crayons to pass the time?”
Harrison turned to me. “Flyboy?”
“If you prefer the other nickname, I’d be happy to use that one.”
I glanced over at the receptionist and caught her tiny grin. Yeah, she looked like a Rushie; she got it.
“Um, I also need to take your photo, for your badge,” she said tentatively as she pushed his ID back across the desk. “Please stand here, in front of the camera,” she gestured.
“You literally just had my license in your hand,” Harrison thundered. “You know I’m who I say I am. This isn’t the Pentagon—what’s with all the security?”
“Are you seriously giving her grief for building policy?” I asked him, pointing to the woman who was now cowering in her chair. “She’s doing her job, let her take the damn photo.”
“It’s policy,” she echoed meekly. “Just stand in the red box taped on the floor.”
Harrison heaved a sigh and walked to the designated spot.
“Smile!” I coached cheerfully.
He glanced over at me with narrowed eyes right as the flash popped, practically snarling.
“Just one more second,” the receptionist said as she pulled the badge off the printer and affixed a clip to it. “Please wear this at all times while you’re in the building.”
I leaned closer to scrutinize the photo as she handed it to Harrison and broke into a laugh so loud it echoed around the lobby. The blurry black-and-white image made him look feral.
“Oh my God, that photo is amazing,” I said, still laughing. “Great shot! When you’re finished with the badge, can I have it? I could use it to scare away small children and animals.” And looking at it would make a helluva cold shower without actually getting wet.
The receptionist winked at me. “Mr. Ashford, you’re on floor thirty-two.”
He grimaced as he glanced at the badge.
“Looks like we’re sharing an elevator up,” I said over my shoulder as I walked away. “Unless you want to stay down here and take another glamour shot for your modeling portfolio.”
I could hear Harrison grumbling as he followed me to the elevators. The moment we stepped on and the doors shut, Harison yanked the badge off and stuffed it in his pocket.
“Uh-uh,” I chastised. “You need to wear that at all times.”
“You need to stop talking,” he said while scowling at me. “Am I going to be subjected to you in the meeting too?”
I shrugged just to fuck with him. I already knew the answer was no, but why not stress him out for as long as possible? Then again, I also knew the only person at our firm who could figure out how to help him was me.
Might as well gloat a little.
“Before you go in, I want to make sure you understand that everything they’re going to suggest will be the wrong approach.”
Harrison frowned at me. “And why do you say that?”
“It’s a firm full of men. That’s fine for the athletes and corporate conglomerate clients, but your scenario needs a different vibe.”
“Do you know what they’re planning?”
I snorted. “Not officially. My bosses would consider you above my pay grade. But I’ll bet you a hundred bucks Alan is going to be waiting for you in the reception area in a Hermes tie with an airplane pattern on it, because that’s the kind of sucking up he thinks is subtle and charming.
“And he’s going to suggest that you do some sort of vague social media apology video where you read a script that’s carefully written so you don’t actually apologize. He’ll probably want her music playing in the background. And you’ll have to wear a tiara.”
His head jerked back. “What? Why?”
“You really don’t know?” I asked, incredulous.
“That’s Scarlet’s signature accessory. All of her fans wear them.
Her song, ‘Straighten Your Crown’…that doesn’t ring a bell?
” I paused while he stared at me like I was speaking a different language.
“Hey, queen, don’t be down, lift your head up and straighten your crown,” I sang.
The elevator felt smaller with each floor we climbed, Harrison’s presence filling the space until I was hyperaware of everything.
My stupid voice, the way he rolled his shoulders when he was annoyed, how his eyes had gotten darker as I’d sung those lyrics.
I caught myself staring at his mouth and forced my gaze away.
His expression relaxed into a hint of non-hatred, then shifted back to disdain.
“Never heard it.”
“Clearly,” I frowned at him. “Which is why you’re in this mess in the first place.
Anyway, if you go with their plan, it’ll backfire, big time.
The fans will sniff out a non-apology immediately, especially because whichever song Alan and his gang choose to play in the background will almost inevitably be wrong.
Most of them have double meanings, so even if it’s something like ‘Happy Again,’ which sounds perfect from a title perspective, it’ll be a bomb because it’s about how if her ex disappears, she’ll finally feel happy again. ”
I waved my hand. “And the tiara? Straight male Rushies aren’t supposed to wear them because it looks like appropriation and mocks her gay fans.
Straight male Rushies all know that they signal support by wearing flat caps, like the backup dancers in ‘Dressed Up for You.’ And speaking of dancers, I bet they’ll want you to try either the ‘Peaches’ TikTok dance at the end of the video, or the one for ‘Solitary Surprise.’”
“You said you’re not a fan, but it sure sounds like—”
“I said I wasn’t a Rushie. I didn’t say I wasn’t a fan,” I countered. That level of fandom was a time commitment and a half. Frankly, I didn’t know how Rushies managed to get anything else done.
The elevator bell chimed, and as predicted, Alan and his team were congregated in the lobby, already drooling. They didn’t even acknowledge me and instead went straight to fawning over Flyboy.
Harrison shook Alan’s hand then shot a glance at me as I headed for my desk.
“Hermes,” he acknowledged, sounding reluctantly impressed.
I walked backward, smiling at him, and mimed placing a crown on top of my head.