CHAPTER 3
Forty-five minutes later, Scott made his way through the bustling cubicles located in the trenches of Naked Runway, his brain replaying his conversation with Doc. He was late for a staff meeting, in part thanks to the number of people who had stopped him on the way to his office to mention they’d heard him on Monday Musings.
“What’s today’s pitch?” asked Lucy, a gorgeous redhead.
“Oh, you know—”
“Wait. Don’t tell me,” Lucy said saucily. “Let me guess. You’re pitching an extended guide to spicing up your sex life with mood socks?”
He chuckled. At least it wasn’t another penis joke. Mood socks had been the topic of last October’s issue. His homage to the comeback of the mood ring. “Lucy, my love, it’s this season’s top ten perfumes that drive a man wild.” The response rolled off the top of his head. He never preplanned before arriving at a pitch meeting. Long ago, he’d discovered his best ideas arrived at the last minute.
“Just men? Or will those perfumes work their magic on a woman as well?” Mandy asked, picking up on the conversation as he passed her cubicle.
He slowed to answer Mandy. “Absolutely, but don’t waste your money. Your gorgeous smile is all you’ll ever need.”
Tom, a graphic artist, glanced up as Scott rushed past his desk, the hum of a graphic tablet filling the air. “I’d read that.”
A chorus of me-toos rang out in the background as the sharp tap of Scott’s newly polished shoes echoed around him. Shoes he’d learned to shine himself at the age of twelve. It had been a lesson in humility dished out by Mildred, his stepmother, after Scott had pulled one too many pranks on the Queen of Shiretopia during her and Father’s first year of marriage.
Scott raised a hand in appreciation. “Thanks, everyone.” He rounded the corner to the final hallway that would take him to the meeting where he would indeed pitch perfume if nothing else sprang to mind.
Or perhaps he’d go with Lucy’s suggestion: An extended guide to spicing up your sex life with mood socks.
What would Doc have to say about an article on perfume that drove men wild? She’d despised the one he’d done on mood socks.
He could just hear her now stepping up on her broadcast soapbox and saying something pithy like: Drive a man wild with your perfume, you have him for a night; drive him wild with your brain and you have him for life.
Bloody hell. She wouldn’t be wrong. On that thought, he stopped outside the doorway of the meeting room known as the Fishbowl, so called because of its four glass walls. He quickly counted heads. Eleven. Once again, he was dead last to arrive. Bollocks.
He yanked at the knot of his tie, plastered a smile on his face, and entered the lively conference room where stylish individuals milled around. The way they were talking and laughing and sipping beverages, you’d think it was Friday night and not Monday morning.
“Late again,” Frankie Peterson, Editor-in-Chief of Naked Runway, snapped without even glancing in his direction.
“Sorry,” Scott said. “I’m—”
“Must I continue to repeat myself?” Frankie pivoted toward him. “Apologies are for the lily-livered, Mr. Landshire. I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to them.” If her frigid tone hadn’t properly indicated her mood, the sharp lift of her perfectly stamped brows emphasizing her cool disdain did.
“Lily-livered. Got it.” He resisted making a statement of it never again happening because it would. People who scheduled anything of importance on the first day of the week puzzled him more so than the archaic rules that governed the life of royalty.
He took a seat next to Ziggy, the magazine’s outlandishly fun fashion editor. The guy’s personality and sense of style could only be described as flamboyant on steroids. And if that wasn’t reason enough to befriend him, the fact Ziggy had more stories than Shiretopia’s Mother Goose librarian had sealed the deal. Last night, Ziggy had shared a snippet about the time the magazine’s old editor-in-chief had been caught banging one too many of his employees in the breakroom and had been fired.
Feeling Frankie’s gaze still upon him, Scott returned his attention to his boss. “Have I mentioned how lovely you look today?”
Her icy demeanor didn’t thaw. If anything, it gave him freezer burn.
Scott offered her his best look of repentance. The same look he’d given Father so many times as a teenager after disappointing him with his antics. Antics usually meant to get under the skin of Queen Mildred.
Frankie drummed her dragon red nails on the table and studied him. “What won’t happen again is your wearing red to a pitch meeting. Did you not read the memo?” She stared pointedly at his tie, which was black with row after row of tiny white dots broken up by oversized red dots.
America and its bloody love of memos. Or maybe it was just a Frankie thing. “I read the one that said ties were now required. I must have missed the one banning red,” he said as he removed his tie.
Back home, Scott had had a butler who’d informed him daily of what he was expected to wear, where he was expected to go, and what he was expected to say at speaking engagements. Such was the life of the Ambassador of Goodwill. A role assigned to all future kings of Shiretopia.
While Scott didn’t miss the hand holding, or the constant censuring, there were times, like now, he realized he’d still not picked up the habits of reading emails, or listening to voicemails, or arriving at engagements in a prompt fashion. Probably because he’d been too busy embracing his reputation as a rake. A title Mum had given him out of affection, but which had been later used as a weapon by Mildred.
Frankie’s nostrils flared. “I do wonder how much longer you will be employed by Naked Runway.”
Pushing aside thoughts of Mildred, Scott reached for another dose of charm. “Now, now, stop frowning.” He turned to fully face his boss. “It would be so sad to see that beautiful face marred with Scott-induced frown lines.” He’d used this line many times over the years to—if not melt away—at least soften his stepmother’s anger. A woman who despised him and his American mum. “I promise to do better.”
Frankie’s lips briefly quirked before they flattened. She whipped her attention toward her assistant. “Jane, the meeting should have started ten minutes ago. Why has it not started? Must I fire you as well?”
Scott loved his job, but he didn’t do it because he needed the money. He’d been Mum’s sole beneficiary. And he didn’t do it because of the bevy of lovely ladies the job placed at his fingertips, as he had a very un-rake-like rule against dating colleagues. He did it because he loved to write. A gift from Mum. She and Father had met while she’d been summering in Shiretopia, writing a novel. A romance. A passion she’d stopped pursuing once she and Father had eloped, thus saving Father from the arranged marriage that had awaited him.
“So sorry.” Jane, a perky brunette with puppy dog eyes, rushed forward, and handed a wicker basket to the beauty editor who had the misfortune of sitting to Frankie’s right. That spot, along with the one on Frankie’s left were, without fail, the last two to be chosen. Scott always sat on one side or the other. “Okay, Frankie’s Peons, phones in the basket. Let’s begin our breath work,” Jane said as the basket went around the table. “Inhale…exhale.”
Scott relinquished his phone and passed the container to Ziggy. Then, while glancing at the others around the table, he inhaled and exhaled as told. Unlike him, everyone else had their eyes closed. Even Frankie. Scott smiled in appreciation at the collection of beauty.
The breathing continued for five in and out breaths. At least Frankie didn’t require her peons to remove their shoes like the breathing scene in How to Lose a Guy In Ten Days.
“Open your eyes.” Jane pointed toward the woman sitting on Ziggy’s left. “Isabella, Frankie would like to start with you today.”
Scott was intrigued by Isabella P. Chance. Partly because she was married to a guy with a frightful reputation around town, and partly because she had a mysterious relationship with Frankie, as in Isabella showed no fear toward the woman. None. Even Ziggy was terrified of Frankie.
“Of course.” Isabella pushed back her chair and stood. She wore a man’s white dress shirt tied in a knot at the waist, a black leather miniskirt, and stilettos. Red.
He chuckled silently. Were the shoes a power-move on her part, or had she failed to read the memo as well?
“I’m still working through my series on street wear makeovers,” Isabella said.
“Of course you are,” Frankie drawled as if Isabella had just announced she planned to dress the homeless for a charity function and then write about it. “Please, someone else go. Someone who is not trying to ruin our magazine with their mediocrity.”
Isabella smiled prettily and took a seat all while semi-subtly scratching her nose with her middle finger. Even though she was the editor of the digital side, she still pitched for the hard copy side.
“I love that series,” Scott whispered, leaning forward to see Isabella. “I’m glad there’s more to come.”
“Me, too,” Annie, an editor who sat on the other side of Isabella, chimed in. Annie was a new mother, and as such looked bone tired, but oh-so-happy. She and Isabella worked closely together.
He made a mental note to send Annie flowers this month. Last month, he’d sent her a year’s supply of diapers. It couldn’t be easy being a single mom, and he felt compelled to make her life a little smoother. Of course, he sent the gifts anonymously. “How’s the little one—”
“Scott, your mouth is moving. You must want to be my next victim,” Frankie snapped. “Pitch already.”
He cleared his throat in preparation to pitch the perfume idea, then recalled how he had imagined Doc would react to such a column. With disdain. Just once he’d like to have a column she couldn’t hate.
Luckily, his brain did the thing his brain did and provided him with a new topic. “How to fall in love with the right per—”
Frankie flashed him her shut-the-fuck-up palm.
He cocked his head and waited. It was always like this when pitching to the woman.
“Jane, please explain the problem to Scott,” Frankie ordered.
Jane, who’d taken a seat in a chair behind Frankie, popped up. “Scott, if you’re not standing, Frankie doesn’t hear a word you say.”
Frankie sat next to him. She could hear just fine. “Right. I forgot.” Scott stood. “I said—”
The palm again.
“Honestly,” Frankie drawled, “that story is better suited for our February issue. Not our June. Do better.”
She wasn’t wrong; he’d have to pitch the perfume one. “My other idea—”
Frankie palmed him again. “Scott, I”—she drew out the word I like it contained twenty-five letters and multiple syllables—“will choose what you write next.”
He raised a brow. This was a first. Frankie wasn’t one to assign topics. She preferred to watch her editors and reporters sweat until they landed on an idea she didn’t hate. “And that is?” Scott studied her for hints.
“I’ve been informed that the oh-so-blah Dr. Stone once again dissed your column this morning on her stupid little radio show.”
Diss?Another new American word to research. “She’s a nobody with a stick up her arse.”
Ziggy chuckled. “Scott said arse.”
Frankie tutted at Ziggy, cutting his amusement short. “This is not a laughing matter. Dr. Stone continues to bring into question the value of Scott’s column. Naked Runway has spent a considerable amount of money and energy hyping Scott as the rakish prince who’d ditched his duties to come to America.”
Scott gave Frankie a sincere smile. She might be an annoying boss, but she’d kept up her end of their agreement when it had come to pushing him as a rake to the public. He was banking on the publicity of his bad boy behavior to help his cause back home. “And I appreciate the fact that it is because of you and your faith in my column that RAKEish is a sensation.”
“I’ve approached legal with the possibility of a lawsuit for slander,” Frankie said in a no-nonsense tone. “If they contact you, inform them of the emotional suffering you’ve had as a result of that woman.”
Scott stilled. While he wasn’t a fan of Doc, he had no interest in seeing her in a messy legal battle. “A lawsuit may be bad optics,” he said tactfully. “We wouldn’t want social media to spin it that we are Goliath going after Cinderella.”
“That is a lily-livered statement if ever I’ve heard one,” Frankie snapped, slapping her palms on the table. “Should the threat play out in court, I’m certain our publicity department can spin the narrative in a direction that creates sympathy for us. For you.”
Scott remained mute. What had he been thinking insinuating Frankie was wrong? The last thing he wanted was for Dragon Lady to go after his nemesis just to prove she was right.
“If we’re going to threaten lawsuits,” Ziggy said, jumping into the mix, “I would think we’d hold off and see if her prediction about the future viability of his penis pans out.”
Scott cursed under his breath.
“This is the first I’ve heard about this,” Frankie said. “Explain?”
Ziggy grinned like the Cheshire Cat that Scott had had as a child. “Dr. Stone told Scott she’d had a nightmare about him. When he asked her what it was, she told him she couldn’t reveal the content of it because she’d not yet had breakfast. And according to her, there’s a superstition that when one reveals a nightmare before eating breakfast, the nightmare comes true. But our boy Scott insisted she tell him anyway.”
“Dear God, could you be any slower getting to the damn penis point,” Frankie said.
“Her nightmare was that his dick fell off, and he sprinted to her door asking for help to get it reattached.”
“Fuck,” Frankie muttered, giving Scott a look of horror. “Keep me abreast as to the status of your penis, so I can keep legal informed.”
This caused laughter all around.
“Please do, Scott,” Annie said. “We all want to know the minute it happens. There might even be a pool going on the exact date.”
Scott smiled good naturedly at his colleagues, while worried for Doc. The last person he’d want to have on his bad side was Frankie Peterson. “I can assure you my cock is not in danger of falling off, and Doc’s views of me are skewed due to the fact she can’t attract men. No one takes her I-hate-Scott game seriously. There is no need for a lawsuit…of any type.” Animosity aside, he felt bad for the woman who’d been weirdly passed over solely on her looks, which weren’t bad if you liked the earthy girl-next-door type. Not that beauty was everything, but it was a lot. Or at least it was in the beauty industry.
“If social media is anything to go by, and it is,” Isabella said. “Why don’t we lean into the whole fight between Lux and Scott? The last I checked, people are taking sides. There’s Team Doc. And Team Penis—I mean Prince.” She paused and winked at Scott. “While the memes concerning Dr. Stone are not flattering, right before I walked into the meeting, Team Doc was winning by a small margin as being on the right side of their conflict.”
“She’s winning?” Scott had to sit with that for a moment. He wasn’t used to losing. “People believe my column is rubbish?” Was he letting Mum down with his attempt at honoring her love of writing? Would she be ashamed?
“Her students love her,” Isabella told Scott. “They are going all in on her behalf.”
“Interesting,” Scott muttered. “The woman too uptight to smile in her profile picture is loved by her students.”
“She is,” Isabella said. “I’d be happy to dedicate some time on our Naked Runway podcast toward the hate battle between the two of you to help tip the polls in your favor.”
“You want to purposefully fan the flames of a social media dogfight?” The idea made Scott aghast.
“I do love the idea of a good social media war,” Frankie mused. “It could assist in our defamation lawsuit.”
“But that’s not what—”
“Scott,” Frankie said, interrupting Isabella’s rebuttal, “you will do a few posts defending your column and asking Dr. Stone to change her mind about you.”
“How exactly do you suggest I make that miracle happen? Doc’s opinion of me lives in quicksand. If it moves at all, it will be down, never up.”
“That’s what she said,” Ziggy said into his hand, pretending to cough.
“Must I really explain?” Frankie asked.
Scott nodded. “I think you must.”
Frankie rolled her eyes as if to say it was lonely being the only intelligent one among them. “Of course she won’t change her mind. Instead, she’ll stupidly double down, giving legal plenty of evidence with which to sue her for defamation.”
He had to get Frankie off this whole idea of suing Doc. “What if the social media blitz ends up with me as the victor? Will you drop the threat of a lawsuit at that time?”
“You will not win, because our dear Isabella will inevitably fail in her endeavor to fix things.”
A loud scoffing noise erupted from Isabella. “Says who?”
Frankie looked directly at her. “Darling, you’re simply not that good at your job.”
“Bite me,” Isabella replied, before tearing her gaze away from Frankie and giving Scott a soft smile. “I’ve got your back. You can count on me.”
Scott swallowed hard. He’d bet his left nut his whole life was about to blow up, and Doc would be collateral damage.