Chapter 17
SNICKERS
The Scotch burns smooth as it slides down my throat. The McKittrick’s bar serves the good stuff—perfect for meeting my former manager and drowning out thoughts of tomorrow’s PR nightmare.
“You’re actually on time,” Rick says, sliding onto the stool beside me. After managing my DJ career for two decades, he knows me too well. “You must need a drink, and an ear to bend, pretty badly.”
“Right you are. All is not well in CEO-land. With full permission from my board, our PR exec is forcing me to play house with the self-righteous princess who hijacked my Rock Center appearance. Apparently, a fake engagement will save the company’s reputation.”
“Ah, your vintage-rocking savior.” Rick scrolls through his phone, chuckling as he lands on the footage of that fateful night. “I caught your so-called performance shortly after it happened. The media’s having a field day. Even your old Snickerdoodles fan club is buzzing about it.”
I nod. "In a curious turn of fate, my company's now incorporating them into the charade. They've drafted a 'doodle' to follow me around along with the rest of the media entourage."
I knock back what's left of my Scotch and signal for another.
"I didn’t know how good I had it, Rick. Packed clubs. Private jets. Gorgeous women at my beck and call.” I exhale sharply. “Now I spend my nights writing business proposals and reading profit-loss reports. Or I'm supposed to, anyway. What the hell happened?"
Rick gives me a long look. He doesn’t have to say it. We both know the answer.
My brother's passing happened.
"Look at the bright side," Rick says. "You can always come back. Saint-Tropez and Ibiza would love to have you back. I could organize the contract as soon as?—"
“No,” I say, hating the words even as I force them out. “My DJ career is over. I should’ve ended it a decade ago. I’ve run from my destiny long enough.”
Rick groans. “Oh man, what kind of bullshit is this? You’re really copping out? Joining the establishment? I thought it was just a phase. That after your brother’s funeral and a few weeks of the board bossing you around, you’d come back to where you belong.”
“I’m the only Woodward alive. It’s up to me to see the company succeed.”
“Yeah, well, it could be worse. Tell me about this crazy PR plan.”
I give Rick the highlights.
“You’re right. It sounds ridiculous.” He leans forward. “So why’d you agree?”
I think of Harrison Blake in the boardroom, warning me about the looming hostile takeover. About my responsibility to guide two hundred years of Woodward history into the future. And of course, the financial consequences of my refusal.
“Didn’t have a choice,” I mutter. “Besides, it’s just a few days of posing at New York’s cheesiest romantic sights. Pet adoption tomorrow, some cooking class, ice skating—Clare’s got it all mapped out.”
“And your vintage princess?”
“Getting paid well enough to play along. Even though she doesn’t seem to like it any more than I do. She's a smirky little thing. A real thorn in my side.”
But even as I say the words, I remember the tease in her eyes when she challenges me.
And how sweet she tasted in my bed that memorable night.
“She actually asked me yesterday if I’d ever sent a greeting card,” I say, the memory bringing fresh irritation.
Rick chokes on his drink. “And what did the great Sheldon Woodward III say to that?”
“I reminded her that while she was organizing vintage buttons, I was selling out the hottest clubs across Europe.” The whiskey warms my chest. “She said at least vintage buttons bring people joy.”
“Ouch. You know, for someone you can’t stand, you remember her words pretty clearly.”
I ignore the suggestion in his tone. “Tomorrow she’ll be dressed up as a Manhattan socialite. She’ll pretend to be madly in love with me.”
“Could be worse, my friend.”
“I don’t see how. In any event, this is just a PR stunt to keep the board happy and the company stable. In a few weeks, she’ll take her paycheck and go back to whatever vintage hole she crawled out of.”
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Clare with tomorrow’s detailed schedule. And a reminder about the morning interview with that New York Herald gossip queen Vanessa Sinclair.
“Look, I got to jet,” I say, slapping cash down on the table.
Rick stands, pulling me in for a manly hug. “Try not to fall in love with her for real. The Snickerdoodles will be crushed.”
“With that pipsqueak? Not a chance."
But as I head home to my empty penthouse, I can’t shake the memory of her fierce eyes challenging me across Clare’s conference table.
Back in my apartment, I pour one final drink. When I meet Princess Pip tomorrow, Clare’s team will have turned her into the neutral polished corporate asset I saw in that photo she sent.
But something tells me those fierce eyes will still flash with judgment. Will still challenge every move I make.
I drain the glass and head to bed. After all, I’ve got a fairy tale to star in tomorrow. Even if my princess would rather throw her vintage shoes at me than play along.