“I don’t have any details. It’s probably not a big deal, but—”
“Got it. I found it on Der E Air’s Instagram. Derian is an actor, a chocolate lover, and dad to an adorable mutt named, Fox,” Charlie read. “He’s cute too. The dog and the man…and oh, my God. What the actual hell, Dad? You said Trent was a one-time oopsie-daisy, not an ongoing cleanup on aisle WTF.”
I snorted. “Nothing happened, Char. We sipped water and talked about…nothing in particular.”
He didn’t bother hiding his exasperation. “No one cares what you talked about. It’s not the content that matters. It’s the fact that you were seen together. Why am I explaining this to you? This is your area of expertise. You’re the one who taught me to control the narrative. I can’t do that if you’re undermining me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I swiped my hand through my hair. “A twenty-minute conversation with a waiter in a bar isn’t going to undermine anything. Even if he has a side job with you.”
“I can’t take any chances. Gray and Justin’s impending nuptials were just announced this morning, and the Internet is blowing up.”
Fucking fabulous.
“This was a courtesy call. I repeat…my conversation with a waiter isn’t going to affect them.”
“It could. Every little story has the possibility of becoming something more than it is. If you’re featured as a grizzly side story, you could absolutely create a PR distraction for me that I don’t have time for. And we agreed on the bodyguard idea. You said it was a good one.”
“It is,” I hummed.
And oh wow…the wheels were turning. I could feel the beginning kernel of a brilliant zinger promo idea for The Last Drop begin to take root. It was a crumb. Nothing more. But something told me the bodyguard story had future potential.
“I’m paying that guy a lot of money to stay out of Hollywood,” Charlie continued. “I can’t control the message if you drink water with him. Cripes, it would be better if you’d had a damn margarita. And they do make a fabulous jalapeño one…but that’s beside the point.”
Oh, boy. I could be here all day, I mused, glancing at my watch. “The point is, my PR people want to counter it with the Pierce Story.”
Charlie gasped and went silent for a moment. “That would be a disaster. For me.”
“We’re on the same page. Look, I’m just passing on what Trish told me. In normal times, the Pierce Story is a nice ego boost and I love that it sells video games, movie tickets, and all kinds of Baxter goodies, but—”
“Is that why you went to the restaurant? To sell Baxter shit?”
“What? No,” I replied tersely.
“Then why did you go there? Why that restaurant? Why him?”
Because your dad and Justin’s interminable happiness got under my skin, and they want to get married on the worst fucking day ever. And there I was, at the end of my mental rope thinking that the last time I felt good was when I was with Trent Mackay.
I couldn’t say any of that to Charlie without upsetting him. And to be honest, I didn’t know what to think of it myself, so I went with, “It was no big deal. Don’t make it into one.”
Charlie sighed heavily on the line. “I need you to be up front with me, Dad. If you’re somehow using him to promote your movie, tell me. If you just like him and you’re interested in seeing more of him—I can spin that too, but…please let me know if we have a conflict of interest. My plan only covered one sighting. If he keeps popping up, the press will be all over him, which means I’ll need to make him into an actual bodyguard.”
I wasn’t sure what Charlie meant by “actual bodyguard.” I was stuck on the first thing he’d said.
Was I using Trent? I didn’t think so. But I wondered if I was subliminally drawn to him for inspirational reasons. Not sexy fantasy stuff, although he had provided serious jack-off material. Maybe he was promotional inspiration, and I just hadn’t seen the full picture because I’d been caught up in personal drama.
Hmm. Something to think about.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I have nothing to report, Char. Other than you’re making my head hurt. I have to go. I love you and I promise not to drink water with hunky waiters.”
“So, you do like him.”
“Good-bye, Char.”
“I’m going to have to come up with something. I’ll run it by you at the party this weekend.”
Right. The party.
I stepped away from the plant and signaled to the intern nearby to hold the door for me.
“Great. See you Saturday.”
I hung up and hurried for the elevator. My phone immediately buzzed with an incoming call and lit up with the slew of texts I hadn’t gotten to today. I had far too much on my plate and was seriously in danger of dropping a ball or two. Yet I felt oddly serene.