The Dirty Truth

“Since when have you cared what anyone thinks of you?”

Her point is fair, though I can’t begin to answer the question. While the internet is littered with all varieties of opinions about me, Elle’s words cut deeper than all of them combined.

With a single article, she undermined my entire life’s work and reduced it to garbage.

If she only knew . . .

“You’re, like, emotionally bulletproof,” Scarlett says. “That’s what Grandma always used to say.”

Yes, my mother did use to say that about me. Though it was never intended to be a compliment, I learned to use it to my advantage, and it’s served me well.

“Oh my God.” My niece bolts up, the issue of Made Man carelessly wrinkled between her petite hands. “It’s her! It’s the lady from this morning.”

Flipping the magazine around, she all but shoves it in my face, and sure enough, it’s Elle’s column from February of this year . . . “The Dirty Truth about Valentine’s Day.” I feast my gaze on the professional headshot of Elle tucked in the corner of her write-up, a flawless portrait of a gorgeous brunette with glossy waves and juicy red lips tugged into a sultry, sexy grin.

Years ago, I selected her based on her writing prowess alone, and when readers began writing in about how much they loved the column and how they wanted to see the face of the woman behind it, I had Tom book her a photo shoot with full hair, makeup, and wardrobe. From then on, I instructed my team to include her photo alongside her column.

The readers went nuts—understandably so.

Not only were Elle’s articles witty, personable, and on point, but her beauty was second to none. She wasn’t so stunning that she felt plastic and out of reach for the average reader, but she was, without question, a bona fide head turner. The quintessential girl next door with an edge. Almost immediately readers wrote in asking if she was single, and I even fielded a few calls from associates all over the world wanting to know if I’d arrange a meetup for them next time they were in town.

I refused, of course, in the name of boundaries and professionalism. But deep down, I couldn’t stand the thought of someone I knew having the one thing I couldn’t.

I drag in a hard breath and clench my fist around my tie.

Elle Napier has royally screwed me over, not just professionally but personally.

With her sharp, pointed chin and piercing ocean eyes, she owns you without even trying—though I get the sense she’s not exactly aware of the kind of power she wields with a single glance.

“Wait . . .” Scarlett’s nose wrinkles. “That lady said she quit her job today . . . you said your best writer just quit. She writes for your magazine. Are you the jerk boss?”

“Smart girl.” I head for the doorway.

Scarlett cackles. “Idiot uncle.”

“I’m going to change. Why don’t you get cleaned up for dinner? We still need to finish our conversation from this morning.”

“And after that we can discuss me moving back to Whitebridge for the summer.”

Halting in my spot, I lift a hand. “Not a fucking chance.”

“Two weeks?” She clasps her hands together. “Just two weeks to see my friends?”

“I can’t even trust you alone for two hours.”

“Then come with me.” She cocks a hip and folds her arms. “You can supervise me, and you’ll know everyone I’m with at all times.”

“You can’t pay me enough to set foot in that town ever again.” It was bad enough I had to fly to Nebraska for the court hearings and proceedings in my three-year battle to gain full custody of Scarlett. Compound that with a shitty childhood and two decades of bad memories, and I’ve had a lifetime’s fill of Whitebridge.

In an instant, her eyes begin to well, her lower lip quivers, and she tips her chin down.

My chest tightens.

I can’t do tears.

And I especially can’t do them from my niece, who’s been through unimaginable circumstances in her short fourteen years.

“Scarlett . . .” I drag my palm along my five-o’clock shadow. “We’ll talk over dinner, okay?”

She dries her tears on the back of her hand, and I realize I just gave her hope. False hope. The Fyre Festival equivalent of hope, as Elle Napier would say.

“So you’ll think about it?” she asks.

“I said we’d talk.”

“So that’s a no . . .” The lilt in her voice is gone, replaced with a quaver.

I need to figure out what to do with her this summer—anything to avoid sending her back to that shithole town.

“You’re better off here than there, Scarlett. I promise,” I say. While this stage of our relationship is still shiny and new, until she learns to trust me, my words are empty. Sound and wasted air. I’m hopeful that with time she’ll learn that I did what I did for her. For now, I’m just some long-lost uncle who ripped her out of the only home she’d ever known and dropped her into a strange and unwelcoming universe. I don’t blame her for resenting me. “Now, I’m going to get changed. Meet me in the dining room in ten. I asked Bettina to make that dish you liked from the other week—those filets with the balsamic reduction.”