“My plans don’t involve you. Only the legal documents to hire a surrogate concern you now.”
He sighed. “Okay. When do you need them?”
“ASAP.”
I’d reached out to an organization that helped connect parents to surrogates and expected a list of possible women shortly.
He stood. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Good.”
When the door closed behind him, the phone on my desk beeped.
“Mr. Erikson. Your appointment at Chez Monceaux is in an hour.”
“Thank you.”
Another annoyance.
I had more important things to worry about than the bullshit my publicist needed me for. But I’d hired her at Harper’s urging, not for my image but for the company’s.
But somehow, the publicist got the idea that me and the company were one and the same, so I was often having to do interviews or show off my home or some other bullshit.
Why the fuck did people care how I lived and how did that convert to business success?
“You’re an A-1 Scrooge, Bran,” Harper had told me. “The publicist is to help prevent you from pissing people off and tanking the business.”
I wasn’t in business to win a popularity contest, but I knew that Harper’s beauty and charm had helped me get a few deals, so likability had something to do with success.
So, with reluctance, I left my office and headed to the upscale boutique to buy a new suit to wear for an upcoming photoshoot for a financial magazine.
“Mr. Erickson, welcome back. Henri will be right out to help you,” a woman who worked there greeted me. I wasn’t sure if she was a manager or owner. “Can I get you a drink? We have that scotch you like.”
I shook my head. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Of course. Henri will be just a moment.”
I nodded and looked around the boutique. My scan stopped when I saw Anne appear from a back room. She saw me, narrowed her eyes, and made a beeline for the door.
Feeling contrary, I stepped into her path. “You’re not running away on my account, are you?”
She looked at me with wary eyes when I’d expected an angry glare. Her gaze shifted to the woman who greeted me. The woman pursed her lips at Anne. It wasn’t a positive exchange.
Anne held up an envelope. “I’ve come to get my last paycheck.”
My first thought was to make fun of her having to work in retail and then getting fired.
But something in her expression stopped me. It made me almost feel sorry for her.
Instead, I seized on the opportunity to find out how Harper was doing. “How is Harper?”
She studied me. “Fine, now that you’re out of her life.”
Her words were like a stab to the heart. I rethought my nasty retort about her job and getting fired.
“I want you to give her a message,” I said instead.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t work for the postal service.”