Page 10 of One Billion Reasons

“She calls you ‘Merciless No Longer.’” George sounds way too pleased with this development.

“I can still fire you.”

“But you won’t,” they respond cheerfully. “Look at the byline. It’s the same reporter who’s been putting out articles about Jonah.”

There have been a spate of articles recently that seem designed to take Jonah down. Or maybe it’s pure coincidence.

“Want me to let him and the PR firm know?” George is already typing an email.

“Yes, please. Thank you. And will you make sure the plane is available for the wedding? The small one. I’ll also need a hotel room. If it’s the most lavish one they have, even better.” I give a vicious smile, the one I’m known for. The one that featured in photographs after my father’s death. It doesn’t reach my eyes.

“And your date?”

“Lane Overton.”

“The wedding photographer? Are you that desperate? Maybe try that cute girl from the mailroom who has a crush on you.”

“She’s barely 25,” I growl. “And no. It has to be someone I trust.”

George’s brows go up. “You trust Lane?”

“She’s an old friend from college.” That’s the easiest way to describe it, though it leaves out a lot of detail. “She’s the only one who would say yes.” Especially if she thinks she has to.

“Some women would consider it a huge red flag that you have no female friends.”

“Thank you for that,” I say blandly.

“Anytime.” They turn back to their computer and start speed-typing an email.

George is nothing if not efficient. And thank god for them. Because going to this wedding is the last thing I want to do. One week in Montauk, a place full of nothing but painful memories. The good ones were mostly with the woman who’s about to walk into my office. If George can convince her, that is.

5

Lane

I stare up at the office building, a mix of awe and trepidation roiling my stomach. I don’t come to Midtown Manhattan very frequently. Almost never, really. A cab blares its horn, and a cyclist curses. I wince and step nearer to the building. This is not my world. I stick to my outer boroughs. And lately, I have very little reason to go to Manhattan. Mallory and I have been apartment hunting further and further out, with no luck, and I’ve been filling in at the coffee shop between shoots.

But Katie’s terrible bookkeeping and flighty behavior have landed me here. I can’t believe what a mess she left our records in. Goddammit, Katie. She left to take that world tour a few weeks ago, except this won’t be just a trip. She’s not coming back. The business is mine, assuming I don’t run it into the ground first. Which Katie has pretty much already done. I play with my necklace while I rehearse what I’m going to say. At this point, I’m just psyching myself out, but I really don’t want to go inside. This building looks evil. I’m here to plead my case to some rich client’s assistant. George demanded a meeting, presumably to pressure me to provide a refund. We don’t give refunds, but George insisted. And because I have no record of who George is, I have no way of knowing which shoot this refund is related to. George hasn’t been forthcoming, and the address I found for this glass and steel building didn’t give me any information.

I pull up our business bank account again. Still $107.87. Same as it was yesterday. And the credit card balance is $1533. Katie left me with a proper mess when she deserted New York. She absconded with her share of the money from our last shoot, and even though it was only $1000, it would have paid off the new lens we purchased. If I ever see her again, I’m going to have a hard time not screaming in her face. I press a fist to my stomach. I’m going to be sick. If I had the money to give for the refund, I would. Anything to avoid the inevitable confrontation I’m about to have.

My email pings, and I can see from the subject line that it’s a client canceling. Another one. We had three shoots scheduled for this month and two have already canceled. The one I did yesterday was a family shoot. Cheap and easy. Enough to pay rent, but not enough to pay off this credit card bill or make a dent in the amount I need to save for the deposit on our next apartment. If we find one, that is.

The thought of leaving my cozy apartment makes my chest pinch. The stability and peace of our little home are everything to me after years of having nowhere to call my own. After my parents died, Liam and I lived on campus and never went home for holidays, until Miles found out and practically kidnapped us that first Thanksgiving, so we’d have no choice but to attend. My throat tightens at the thought of those holidays. Miles’s mom, Louise, his smiling Dad, his lovely aunt Grace. I miss them. They welcomed us like we were their own kids. Miles welcomed Liam like he was a brother. I shake the thought away. I have other things to worry about.

Panic swirls in my stomach. I’m not a businesswoman like Katie. I’m deliberate and dreamy, not sharp and sharky. She brought the clients in, I just took the photos. My palms start to sweat, and I wipe one hand down my loose jeans. Why did I wear jeans? I look like a college art student, not a professional. Maybe they’ll believe me when I say I don’t have the money. A hysterical laugh bubbles up behind my lips.

If I can’t change things, and fast, I’ll be out of business and back at the coffee shop full-time. My whole body rebels at the thought of those sweaty, thankless days. They sap my creativity like nothing else, and the minimum wage I make isn’t enough to ever make a dent in my student loans. Student loans I’m still paying at age 30. I have to figure this out. And the first step is refusing this refund, no matter how much this client intimidates me. And I know they will, just based on this building and the tone of the emails from George.

I straighten my spine and walk into the building. My sneakers squeak on the marble floor. I imagine all the polished women who must stride through this lobby every day, their heels clicking purposefully as they head for elevators.

The security guard looks askance at me but directs me to the fiftieth floor, where I’ll be greeted by someone from the unnamed client. The elevator punches upward with a force that makes my stomach dip, and I lean weakly against the wall. Just one minute to get myself together. Speaking to clients isn’t something I enjoy, particularly when they’re angry. Katie always handled that aspect.

When I exit the elevator, it’s to a sun-filled lobby and a person waiting not-so-patiently for me, judging by the wrinkle in their brow.

“Ms. Overton? I’m George.” They extend a green-manicured hand, and we shake. I get slight hints of a spicy cologne before they turn on their heel.

“Follow me.”

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