Page 15 of Baiting His Bride

He’s well aware public relations isn’t just what I do. It’s who I am, and what I love. Carson is set to take over Bennett Media Group, and even though he keeps sending covert messages, like flowers and familiar tortes, my way, I need to move on.

Just not this past weekend.

“Why?” Luke asks, leaning back in his chair.

“Something came up.” I wave off his question as I focus on the report in front of me. “Now, where were we?”

“How’d the fellow take it?” Luke presses. “After he sent that enormous bouquet of white roses, a month ago?”

I reach for my glass of water. I might have let folks around the office, including these two, believe the flowers, which happened to be the same shade of those in the bouquet I’d carried at the wedding, were from a man a friend had introduced me to. Which, in effect, is true. The fact no note was attached helped my cause. But though I knew who really sent them, a question remained. Why?

Before I can respond, Cooper pipes up. “And the strawberry cake, last week?”

“It was a torte,” I snap. And a delicious one at that. And not from the potential date, as everyone assumed. It was from Carson. The sticker on the bakery box was from the resort.

“My bad,” Cooper says, holding up his hands.

“Look,” I hedge. “I’m sorry. If you must know, I’m having second thoughts about dating, right now.”

I thought the whole getting over a man by getting under another was a good idea. Until push came to shove and Saturday rolled around. And I didn’t think it was fair to lead on a man when I’m still thinking about my last…fling.

It sounds ridiculous, even to me. But before either of them can chime in with further interrogation, Luke’s PA knocks on the door then pushes it open.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says, shooting a glance back out into the hallway. “But there’s a delivery here…for Ms. Stone, and it seems important.”

My stomach drops as she steps aside, and a man wearing a full-on, old-fashioned newsie getup and a broad smile strolls in. He’s sporting a tweed jacket, flat cap, and suspenders hooked onto corduroy trousers over a striped shirt, with a leather satchel slung over his shoulders.

“Ms. Mallory Stone?” the man asks, his bright eyes landing on me.

“This oughta be good,” Cooper murmurs, standing up and clapping his hands together as he welcomes the man farther into the corner office.

“I have a delivery for you." The man retrieves a cream-colored envelope with my name handwritten on the front from his bag with a flourish. “Hot off the press,” he adds with a wink as he ceremoniously holds it out for me, flat on the palm of his hand.

“Thank you,” I murmur automatically, glancing at Luke and Cooper, who seem delighted by this absurd situation.

“I’ll wait,” he adds, stepping back.

“Okay…” I slip the single piece of paper out of the thick envelope. As I unfold it, a familiar photo strip flutters to the floor. I snatch it up, scanning the unsigned note on the back, written in neat block handwriting. This is a copy for you. I’d never relinquish the original.

I drop the photo strip back into the envelope before either of my friends asks to see it. But the sight of it reminds me how Kelsie asked if anything was up between Carson and me a few weeks ago. I assured her there wasn’t, but questioned why she was bringing him up out of the blue, months after her wedding.

She said it was because Carson hadn’t been seen with another woman since then. And how Sawyer had mentioned his friend seemed off and busier with work than usual. Said how we seemed to hit it off, if the smiles we were sporting in the pictures from the photo booth were any indication, and wondered if something was going on between us. I assured her that wasn’t the case.

But now, I turn my attention back to the present, unfolding the letterhead from Bennett Media Group, with its logo embossed at the top of the page.

“What does it say?” Cooper asks.

Luke elbows him. “Give her a minute, will you?”

My heart pounds as I read the brief statement then glance up. “It’s a press release. An announcement that tomorrow, at noon, Bennett Media Group will be holding a press conference.”

My hand trembles but before anyone notices the fluttering I stuff the letterhead back in the envelope along with the pictures.

“Can Bennett Media Group expect your presence?” the delivery man asks, his eyebrows raising expectantly.

What he’s really asking is, Can Carson Bennett expect your presence?

I shouldn’t go. There’s nothing that can be announced that will substantially change anything. Carson’s the golden boy, groomed to take over a media conglomerate. Which means he’ll always be press. And I’ll always be PR and a conflict of interest, who’d be a distinct liability to the reputation of his family’s company.

---