Page 7 of RAKEish

“Wait. Don’t tell me,” Lucy said saucily. “Let me guess. You’re pitching an extended guide to spicing up your sex life with mood socks?”

He chuckled. At least it wasn’t another penis joke. Mood socks had been the topic of last October’s issue. His homage to the comeback of the mood ring. “Lucy, my love, it’s this season’s top ten perfumes that drive a man wild.” The response rolled off the top of his head. He never preplanned before arriving at a pitch meeting. Long ago, he’d discovered his best ideas arrived at the last minute.

“Just men? Or will those perfumes work their magic on a woman as well?” Mandy asked, picking up on the conversation as he passed her cubicle.

He slowed to answer Mandy. “Absolutely, but don’t waste your money. Your gorgeous smile is all you’ll ever need.”

Tom, a graphic artist, glanced up as Scott rushed past his desk, the hum of a graphic tablet filling the air. “I’d read that.”

A chorus of me-toos rang out in the background as the sharp tap of Scott’s newly polished shoes echoed around him. Shoes he’d learned to shine himself at the age of twelve. It had been a lesson in humility dished out by Mildred, his stepmother, after Scott had pulled one too many pranks on the Queen of Shiretopia during her and Father’s first year of marriage.

Scott raised a hand in appreciation. “Thanks, everyone.” He rounded the corner to the final hallway that would take him to the meeting where he would indeed pitch perfume if nothing else sprang to mind.

Or perhaps he’d go with Lucy’s suggestion: An extended guide to spicing up your sex life with mood socks.

What would Doc have to say about an article on perfume that drove men wild? She’d despised the one he’d done on mood socks.

He could just hear her now stepping up on her broadcast soapbox and saying something pithy like: Drive a man wild with your perfume, you have him for a night; drive him wild with your brain and you have him for life.

Bloody hell. She wouldn’t be wrong. On that thought, he stopped outside the doorway of the meeting room known as the Fishbowl, so called because of its four glass walls. He quickly counted heads. Eleven. Once again, he was dead last to arrive. Bollocks.

He yanked at the knot of his tie, plastered a smile on his face, and entered the lively conference room where stylish individuals milled around. The way they were talking and laughing and sipping beverages, you’d think it was Friday night and not Monday morning.

“Late again,” Frankie Peterson, Editor-in-Chief of Naked Runway, snapped without even glancing in his direction.

“Sorry,” Scott said. “I’m—”

“Must I continue to repeat myself?” Frankie pivoted toward him. “Apologies are for the lily-livered, Mr. Landshire. I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to them.” If her frigid tone hadn’t properly indicated her mood, the sharp lift of her perfectly stamped brows emphasizing her cool disdain did.

“Lily-livered. Got it.” He resisted making a statement of it never again happening because it would. People who scheduled anything of importance on the first day of the week puzzled him more so than the archaic rules that governed the life of royalty.

He took a seat next to Ziggy, the magazine’s outlandishly fun fashion editor. The guy’s personality and sense of style could only be described as flamboyant on steroids. And if that wasn’t reason enough to befriend him, the fact Ziggy had more stories than Shiretopia’s Mother Goose librarian had sealed the deal. Last night, Ziggy had shared a snippet about the time the magazine’s old editor-in-chief had been caught banging one too many of his employees in the breakroom and had been fired.

Feeling Frankie’s gaze still upon him, Scott returned his attention to his boss. “Have I mentioned how lovely you look today?”

Her icy demeanor didn’t thaw. If anything, it gave him freezer burn.

Scott offered her his best look of repentance. The same look he’d given Father so many times as a teenager after disappointing him with his antics. Antics usually meant to get under the skin of Queen Mildred.

Frankie drummed her dragon red nails on the table and studied him. “What won’t happen again is your wearing red to a pitch meeting. Did you not read the memo?” She stared pointedly at his tie, which was black with row after row of tiny white dots broken up by oversized red dots.

America and its bloody love of memos. Or maybe it was just a Frankie thing. “I read the one that said ties were now required. I must have missed the one banning red,” he said as he removed his tie.

Back home, Scott had had a butler who’d informed him daily of what he was expected to wear, where he was expected to go, and what he was expected to say at speaking engagements. Such was the life of the Ambassador of Goodwill. A role assigned to all future kings of Shiretopia.

While Scott didn’t miss the hand holding, or the constant censuring, there were times, like now, he realized he’d still not picked up the habits of reading emails, or listening to voicemails, or arriving at engagements in a prompt fashion. Probably because he’d been too busy embracing his reputation as a rake. A title Mum had given him out of affection, but which had been later used as a weapon by Mildred.

Frankie’s nostrils flared. “I do wonder how much longer you will be employed by Naked Runway.”

Pushing aside thoughts of Mildred, Scott reached for another dose of charm. “Now, now, stop frowning.” He turned to fully face his boss. “It would be so sad to see that beautiful face marred with Scott-induced frown lines.” He’d used this line many times over the years to—if not melt away—at least soften his stepmother’s anger. A woman who despised him and his American mum. “I promise to do better.”

Frankie’s lips briefly quirked before they flattened. She whipped her attention toward her assistant. “Jane, the meeting should have started ten minutes ago. Why has it not started? Must I fire you as well?”

Scott loved his job, but he didn’t do it because he needed the money. He’d been Mum’s sole beneficiary. And he didn’t do it because of the bevy of lovely ladies the job placed at his fingertips, as he had a very un-rake-like rule against dating colleagues. He did it because he loved to write. A gift from Mum. She and Father had met while she’d been summering in Shiretopia, writing a novel. A romance. A passion she’d stopped pursuing once she and Father had eloped, thus saving Father from the arranged marriage that had awaited him.

“So sorry.” Jane, a perky brunette with puppy dog eyes, rushed forward, and handed a wicker basket to the beauty editor who had the misfortune of sitting to Frankie’s right. That spot, along with the one on Frankie’s left were, without fail, the last two to be chosen. Scott always sat on one side or the other. “Okay, Frankie’s Peons, phones in the basket. Let’s begin our breath work,” Jane said as the basket went around the table. “Inhale…exhale.”

Scott relinquished his phone and passed the container to Ziggy. Then, while glancing at the others around the table, he inhaled and exhaled as told. Unlike him, everyone else had their eyes closed. Even Frankie. Scott smiled in appreciation at the collection of beauty.

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