Page 12 of Sweet Surrender

“Forward everything to me… names, phone numbers, text messages, emails. I want all of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” She spoke quickly, completely self-assured. To her, this was another day at the office.

“It’s as simple as that?” I couldn’t help but feel skeptical, especially considering our history. “You’re going to handle all of it?”

“That’s what you’re paying me for,” she reminded me. “Let’s face it. We don’t need you shooting yourself in the foot by making some jackass statement.”

She was determined to torture me. Still, the idea of being able to ignore the harassment wasn’t bad.

“In case you’re looking for an expert opinion, it’s better to keep any rebuttal short and sweet. Something like this.” She cleared her throat, then read from her screen. “Mr. Goldsmith is deeply troubled by the accusations made by an anonymous source. It pains him to be denied the opportunity to face his accuser, but he is firm in his unequivocal denial.”

“That doesn’t sound bad,” I had to admit.

“Yeah, well, it’s not my first rodeo.” Still, she was frowning when she looked away from the computer. “I need one thing from you.”

“You mean besides a paid invoice?”

She didn’t bother pretending to enjoy my joke. “Are the accusations false?”

I winced, feigning injury. “That hurts.”

“I doubt it,” she fired back, unflinching, unblinking. “I need to know. If I release this statement, is it the truth? I am not about to destroy my professional integrity for you.”

Indignation flared in my chest. So much for the sense of peace I had enjoyed after my night at the club. “You know it’s not true.”

“No. I don’t know if it’s not true. And don’t get all pissy on me,” she snapped when I rolled my eyes. “Don’t act like you’re some saint who would never swing his dick around like it’s the first prize for a lucky winner. You’ve been pretty free and easy when it comes to who you sleep with. Is it really surprising knowing people might wonder how much of a story like this is true? You mean to tell me you’ve never slept with anybody you’ve done business with?”

“I don’t shit where I eat.”

She stared at me expectantly before frowning. “That’s all you have to say? You don’t shit where you eat?”

That was the most I trusted myself to say. She had no idea how much self-restraint I was practicing, bearing the weight of her judgment. “I’m not interested in getting into semantics with you,” I replied as evenly as I could. “I said it, I meant it. That’s going to have to be enough.”

“So I won’t be telling a lie when I deny this on your behalf.”

“That’s right.” I maintained eye contact, refusing to look away. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

With a short nod, she pulled her computer closer before typing. “If you approve of the verbiage, then we’ll go public with the statement.”

“I have to hand it to you,” I observed while she tapped on her keyboard. “You can be pretty cold when you feel like it.”

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers continued to move over her keyboard after she turned her attention to me. It was unnerving as fuck. “Am I supposed to weep and wail? Shake my fist at how cruel the world can be? If that’s what you’re looking for, you came to the wrong place and need to find a new public relations genius to handle this for you.”

“Genius?” I muttered before snickering. “Let’s not give ourselves more credit than we deserve.”

“Keep talking,” she invited, abandoning her MacBook and turning her full attention to me. “Talk your way out of this life-saving assistance I’m offering. And enjoy trying to explain it to everyone because I’ll be damned if I make excuses for your poor decisions to the people we know.”

“Right. Enough.” She was giving me a headache. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, grunting. “Just tell me what you need me to do so we can get this over with.”

“Keep your social calendar clear. I’m going to line up a few events where you can make appearances.”

“Like what?” I groaned.

“Charity events, first and foremost. That’s the low-hanging fruit. Beyond that, what do you think about setting up a sports clinic for underprivileged kids? An event where a handful of pros meet up with them, take a few photos, and show them how to swing a bat. That kind of thing. It will all have your name on it.” She waved a hand. “I’ll deal with the details.”

“Whatever. As long as I don’t have to spend much time with the brats.”

“Way to go,” she muttered. “Be sure to say something like that in public. That’s the kind of attitude people consider likable.”

“I don’t give a shit if I’m—” I caught myself before I finished the statement, but it was too late.

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