Page 3 of Just My Fake Husband

He’s had magazine articles written about him. If there were a “50 Most Beautiful People” list for the philanthropy world, Gabriel Tate would be on it, guaranteed. He has clout in the industry. People either love him or want to be him. “I have to ask. What could you have possibly done that you need PR help for?”

I’ve gotten people out of jams before. Tate International hasn’t had too much bad press, but when they have, I’ve spun things.I’ve helped them get back on their feet in the public eye. When Sebastian was vying for a big award not long ago, the Deca Areta, I worked hard to help him curate the image of a winner beforehand.

He didn’t win. But that’s beside the point because it didn’t have anything to do with me. It was a numbers thing. But boy was he the poster child for the Deca Areta! And when he didn’t get it, we worked on shoring up his good image despite the loss. It was fine.

My point is, I’m good at what I do.

But Gabriel’s not answering me, and it’s frustrating.

“What did you do?” I hold up my palms. “No judgments from me, okay? I used to work in Vegas. I’ve seen it all.”

I don’t mention that “working in Vegas” actually meant that I did about one-fourth of my internship there before I realized that our second cousin couldn’t take care of my older sister the way she needed. I did what I had to do and quit.

I take care of my sister. It’s what I do. No regrets.

His lips curl to one side and he furrows his brow. “I won’t be discussing that with you.”

I lean back in my chair, silencing my phone for the fourth time since Gabriel arrived. It’s my sister. The multiple calls thing is typical but as always, I get a knot in my stomach when I can’t answer. I just hope she’s not rifling through the boxes packed up with all our stuff again.

Yes, we’re moving. Do I know where yet? No. No, I do not.

“I can’t help you then, Mr. Tate.”

“I’d like to hire you to fix some things. That’s what you do. I’ve seen it.”

Ah. He must be referring to the public introduction of one Mr. Benson Kilpack, his half-brother. I was on the team, the task force to introduce the long-lost son of Gabriel’s dad. It was an emergency, all-hands-on deck sort of deal. The PRdepartments of both Foundations and Tate International made an announcement publicly and there’s been no negative chatter about the situation, thank goodness.

See? I told you I’m good at what I do.

“I can’t fix what I don’t know. You’ve gotta tell me what happened, Gabriel. Come on.” I flash a smile. “Don’t be shy.”

His jaw hardens and he lowers his chin. “There’s no need to know. Just write up some things for the media. Now that I’m back, word’s going to get out and I need to be prepared.”

“You’re back from where? I can’t spin something I know nothing about.”

“Europe.”

“What part?”

He pauses and then after a disgusted sigh from me he says, like a curse, “Prague.”

“What happened in Prague?”

“It was over a month ago. What happened isn’t relevant anymore.”

I give one quick shake of my head and start typing quickly, dictating as I go along. “So something big, bad, and terrible happened a month ago and you can’t say anything, even though I could probably just google it and find out.”

His expression darkens. “All right. I lost a large sum of money at a casino. I went to Prague to support my friend. I was trying to help him, and I ended up making some bad decisions in the process.” His voice sounds resigned but nothing in his body language is. “I need you to make the public image concerns go away.”

I stop typing and stare. “I can’t make it go away. My job is to make things seem a lot better than they actually are. Redirect the conversation, as it were. But because it’s been a month since it happened, I don’t know if that’s possible. You should have come to me right away. You should have called me.”

“I was busy.”

“You sound like some rocker who had a drunken brawl in a hotel room and needs me to clean it up.” I raise a finger. “Which I did for someone when I was in Vegas. Hated every second of it, but I did it.”

His gaze darts away and I gasp, again.

“Didyou have a drunken brawl?”

---