Page 8 of The Show

I growled at her, jumping to my feet, no longer wanting to be part of this conversation, not that I had ever wanted to be part of it. “Don’t fucking call me Penny!”

I pushed past her and stormed through to the kitchen. I tugged the refrigerator door open and grabbed a bottle of water, jumping out of my skin as I shut it because my stealthy sister was standing on the other side.

“Jesus, Laurie.” I stepped back until I hit the kitchen island, then sat on one of the stools, only for her to follow.

A flash of white-blonde from the corner of my eye meant Lowe was in the kitchen too.

“Penn,” Lauren began in a soft, coddling tone, adding a head tilt I suspected she used on her patients. My sister was a pediatric doctor and worked exclusively with the under tens. “You haven’t been out in three months. People are talking.”

“I’m laying low,” I scoffed.

“Well, you need to lay low at the party.”

I swigged my water, then placed it on the counter. “Fuck, no. I’m not going there. I’ll send Gramps a card.”

“That won’t cut it I’m afraid,” she placated, placing her hand over mine only for me to snatch it away. “Look, I know everything’s been a shock, and you’ve now got a whole new responsibility to contend with, but Lowe and I are going to help you.”

I coughed up the air I’d inadvertently swallowed, but managed to recover without it looking too obvious that whatever she was about to suggest was not welcome.

She pulled out another stool and sat down, sporting a wide grin that bordered on obvious insanity. “We have a plan.”

“A plan for what?”

“Your image.”

“My image is fine.”

Because she always seemed to be on a one-woman mission to prove me wrong, Lauren reached into her giant purse and pulled out a selection of trash magazines, plus a couple of newspapers which she fanned out on the counter. I saw my face peeking out from a copy of Us Weekly, though Murray and Rafe were in it too, and this wasn’t unusual.

“Yeah, so?”

“Your under-the-radar behavior is attracting attention. People think you’re in rehab, so now is the perfect time to come out as the new owner of The New York Lions. Lowe is going to help you.”

Jesus Fucking Christ. The tabloid media was the work of the devil. I’m out too much or I’m not out enough. I’m a womanizer or I’m too picky. Whatever it was, it was fabricated click-bait the public lapped up, and the media counted the bills all the way to the bank.

Though that was less alarming than the last bit of Lauren’s statement.

“What exactly is Lowe going to help me with?”

I peered over to Lowe, giving myself permission to look at her properly for the first time today.

She was wearing a long, floaty summer dress with tiny straps resting on her delicate, deeply golden shoulders. Her pale blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun, but the tendrils framing her face made it look even more heart shaped than usual.

When I was a kid and didn’t understand what a heart shaped face was, I used to liken it to the shape of a juicy, fat strawberry - which happened to be my favorite fruit - so I felt it was apt. Her cheeks were slightly rosy, but apart from that, it didn’t look like she was wearing any make up – her smooth skin was almost glistening in the sun shining through my windows and showing off high cheekbones, full lips, and her strong Roman nose with its little bump, from the time she fell off my sister’s horse and broke it.

Saffron and Lauren had come running into the house pulling Lowe along, blood streaming down her face. As a nine-year-old boy with a penchant for throwing and catching, I was well versed in the perils of being hit in the nose, and happened to be in the kitchen making a milkshake when they arrived screaming. I’d jumped into action and grabbed some ice from the freezer, placing it on her swollen nose while ordering Saffron to get her a cold washcloth. My mom arrived shortly after and took over, but not before I earned myself a smile from Lowe as her tears dried.

It was the closest I’d ever been to her at that point, and she’d smelled like summer.

I looked away before I started staring at the rest of her, because I could do it all day; and it would only lead me into trouble. She and Lauren had just returned from a week at my grandparent’s place in Bermuda, and there had been one image of her in a yellow bikini that had now taken permanent residence in my mind, and it was starting to creep into my imagination.

Social media is a bitch for unrequited love. I never wanted to see the data for how long I spent on Lowe’s Instagram page.

“Lowe is going to help me with what?” I asked again.

“Announcing your new ownership. She’s setting up her own PR and communications firm; you can be her first client.”

I turned to Lowe, looking at her in surprise, which pulled me enough out of any reticence I was feeling to provide me with the ability to speak like a normal human being. This was a big deal. “Is that true?”

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