Page 4 of Georgia Guy
“Did you really have to fire them? They were just doing their jobs.” His tone is dripping with accusation.
“Publicly posting that my father is not my grandfather’s biological son was their job?” I ask, with barely contained fury bubbling in my belly.
“Yes,” he fires back. “Anything to do with the Morrow family is a huge public interest story, especially in the greater Atlanta area.”
Hating it that I sound defensive, I add, “I’m not the one in the wrong here.”
At his steady, no-nonsense gaze, I cross my arms over my chest––likely making myself look like a petulant child. “We need to figure out a way to contain this news to limit the damage done by the leak. The original story has been taken down, but people had already begun sharing it and discussing it on social media, so it’s still spreading like wildfire.”
In a calm, rational tone, he says, “At this point, I doubt if there is a way to contain it. The revelation has likely already taken on wings of its own, and anything we try to do to curb it may just draw more attention to it. Wouldn’t it be better to just ride out the storm, until something new grabs the squirrel-like attention of the internet?”
“Morrows don’t just ride out storms, like fearful weenies. We take control and crash through the waves on our own terms,” I say, allowing my obvious family pride to shine through.
It hits me, then, like a punch in the stomach. I’ve been aware of it for a while, but I never truly allowed it to fully sink in… I’m not actually a Morrow. My dad’s biological father could be the mailman, for all we know. And since my grandmother passed away a long time ago, we’ll likely never know the truth. My surname––the source of so much of my pride, wealth, and stature in the community––is based on an enormous lie.
Unable to stop myself from being vulnerable, I say through teary eyes, “My entire identity is centered around being a Morrow. I’m nothing without my family name.”
Joe raises his hands to indicate our plush surroundings. “I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself. You built this branch of the company, Alexandra. It’s yours, not your family’s.”
“Yes, I’ve built my own empire, but that wouldn’t have been possible without the significant start-up capital and door-opening privileges that come from being a Morrow,” I admit, unsure why I’m confiding in the stranger who caused this leak of one of our family’s biggest secrets.
Brinkley unobtrusively enters the room with a rolling cart stacked with all kinds of goodies. I swipe at my cheeks, but he can likely tell that I’ve been crying. Although I don’t keep secrets from my trusty assistant, I don’t like allowing him to see me looking weak.
Straightening my shoulders, I ask Joe, “How did you find out about my father’s paternity? I thought all of our private records were sealed and buried. I hired the best and brightest computer whiz in the country to make any incriminating information about us disappear.”
Looking proud of himself, he answers, “Oh, they were buried deep, but thanks to the Life Chat data breach, I was able to hack my way through the layers. Apparently, you didn’t hire the best after all.”
“You don’t seem like a computer hacker,” I say, shaking my head as I try to align the handsome, friendly man before me with my preconceived mental image of a pale, nerdy cyberpunk working to get even with the world in a dank basement.
“Oh, I was a total geek in high school, so I spent all of my free time on computers,” he answers.
Brinkley gapes at him. “I wish I’d gone to your school, if a hot hunk like you was considered to be a nerd.”
Joe chuckles good-naturedly, but I give Brinkley a stern look. My assistant has always been completely relaxed and perhaps a little too at-ease with me, but I expect him to be professional when others are in the office.
Brinkley gives me a wide-eyed look as if he’s innocent of any wrongdoing. “What? You know he’s absolutely scrumptious.”
“That will be all, Brinkley,” I tell him firmly, but I can’t quite keep the smile from tipping up my lips and completely ruining my irritated façade.
After my assistant hurries out of the room and closes the door behind him, I rise to make myself a cup of tea. Thankfully, my back is turned when Joe asks, “So, Alex, do you think I’m scrumptious?”
4
JOE
Alex’s back is to me, but I can tell by her alert posture that she feels the same scintillating, vibrating connection between us as I do. Her words deny her attraction, though, when she scoffs and says, “Scrumptious? No, I find you to be utterly contemptible.”
“Ouch,” I say, dramatically clutching my middle as if she has just punched me in the gut. Since she seems determined to keep me at arm’s length, I say, “I’m not sure why I should help you then. What’s in it for me?”
“What’s in it for you?” she screeches, whirling around to face me. “How about if I don’t sue you for all your worth and keep you tied up in court with ever-rising legal fees until the day you die?”
“Yeah, that would be good.” Feeling daring, I add, “For a start. But I would also like to be paid for my time.”
“Paid for your time,” she mutters as she returns to her chair with a steamy mug of tea.
“Yes, I’ve hit a bit of a rocky patch with my small business. If you’re not going to pay me for helping you, then I should really be there trying to keep things afloat,” I tell her.
My honest admission must strike a chord because her expression visibly softens before she says, “I would have thought a motorcycle repair business would provide a lucrative, steady income.”
