Page 3 of The Prince's Game
No amount of wine was going to fix this situation.
“So let me get this straight.” I was on my third glass in less than twenty minutes. “My only options are to not show up and risk my professional reputation, or press criminal charges against Abby for false representation?”
“Or go on the show.” Rachel tucked a blonde strand behind her ear—a nervous tell of hers I learned in college. The woman sucked at poker.
“And risk losing my job.” I was going on my third year at Stern and Associates. “I only get two weeks of PTO a year. Any longer, and they’ll fire me.” I wasted one of those days today, which meant I had nine vacation days left. Another negative point for Abby.
“You think you’ll last on the show that long?”
“Well, no.” Not after telling Evan I had no interest in marriage. That had to be a red flag for thePrince of New Orleans. He wanted a wife, and I told him I wasn’t interested. “I’m sure he’ll send me home during the first round of cuts.” The paperwork said a third of the contestants would be sent home the first night. Those were good odds. “So consider it a paid vacation to The Big Easy.” Rachel shrugged. “Not my first choice, but it beats winter in Chicago.”
“I’d prefer Hawaii since I’ll be risking my job and all. I’ve told you about how Brett is sniffing around after my accounts. You know he’ll use my impromptu vacation as an excuse to pounce.” The jackass thrived on competition, making it a challenge to take time off.
She snorted. “He won’t stand a chance. Your clients love you.”
“Maybe, but I need to keep them happy.” I wanted to manage my own firm one day, and that required positive client references. “Somehow I doubt any of them would be crazy about me going on a dating show.”
“You’re going to need to come up with a good excuse.”
“Do you think they’ll understand if I say I need to take a vacation to murder my sister?”
Mirth filled my friend’s blue eyes. “God, I hope so. I thought sleeping with your professor was bad, but this is a whole new level.”
“Oh my God, I don’t even want to think about that.” Abby pretended to be me during our sophomore year of college and seduced Mister Hawthorne. Class the next day was a nightmare. He approached me afterward, and I had no idea what he was talking about, while Abby laughed her ass off. “He was the teaching assistant, not the professor.” Not that it was any better. “I had to drop the class.”
“She really has no understanding of how her actions affect others, does she?” Rachel marveled. “I mean, this could destroy your career, and she’s off on vacation with boyfriend number fifteen hundred.”
Abby was a free spirit. She had no desire to work, no understanding of what it meant to make a living, and no respect for my career. Her college degree in art was useless because she refused to do anything with it. The woman was talented with a paintbrush, but that required focus and discipline—two traits that didn’t apply to Abigail Summers. Instead she relied on men to take care of her.
“I got her back by joining that sorority, though. She had her heart set on being a Gamma, but ended up a Chi whatever instead.” Once a girl rushed and bid on a sorority, she couldn’t change houses. It was minor payback for all the stunts my sister pulled, but it was one of my better schemes.
Rachel tossed her head back and laughed. “She was so pissed.”
“She deserved it.”
“Very true, though.” She sobered, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear again. “So, what are you going to do? I’d be happy to recommend a criminal attorney. Jail might do her some good. You and I both know she needs to grow up.”
She did. “I can’t press charges against my own sister, can I?” We were like night and day, and she didn’t know when to stop, but I loved her. “My mom would kill me.” Abby and I were all she had left after my dad died.
“So you’re going on the show?”
We both knew not showing up wasn’t an option. The network would run my name through the mud and ruin my marketing career. Stern and Associates was a top firm in Chicago. They would drop me in a heartbeat if I brought them bad press. “I don’t think I have a choice.”
Rachel lifted her wine goblet and clanked it against mine. “Cheers, then. To paid vacations?”
I laughed, lifting the glass to my lips. “Sure, to paid vacations with weird rules and guidelines.”
“The electronics thing makes sense.” Rachel read all the paperwork, including the handbook I was given about how the show operates. “They probably don’t want to risk you taking any photos and posting on social media.”
“Because I have so much interest in that.”
“Well, maybe not you, but the other girls might. The wardrobe clause was a bit sexist, though.”
An understatement. The producers were in charge of my clothes. No negotiation. I had to put on whatever they told me to wear; however, I was allowed to pack certain items to be worn off camera. It was all outlined in the contract. “You know the interview I had this morning? Well, they put me in an orange dress. I looked like one of those tiny minions fromCharlie and the Chocolate Factory.”
“Yeah, whatever. Orange looks amazing on you, unlike on my pasty whiteness.” Her mom’s Irish genes gave her the blue eyes and pale skin, while her dad’s Germanic influence gave her the light hair and height. She was gorgeous, and she knew it. I couldn’t remember the last time she bought her own drink at a bar. Wearing her trademark lawyer skirt suit everywhere she went made her a dick magnet. Something about herpiss offlook attracted the men in droves. They all took it as a challenge, and they all failed. She was married to her job, just like me.
“I figure I’ll pack a few days’ worth of clothes. I won’t be there long anyway.” I told her about meeting Evan earlier and our conversation. “Despite having a nice ass, I think I’ll pass.”
