Managed (VIP #2)(16)

Thankfully, our stare-off is broken when the car pulls up before a small hotel with an unassuming front. The door is Victorian style with glossy green paint, cut-glass windows, and a simple black awning to protect visitors from rainfall. It looks clean and cute but not like a place I imagine Gabriel Scott, with his perfectly tailored clothes and crisp mannerisms, would stay. There isn’t even a doorman. Gabriel is definitely the doorman-needing type.

Even so, we’re here. I smooth my hands down my plain black yoga pants. Christ, I should have dressed up for the plane ride. I can’t even remember what interview outfit I brought. Will it work? Will Brenna be waiting for us now that Gabriel’s alerted her? I thought I had until tomorrow morning before I’d meet her.

“Sophie,” Gabriel says, his deep voice even and low. “You’re fretting over nothing.”

“I’m not fretting.”

One eyebrow lifts, challenging me.

I pluck at the edge of my shirt. “Okay, maybe a little worrying is occurring.”

“You’ll fit in fine. Perfectly, actually.” He frowns as if this bothers him.

Or maybe he’s placating me. “If she’s at all like you—”

“She’s not.” He straightens and adjusts his cuffs. It’s a tick. But I don’t know what he has to be nervous about. “None of them are like me. You’ll love them.”

I want to ask who “they” are. But I don’t like the implication he’s made about himself. “I like you fine,” I tell him.

“Well, good.” He knocks on the window. The driver opens the door, clearly having been waiting for Gabriel’s signal. “If all goes well, you’ll be seeing a lot more of me.”

He does not make it sound like a reward.



* * *



Last night, after Gabriel made certain I’d been properly checked in—he refused to leave me at the curb and was affronted that I’d assumed he would—I was so tired, I stumbled into my room and crawled under the covers.

I didn’t sleep a wink, which was annoying, but it was dark, and the sounds of traffic coming through the massive, old windows reminded me of home, so I was content just to lie there.

Now, in the light of day, I’m dressed in my favorite ’60s-style teal sheath dress with three-quarter-length sleeves. Black buttons run down one thigh and a flirty little black ruffle dances along the hem. I’m wearing black kitten heels and my hair is in a chignon.

I could have gone for something more conservative, but that would be a lie. I’m not conservative and never will be. And really, if Brenna James hires me to run her social media campaign and be a photographer, I’ll be in my jeans more than anything else.

I dither in front of the mirror for as long as I dare, then make my way down to the lounge. The hotel is an old, Victorian, four-story townhouse. The staircase is narrow with worn wood risers that creak under my feet. There’s a tiny claustrophobic elevator that I used last night when the porter brought my bags up.

I’m on the fourth floor, and the lounge is on the second. It’s done up like a classic gentleman’s club with various leather arm chairs set around small wooden tables. Emerald silk wallpaper meets white wainscoting, and subdued conversation rises from small groups having their breakfast.

I’m supposed to meet Brenna in an hour. And though I’m not hungry, I manage to order coffee after asking the waitress to decipher the menu. Apparently, I need a flat white, since I’m not in the mood for a frothy cappuccino.

“Why does it say no pictures at the bottom of the menu?” I ask the waitress as she sets down my coffee.

“This is a private club,” she says in a thickly Eastern European accent, “for entertainment professionals. The members want to feel comfortable eating without the threat of someone taking their picture.”

I glance around with wide eyes and spot a woman who I swear is an up-and-coming singer. She’s eating with a man; they’re snuggled up and laughing quietly. I can’t see his face, but there’s something familiar about the way he holds himself. Or I just might be spinning castles now.

“A club? Really?”

“Mostly music, stage, and screen,” the waitress tells me blandly. “And some footballers, I think.”

After that, I can’t concentrate. I drink my creamy coffee and hear snatches of conversation around me: a documentary producer lamenting his inability to find a proper narrator, a record exec mentioning heading to the studio to work on a new album, a television reporter whining to his agent about his contract.

I have to wonder (again) who it is I’m interviewing to work with. An actor? Is Gabriel an agent too? I could see him doing that with ease. Or maybe he works for a movie studio.

I’m so engrossed in shameless eavesdropping and speculating about Gabriel that I don’t notice the stylish woman until she’s at my table, pulling out a free chair.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Brenna. Or Brian.” She laughs. “Scottie told me the jig was up with my secret identity.”

Brenna James is tall, thin, and severely pretty with honey-red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She’s dressed in a gorgeous copper-colored suit and sky-high turquoise heels.

“God, that’s a cute dress.” She plops down in the chair opposite me. “Is it wrong to want to hire you based on that dress alone?”