Something to Talk About(13)

“You take your time with that,” Tate said, his white-toothed grin standing out against his hickory skin. He glanced at Emma and chuckled. “You okay there, Emma?”

“I hate you,” Emma told him. Then: “Ms. Jones, let me get you a refill.”

She took the tumbler right out of Jo’s hand and marched off. Jo didn’t bother to point out that it was still mostly full.

“Go easy on her,” Tate said.

“She can handle it,” Jo said, fluttering a hand like she wasn’t worried about how this all might affect Emma. “Your break’s almost up.”

It had barely been a minute, but Jo didn’t want to deal with him anymore.

“Yours, too,” he said, then left her alone.

Jo tried to be unobtrusive on set. People were working, and she was only there to clear her head. But she could feel eyes on her, darting away when she looked back. At least some of these people believed the rumors, which was unfortunate. Not worth doing anything about, but unfortunate nonetheless.

Emma hadn’t returned with her promised refill, and loath as Jo was to admit it, Tate was right; she had to get back to writing. She headed to her office. Emma would figure out where she went.

But Emma didn’t have to figure anything out, because she was sitting at her own desk when Jo got back.

“Your refill, Ms. Jones,” she said, offering the tumbler without making eye contact.

Jo took the cup and decided she needed to face this head-on.

“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” she said. “The rumors are something that needed to be addressed without being taken seriously. Tate provided me an easy opportunity.”

“It’s fine,” Emma said.

Jo could have left it at that, but she was the one who got Emma into this mess.

“If it upset you, it’s not. I won’t joke about it again.”

Emma stared at the papers on her desk. “Thank you.”

“It really will just go away,” Jo said. “It always does.”

Emma didn’t look up. Jo was pretty sure she didn’t believe her.

“Did you at least have a good time?” Jo asked. “Since you have to deal with all of this, I hope you at least had fun.”

“I did,” Emma said, finally making eye contact. Her smile was soft.

“Good. I’m glad I took you.”

She was. She had thought—both before asking Emma and after—that maybe she shouldn’t.

Jo’s mom had accompanied her to every awards show of her career until the cancer diagnosis. Jo skipped the red carpets when she was twenty, watching from the hospital instead. Her mom was gone before Jo turned twenty-one. Jo hadn’t taken anyone to an awards show since. Her brother was younger and busy, and her father was too uninterested to bother.

Jo had known the press would make something of her taking Emma, but she had to—she was hideously bored of awards by this point. While she was proud of the work she put out, proud of the work everyone did on her show, awards were too often political, too rarely went to the right people. Ceremonies were an excuse for everyone to schmooze and drink and celebrate themselves. Even before the speculation about Agent Silver, Jo had considered asking Emma. Her assistant’s company was a lot better than that of any of the drunk schmoozers.

“Why did . . . ,” Emma started. She looked down, then back up at Jo. “Why did you take me? I mean, I know I was supposed to be a buffer for Agent Silver stuff, but besides the red carpet, no one even asked you about it. And we know how well my intervening on the red carpet worked out.”

Jo sighed. “Because I was sick of getting hit on by people who thought since I was alone I was interested.” It was true enough. Without a date, she had no way to avoid conversations with people she didn’t want to talk to. She rubbed her temples. “I expected the story to be ‘Jo Jones is so obsessed with work she brought her assistant to an awards show,’ not ‘Jo Jones is dating her assistant.’”

“You knew there’d be a story?” Emma asked.

“There’s always a story.”

Jo had dealt with the press, with journalists and people who shouldn’t be allowed to call themselves journalists, since she was a teenager. She should’ve known better.

“If anyone makes you uncomfortable, let me know, yes?” Jo said. “I’ll have it taken care of.”

Emma half rolled her eyes. “Sure, boss,” she said. “But I’m fine.”

“Any inquiries go to Amir,” Jo said. “All comments, even no-comment comments, need to come from my publicist.”

“Of course,” Emma said. “But why would I get inquiries anyway?”

“Just in case.”

If Emma hadn’t realized that reporters might find her phone number, might find out where she lived, Jo wasn’t going to put the idea in her head. She truly did believe this rumor would pass quickly enough that Emma would never be bothered.



* * *



—

The next morning, though, reporters had discovered the phone number at Emma’s desk. Jo told her to turn off the ringer. Anyone who truly needed her had other ways of getting in touch.

Emma was harried, having been caught off guard by calls that morning.

“I really don’t understand why we can’t just say this isn’t true,” she said.