Worth the Risk(24)

“It would be a marketing gold mine,” I whisper.

“Bingo.”

“A healthy competition between the two highest-vote-getting contestants . . .” My words trail off as I picture the ad campaign. The graphics. The interviews. The #TeamBraden versus #TeamGrayson tweets and shares.

“That’s the only way it’ll work. We’ve already announced the top twenty, and the other finalists are married . . .”

“I’m sure if Grayson balks, we could handpick another person who fits the bill.”

Her laugh carries again, but this time the sarcasm rings the loudest. “But that’s not what I asked of you, is it? I told you I want you to deliver on Grayson. I want you to prove to me you can problem-solve this and make it work.” I stare at her, afraid to tell her what happened last night. Her sigh resonates. “You want help, but don’t know how to ask, right?”

I take her lead and run with it. “I do need help. How would you handle Grayson? A man who doesn’t like you and wants zero attention? How would you convince him to actively participate, when the last time you saw him, he all but told you to go to hell?”

Or did he in fact tell me that? I’m sure he might have.

“Why would he tell you that? In the meeting, you mentioned that you met up with him again . . . want to tell me what happened?” Her stare is unrelenting as she tries to read me.

“Nothing happened.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, but I know my response doesn’t ring true. “That’s the problem.”

“Child, the mother in me knows a lie when she sees one . . . so spill it.” She leans back in her chair, and all I see is a woman determined to get an answer out of me.

Is it sad that I want to share it with someone? That I want someone to agree with me that he was arrogant and a prick when all she’s been doing is singing his heroic praises for the last ten minutes?

I emit an exaggerated sigh. “I was out running errands and saw him head into a bar. I conveniently had the urge for a drink so I sat beside him and then proceeded to badger him about the contest until he stalked out. I followed again—”

“Now, there’s your first problem right there.” She laughs. “Never let a man know you’re following them. They like hard-to-get. They like thinking they’re calling the shots.”

“If I wanted to sleep with him, that caveat would work. But I don’t.” At least I wouldn’t. Would I? The look she gives me says she’s thinking the same thought and doesn’t buy my response. “As I was saying, I followed him out to the back alley and ended up alone in the dark with a drunk guy who was a little handsy.”

“How little is little? Did he touch you?” I can see the momma bear in her come out.

“He had my arm, but—”

“Oh my God. How scary!”

“I could have handled myself.” It’s the same lie I told myself as I stared at the ceiling last night while very creepy variations of how the situation could have played out kept me up. “But Grayson forgot to pay and was coming back in and saw us . . . and, of course, he—”

“Stepped in to save the day?”

“I wouldn’t be quite that dramatic, but yeah.”

“I told you he was hero material.”

“Don’t, Rissa—”

“Gold. Mine. Marketing,” she says, emphasizing each word.

I glare at her. “He was a jerk.”

“Because he saved you?”

“No because . . .” Because he found out I was going to use him to save the magazine and was pissed? Because he demanded a thank-you? Both make me look like the ass. Again.

“Because why?”

“It’s the attention thing. He doesn’t want any part of it.”

“Then make him want it. It’s your butt on the line here. I’d think that would be enough motivation for you.”

“Easier said than done,” I murmur.

“Isn’t everything?”





“Sunnyville native, Grayson Malone, has been credited with rescuing a woman Friday night. Here on a work assignment, Sidney Thorton, daughter of media tycoon Frank Thorton, was cornered in the darkened alley behind Hooligan’s pub by an armed thug. Without thought to his own safety, Malone came to her aid, disarming the assailant and ushering Ms. Thorton to safety.

This isn’t Mr. Malone’s first brush with being a hero. He’s been credited with piloting rescue flights in the past but has neither confirmed nor denied these claims.

As a medevac pilot for Mercy-Life, Malone—”

“That’s enough.”

“C’mon. I want to read more about how my baby brother saved a woman from an armed thug,” Grant says as he peers at me over the newspaper.

“He wasn’t armed.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Or else you would have reported him.”

“And I’m far from being a fucking hero.”

“That isn’t what this says.” When he starts to read aloud again, I rip the newspaper from his hands, throw it on the table in front of him, and walk to the kitchen for a beer.

“I said that’s enough.” I’m pissed. Irritated. Why in the hell would she offer up that story?

“Testy. Testy.”