The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(14)

Again, my response—or lack thereof—must have left something to be desired, because Emilia fixed me with a look.

“When Asher gets bored, things get broken. Laws, standards of decency, occasionally bones.” She wrinkled her nose slightly. “There was an incident in his chemistry class yesterday—suffice it to say, he’s skating on thin ice with the Hardwicke administration.”

I wondered if the incident in chemistry class had involved an explosion, but figured that asking would only encourage her to block my bagel consumption for that much longer.

“I’m applying to Yale next year,” Emilia continued, “and I am going to get in.” Her tone strongly implied that she’d burn anyone and anything that stood in her way. “Unfortunately, Yale has an unofficial admissions policy on twins. Most of the time, either both twins get in, or neither of them do, and my twin seems intent on getting himself expelled.” Emilia let out a huff of air, summoning her zen. “I just need someone to do damage control until Henry gets back. Three days, maybe four.”

If I stood there long enough, she’d tell me what any of this had to do with me.

“You’re going to make me say it again, aren’t you?” She forced a smile. “Asher is a problem.”

I waited. “And?”

“And,” she said, as if she were talking to someone either very young or very slow, “you fix problems.”

“I . . . what?” My voice rose up on that last word. All around us, people were beginning to stare.

Emilia hooked her arm through mine, like we were the best of friends. “You solve problems,” she said again. “I have a problem. Ergo . . .”

“You have a job for me.” This conversation was starting to make so much more sense. And it was becoming that much more an after-coffee kind of endeavor. “You’re barking up the wrong tree here, Emilia.”

“So you’re not the Tess Kendrick that Anna Hayden is swearing is a miracle worker?” Another eyebrow arch. “Anna’s not exactly sharing what the miracle was, but she’s a big fan, and she has a big mouth.”

“Hayden,” I said out loud. “The girl I . . . helped . . . yesterday—”

“Hayden comma Anna.” Emilia dropped my arm. “Freshman wallflower, beloved youngest daughter, and the only person at this school with a Secret Service escort?”

I flashed back to the day before. I remembered thinking that the crying girl had looked young and scared and vulnerable and pissed. The one thing I hadn’t thought was that she looked familiar. She’d never told me her name.

Emilia snorted. “You honestly expect me to believe that you came riding to the rescue of the vice president’s daughter with no idea of who she was?”

No wonder Anna had been freaking out—and thank God that jerk whose phone I’d confiscated hadn’t e-mailed the pictures of her to anyone. I didn’t even want to think about the kind of media storm it might have kicked up if he had.

“Believe what you want,” I told Emilia. “I’m not a miracle worker. I’m not a problem solver. Whatever’s going on with your brother—”

“Asher,” she supplied.

“I can’t help you,” I said firmly.

“I’ll pay you.” Emilia clearly wasn’t acquainted with the word no—but the two of them were about to get downright cozy.

“I don’t want your money.” I pushed past her—successfully this time—and she amended her offer.

“I’ll owe you.”

I wondered who or what I had offended in a previous life to end up in this position: sister of famed fixer Ivy Kendrick, endorsed as a miracle worker by the vice president’s daughter.

“Sorry, Emilia,” I said, almost meaning it. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”





CHAPTER 12

About five minutes into my first class of the day, it became clear that Emilia Rhodes was not the only person who was operating under the impression that I was a chip off the sisterly block. Anna Hayden might not have told the entire school that I was the person to go to if you had a problem, but she’d whispered it in the right ears.

In a school the size of Hardwicke, word got around.

In English, one of my classmates attempted to retain my services to handle “rumor management” in a nasty breakup. In physics, I got a request that—as far as I could tell—had something to do with a show-choir rivalry.

I dearly hoped to never so much as think the words show choir again.

By lunchtime, I was nearing the end of my patience.

“Hypothetically speaking, should I be concerned that you look like you might throw that meatball sub at someone?” Vivvie popped up beside me.

I glanced over at her. “If I was going to throw something, it would be the bread pudding. Hypothetically.”

“Don’t throw the bread pudding,” Vivvie objected vehemently. “It’s got a butter rum sauce!”

She sounded so horrified at the idea that I managed half a grin.

“Here at Hardwicke, we take our baked goods very seriously,” Vivvie informed me pertly. She hesitated just for a second. “Are you looking for someone to sit with?”

Across the room, Emilia met my eyes, then slid her gaze to an empty seat at her table, across from Maya and next to Di. Clearly that was an invitation.