Chapter 46
2131words
The headline blared across the front page, accompanied by a photo of Nicholas standing defiantly in a fountain, brandishing what looked like a pair of salad tongs.
It wasn't the worst headline we could have gotten. The photo, on the other hand...
'Mr. Huntington," I murmured, dropping my gaze to the floor, 'I can explain—"
'Your usefulness, Ms. Winchester, lies in ensuring that this kind of debacle does not occur. Since you've already failed at that, I suggest you refrain from speaking."
Nicholas's eyes sparked, and he began to rise before realizing he was nearly naked. 'Are you seriously blaming Avy every time I decide to jump into a fountain?"
Mitchell's demeanor was chillingly composed.
'Consider what you just said, remember you're twenty-four, and reflect on your choices."
(From time to time, the man had a point.)
'But no," he went on, 'I'm not blaming Avy." He momentarily released his son and turned his piercing gaze on me. 'Ms. Winchester, despite any misconceptions you may have about me, I am not unreasonable. I recognize that as a mere mortal contending with my son's astronomical ineptitude, your options are limited."
His eyes narrowed, and I held my breath.
'But I do require an explanation."
For the second time, Nicholas leapt to my defense.
'Give her a break," he muttered. 'We had this whole shellfish defense going on—"
Mitchell's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
'Nicholas, be quiet."
For once, his son obeyed.
Normally, I'd gloat. Over-analyze the exact tone to see if there was any way I could harness its silencing powers for my own use. But there was something rather terrible about the way his father spoke to him. As if he were a portfolio, rather than a person. An investment, rather than a son. I'd noticed it the first time I'd ever met Nicholas, two years ago in this very room.
Nicholas had been quite unaware of the fact he was getting a publicist. Like most major decisions in his life, it had been made without either his knowledge or his consent. When he'd stumbled into his bedroom, a Brazilian swimsuit model draped on either arm, he had been as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
For a moment, the two of us just stood there. Frozen in shock. Then he turned to Mitchell.
'Thanks, dad." Even then, I noticed the way his sparkling eyes dimmed a bit when they came to rest on his father. 'We can always make room for a fourth."
I'd sucked in a quick breath. Sure, the tycoon was about to pull out some sort of death-ray and electrocute the kid right then and there. But Mitchell never missed a beat.
'This is Avery Winchester. She's to be your new publicist."
Nicholas froze again, as the models made themselves scarce in the living room.
'My new publicist," he repeated slowly. 'Did I have an old publicist?"
'Precisely my point. If you're going to continue on living in this...manner," Mitchell's eyes coldly swept the room, 'then it's time we bring in professional assistance."
Nicholas, then only twenty-two, had pulled himself up to his full height. Looking almost as intimidating as his nightmarish father. 'I don't need a babysitter."
'Quite the contrary," his father replied dryly, 'you need twelve. But Ms. Winchester here comes highly recommended. She'll do for a start."
Nicholas's eyes flashed dangerously, but he reined it in—looking me up and down as if measuring how much trouble I might be able to cause him.
'Then I'll find my own publicist," he said coldly, pacing to the window.
Mitchell stepped in front of him in an instant, looking like he was on the verge of doing something I'm sure would have made me quit right there on the spot.
'You're incapable of finding your own pants—if half of what they say in the papers is true." There was a bit of a snarl in his tone. 'You will work with Ms. Winchester. End of discussion."
But Nicholas had never been one to take these injustices lying down.
'End of discussion?" he quoted in a voice that sent chills down my spine. 'Lest I remind you, Mitchell, the second I turned eighteen I was more than able to make my own decisions—"
But Mitchell just laughed. A sound that sounded like gravel scraping down a freeway.
'Oh, I'm well aware of the decisions you've made." His eyes swept his son from head to toe, making him stand up straighter in spite of himself. 'Look at you. Drunk. Thoughtless. Ready to jump into the first empty bed you see." He shook his head slowly, as his dark eyes dilated almost entirely to black. 'For one of the first times, Nicholas, you remind me of your mother."
With that, he swept out of the room. Leaving me standing behind him. Leaving Nicholas looking like he'd just gotten slapped in the face.
Today was looking to be more of the same...
'I cannot imagine what possessed you to put on such a spectacle, but the days of such antics are behind you—do you understand?"
Nicholas said not a word. He simply glared at Mitchell through a pair of red-rimmed eyes.
'The company is in a state of transition," the man continued. 'In just four short months, we're undertaking the largest merger Wall Street has ever seen. Until the ink is dry, all of our shareholders will be holding their breath. The board will be holding its breath. I will be holding my breath. The last thing we need is a picture of you on the front of the New York Times, splashing stockbrokers from the middle of a damn fountain! Am I making myself clear?!"
It wasn't often that Mitchell Huntington raised his voice, but when he did, it sent a wave of tension through the room. I discreetly leaned against the wall for support, and Nicholas's face drained of color as his father spoke.
'Yes, sir."
Mitchell nodded curtly, satisfied with Nicholas's compliance.
'We need stability. We need strength. And above all, we need calm. And you, my son, will embody all of those qualities."
Nicholas's breathing quickened, but he managed to keep his voice steady. 'And how do you expect me to do that?"
'It's quite simple, really, and nothing you haven't done before." Mitchell's expression didn't soften; if anything, it hardened. 'You're going to get a girlfriend."
'Hey, will you come back here?! We need to talk about this!"
Nicholas paced down the hall swiftly, and I hurried after him, my bare feet slipping on the tile whenever I turned sharply. His father's departure had left us momentarily speechless, but Nicholas was never one to stay silent for long. By the time the door clicked shut, he was already focused on his next venture, pushing thoughts of his father into the recesses of his mind.
'Nicholas!"
It was as if he didn't hear me. Striding toward the shower, he shed his remaining clothing one piece at a time.
I ducked as a crumpled sock flew my way.
'Nicholas, come on. It's not that bad."
In public relations, sometimes you had to shape perceptions for your client as much as for the public.
'We can find a suitable girl—one you might actually enjoy spending time with." Another sock was tossed in my direction, and I corrected myself. 'Okay, fine. Maybe not that suitable. But you get the idea."
I tossed the clothes toward the linen closet, still slipping and skidding after him. How did he manage with those long legs?!
'You can go out a few times, get photographed together. Keep your father and his company happy. Who knows? It might even turn into something real—"
I lost my footing completely and stumbled forward, arms flailing. But warm hands caught me. When I looked up, I found myself gazing into a warm yet firm expression.
'Sorry, Avy," he said gently, setting me back on my feet, 'I'm just not going to do it."
And that settled it. He proceeded into the shower without another word. The conversation was over. I bit my tongue and lowered my head, quickly strategizing.
It put me in a tough spot, as always when caught between Nicholas and his father.
Nicholas was the client, the prize. I was supposed to move mountains to fulfill his every wish, protect him from mistakes or ill intentions.
When he said no, that was it. There was nothing more to say.
And yet...
His father was the one who technically employed me.
Mitchell Huntington was a shrewd man, and my offer of employment had been a prime example of his skills. While I was essentially on ‘permanent loan' to his son, working exclusively for Nicholas—I was also technically a member of the company. My paychecks were signed by the Huntington Corporation, not by Nicholas.
That meant that when Mitchell said yes. It meant yes. There was really nothing left to say.
With two completely opposite ultimatums staring me in the face, I decided to say nothing at all. Instead, I headed downstairs and started up a pot of coffee.
There was a process to it. One that I'd picked up my first week on the job.
To say that Nicholas lived for coffee, was like saying that the French had a mild affinity for fattening pastries. It was his first true love. Truth be told, it was probably his only true love.
He had the beans imported from alternating countries in South America and Africa alike, depending on average rain fall, soil acidity, and a million other things that went completely over my head. They were kept in an airtight jar, and ground fresh every morning. Measured out to precision. Brewed to precisely the right temperature.
The slightest deviation would be fiercely condemned. A recurrent mistake would most likely end in termination. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of Mitchell and his beloved scotch.
I pulled down the jar with a soft sigh, and started pouring the beans into the grinder.
There had to be some kind of way to get him on board with this. Some iota of wiggle room in which I could get enough of a hold to shake him loose.
As much as I loved Nicholas, I would not openly go against his father. And while I had, on occasion, secretly gone against his father, in this particular situation—his father was right.
The lobster debacle was just the tip of the iceberg. In the last month alone, there had been enough work to keep an entire PR team sleepless and jumping for five years.
First there was the morning he tried to repel down the Eiffel Tower on a whim. Then there was the afternoon he was determined to climb the Empire State Building with his bare hands. The only way I talked him out of swimming the English Channel was by showing him enough shark attack videos to make myself afraid to even shower for at least a week.
The worst by far was when he conned the night manager in charge of the ice rink at Rockefeller Center into melting said ice, and letting Nicholas replace it with frozen champagne. At first, it actually looked like it might have been the social extravaganza of the season. Then some lunatic Grinch accused him of trying to serve alcohol to minors, and we were off to the races.
Point being, Nicholas was feeling a little more restless than usual this month. And if this coming merger was really as important as his father said, it was time to pull in the reins a bit.
But what could I do? What could I offer the man who had everything to make him see things my way? How could I bend the all-powerful to my own will...?
A scalding drop of coffee sizzled suddenly on my skin, and I pulled back my hand with a gasp. The entire coffee ceremony had been performed by muscle memory, and by the time Nicholas walked downstairs—wearing nothing but a towel—I was ready with the first cup.
'That's the problem with these coffee makers," he gestured to the burn with a teasing grin, raising the rim of the mug to his lips, 'you've got to watch them every second."
I was less amused.
'Coming from the man wrapped in a jellyfish towel."
He looked down curiously, his wet hair dripping onto the kitchen tile.
Sure enough, the plush contours of the towel were splashed with an infantile display of smiling sea creatures. The jellyfish in question, was using three of its hands to wave.
'There does seem to be a strange theme developing in my life," he murmured with a small frown.
