“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.
Jo sipped her coffee and remembered when Emma first started as her assistant, how afraid she had been of speaking out of turn.
“What if I want to date someone, but they think I’m dating you?”
Jo rolled her eyes. “If a man doesn’t believe you when you tell him the rumors aren’t true, he’s not worth your time.”
“I didn’t say a man,” Emma snapped, and Jo blinked at her. Emma colored slightly. “I mean—maybe a man. But not necessarily.”
Jo nodded once. “Regardless. Anyone interested in you should trust you. Besides,” she said, shifting away from the subject of Emma’s sexuality, “a comment is going to make this story bigger, not make it go away. Like I said, I haven’t discussed my love life in almost thirty years in Hollywood. To say something now would make this time seem somehow different, which isn’t going to make reporters stop calling.”
Emma scowled.
“Not commenting will make them stop calling,” Jo said. “Any comment leads to clarifying questions, leads to requests for more. When they know you’re never going to say anything, they eventually leave you alone.”
Jo was right, whether Emma wanted to believe her or not.
“I’ve been in this business as long as you’ve been alive, Emma.”
That got Emma to sigh and tell Jo her schedule, apparently done with discussing the rumors.
* * *
—
Jo’s brother called her when she was eating lunch.
“Jo Jo, have you been keeping secrets?”
“You know I hate that nickname, Vinny,” Jo said. “And no, I have not.”
Vincent laughed. “Really? Because it seems like you’re dating!”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckled. “I was just hopeful. Thought you had finally found someone who’d put up with you.”
“She does put up with me,” Jo said.
“Maybe you should be dating her.”
Jo didn’t dignify that by addressing it. “These rumors have done wonders for my social life,” she said instead. “Evelyn yesterday, today my little brother. I probably have a call from Father to look forward to.”
“Nope,” Vincent said. “He’ll call me for the details later.”
“Of course.”
Jo was glad. She last spoke to her father at Christmas, and she’d prefer not to again until next Christmas. She didn’t want to deal with her father’s disapproval, even over something fictional.
“How are the boys?”
Her nephews were five and nine and were some of her favorite people in the world. She’d never wanted kids herself, but she adored her brother’s. Even when she was busy, she found time for their baseball games and birthday parties and anywhere else they might want her.