Georgia watched in horror as Leo realized his mistake, sitting back in surprise. As if moving farther away could undo what he’d just done.
O’Doul turned his big chin slowly in Leo’s direction, a lopsided smirk on his face. For a split second she was terrified that he’d fire back at the insolent rookie who had just threatened his airway.
But at least now the gods were merciful. O’Doul held his tongue, because he’d been on the press conference circuit for years, and he knew to shut up and move on, at least while the cameras were rolling.
Which they were.
Like an army of giant, buglike eyes, every oversized lens in the room swung over to focus on Leo Trevi. The telltale sound of shutters firing issued through the room. And from the other end of the table, Georgia’s father turned to give Leo a glare which outshone every flashbulb.
And just like that, she lost control of the meeting, and therefore the message.
Leo lifted his chin, his posture defiant. But she saw a red flush creep up his neck. Unfortunately his gaze swung in her direction next. He set his jaw defiantly. As if he weren’t to blame for this problem.
As if.
But the press didn’t care who was at fault. After gaping their fill at Leo, those cameras swung farther, following Leo’s gaze, and landed on her.
That’s when Georgia decided it might actually be possible to die of embarrassment. Or at least to wish for it. Reeling, she had to thrust out a hand to steady herself on the doorframe. Nate Kattenberger tapped the microphone, his mouth in a grim line. When they’re trying to make a statement, billionaires don’t appreciate seeing their hard-won media audience pulled in the wrong direction.
“Holy shit,” a voice whispered beside her. It belonged to Becca. “You are in so much trouble.”
She was right. The whispers and camera shutter sounds only grew louder. All those eyes, all in the wrong place. There was only one solution.
Georgia turned and fled the room.
* * *
Nine hours later the reporters were long gone. But the horror of the world’s worst press conference was still achingly fresh.
Georgia let herself into the apartment she shared with Becca, a bag of takeout food dangling from each hand. “Honey, I’m home,” she called out. It was the first joke she’d made in hours. Today was almost too awful even for gallows humor.
She kicked off her evil high heels and staggered into the living room.
“Finally!” Becca squawked. “I’m dying!”
“Of hunger? It’s only seven thirty.” They often ate much later during hockey season.
“No, moron. Curiosity.” Becca snatched the food bags out of her hands. “This does smell good, though. How many kinds did you get?”
“Five. Three from the Garden and two from the Foo.” Say what you will about Brooklyn—it’s too crowded, it’s too trendy, it’s way too expensive—but when a girl needed some excellent Chinese dumplings, Brooklyn was the place to be.
Becca squealed. “Yay! I mean—I’m sorry that you had a five-kinds-of-dumplings day. Put on some yoga pants and I’ll pour drinks. Go! Quick like a bunny! Because you have some explaining to do.”
Georgia was too tired to argue. She went to her room and did as her roommate ordered.
“Our fridge smells weird,” Becca called from the tiny kitchen.
“Yeah,” she grumbled. “That mango we never ate? It’s gone bad. I need to clean it out. Not right now, though.”
“Ah.” Becca didn’t even have to shout, because their apartment was small enough that they could hear each other from anywhere. “Hey—when I was answering your phones this afternoon, you got a call from some skydiving place in New Jersey. They had a cancellation for next week and offered you the spot. But I told them you’d be away on business.”
“Thanks,” she said, rooting in a drawer for flannel pants. Georgia had a lot of outdoor hobbies—skydiving and hang gliding and rock climbing. She was a bit of an adrenaline junkie, but most of those activities had to wait until after summertime. She could barely get to her dojang for tae kwon do once a week during hockey season. “How many nights is that trip next week, anyway? I’m afraid to look.”
“Six. It’s a doozie. And you have to pack a day in advance because the benefit is the night before.”
“Of course it is.”
“Now get out here and tell me everything about Leo Trevi.”
Georgia took her time changing. She didn’t really want to talk about it. Yet she was starving, so returning to the living room was inevitable.
At least when she got there, she found a candle lit on the coffee table and two places set. They didn’t have a lot of furniture in their living room—just an enormous but terrifically ugly sofa—brown velvet with pink roses. They hoped to replace it someday soon. Until then they played up its odd color scheme with pink floor pillows for extra seating. Becca had pulled one of these up to the coffee table for Georgia, who liked sitting there.
This is where they ate when they had time for a leisurely meal. Lately, dinner had been either consumed at their desks or eaten on bar stools at their kitchen counter. Their apartment lacked a proper dining table. There just wasn’t room.
“The first thing I need to know,” Becca said, helping herself to the steamed chicken and cabbage dumplings, “is why have I never heard the name Leo Trevi before?”
Taking her first sip of wine, Georgia realized the question wasn’t an easy one. She’d known Leo her whole life. And then in high school, they’d been inseparable. The Golden Couple. Somewhere in her father’s Long Island home there was even a clichéd picture of the two of them being crowned homecoming king and queen.
This morning, which now felt like a hundred years ago, she’d scoffed when DJ had said she never mentioned Leo. But she’d lived with Becca a year now, and never brought him up? Point DJ. The fact that she never mentioned Leo hadn’t seemed at all strange to her until today.
“Well,” she began, reaching for the jade dumplings, “Leo was my high school boyfriend.” It sounded so inconsequential when put that way, though. Leo loomed a lot larger in her life than a teenage crush. He was her first date. Her first kiss. Her first love.
Her first everything.
“He’s so hot.” Becca sighed. “Were you together long?”
“Three years. I dumped him on graduation day.”
Her friend gave a low whistle. “Jeez. Why?”
“Well . . .” Again, it wasn’t going to be easy to explain. “You know I had a really difficult time my senior year.” She’d long since told Becca that story. A few months before high school graduation, she’d been raped on a college campus where she’d spent spring break at tennis camp.