His eyes widen in momentary surprise, but then that cocky grin spreads across his face like he knows I’m acting.
Be cool. I’m so cool. I got this.
“Look, what happened on Friday was totally an accident.” My throat burns with humiliation, but I manage to choke out the rest of the words. “Sorry I crashed into your game. I had no idea who you were, and I honestly don’t care.”
Okay, that didn’t come out quite the way I meant it.
“I know it was an accident. Even my most desperate fans haven’t gone that far yet.” A little laugh flavors his words. “And Emma—she’s your aunt, yes?—said that Watford is a very difficult animal sometimes.”
“Great. Thanks for clearing that up.” Literally no gratitude in my voice. Now what? Why is he here? How did he find me?
Wednesday panties, my brain so helpfully supplies. He remembered they said Wednesday.
“Wait.” I look over my right shoulder toward the hidden door. “How did you find my cubicle?”
Gabe leans back a little and gives a chin tilt to someone at the end of the row. And I realize that we have an audience. Because this day just keeps getting better. Mara gives him a timid wave, while the other two repeat interns—Javi and Arman—watch with undisguised glee. Katie looks like she’s going to burst because a tabloid-worthy scene is happening in our office. Where are the actual paparazzi when all the best stuff is going down?
Mortification battles anger, and both emotions push me into action. I grab a random stack of paper off my desk. “Could you please move? I need to make some copies.”
Confusion wrinkles the space between Gabe’s eyebrows. He doesn’t budge. “Okay …” He stuffs his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. His focus drops to the patterned carpet between his feet. “I actually came to apologize.”
“For what?”
He looks up at me through his eyelashes—an expression I’m sure he’s cultivated because he looks deceptively innocent. “I know what it’s like to be accused of something you didn’t do. And I’m sorry I called you a stalker.”
“You didn’t.”
He gives a full-bodied shrug and sheepish grin. “I thought it.”
How am I supposed to respond to that? “Gee, thanks”? He must see the lack of acceptance on my face because the little dimples that bracket his mouth disappear. “I’m sorry if I caused you any embarrassment. That’s all.”
“Oh.” I square the papers in my hand, ignoring the way my sweaty palms stick to them. “Well, thank you.”
He signals for me to exit in front of him, and I do because, even though I don’t actually have anywhere to go, I’m not going to admit that now. The other interns have disappeared back into their cubicles, and William’s still shut in his office. Thank heavens.
When I open the hidden door, Gabe catches and holds it like he’s some sort of gentleman in an old movie. It also means he’s right behind me. I murmur a quiet thanks over my shoulder and my eyes snag on his for a second. I almost trip as I step into the lobby.
Then, I realize who’s standing at the front desk and stop so fast that Gabe steps on the back of my shoe. His hand is at my waist. Steadying me or him? I’m not sure with his chest against my shoulder blades.
Emma is leaning one forearm against the high front desk, face a thunderstorm as she listens to whatever Scott is hissing. The agent stops midsentence, and both heads swing our way.
Scott takes a breath, then he lets it out without saying whatever thought was on his tongue. “I didn’t think you would still be here.” His words are soft, and his lips are pressed thin.
“I’m on my way out.” Gabe’s hand drops from my side, or maybe it was already gone and I just now noticed.
“With Maddie?” Emma manages to ask without any condemnation or concern in her tone, but there’s something brewing behind her eyes. She and my mom might have completely different personalities, but they share the same expressions, and this one is dangerous.
“No. I was getting copies.” I look down at the papers in my hands—it’s a pamphlet for in-office pedicures with a picture of nasty, fungus-encrusted toenails on the front. Even better. “Unless you need something? Can I get you anything? Any of you? Emma? Mr… .” Oh my gosh I can’t remember his name. It’s totally floated out of my mind with the words spilling over my lips. “Scott?”
“Actually …” Emma’s eyes are narrow, flitting from me to Gabe and back. “Why don’t you follow me back to the conference room. Both of you.”
EMMA LEANS BACK IN HER CHAIR, ELBOWS RESTING ON THE WIDE armrests, stilettoed foot bouncing under the table. She’s wearing her poker face. It’s probably unreadable to other people, but I’ve spent the last five years playing Texas Hold’em with her after every holiday dinner. We had to relegate Max to dealer because he counts cards. My dad is a half-decent player and we’ve lost some big penny pots to him, but more often than not, I’ve ended up playing heads-up against Em. She’s not afraid to take a risk if the payoff is good enough, and I swear I can see her mentally tallying her chips.
Scott has switched sides of the table, sitting directly across from Gabriel Fortunato. Something about the positioning makes me think that they’re presenting a united front. Team Emma/Scott is about to face off against Team Maddie/Gabe. I’m not sure how I’ve ended up on a team with Gabe, and I’m not certain that I like it. There’s no way he can be oblivious to the tension in the room—considering I can actually hear the seams in Scott’s suit straining against his frustration—but Gabe’s staring down into what must now be a lukewarm cup of coffee like he’ll find his future in its dregs.
“Gabe, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate social media and don’t like to be coached, overseen, and …” Emma pauses, flipping closed the folder that’s in front of her with a snap. “What was it you said?”
He looks up from his drink. “Minded.”
“Right.” Emma pushes the folder across the table to me. “Would you be more amenable to participating in our efforts if say … Maddie … was your contact for this campaign?”
“What?” Gabe asks, and Scott and I both echo.
Emma holds up a manicured hand, stopping everyone before we can utter any complaints. “Give me a second to explain. The first phase of Reputation Recovery is to create a positive social media presence. I’ve laid out a plan.” She nods to the folder.
I open the cover and look over the strategies my aunt has made to improve his public persona, which include a content calendar with video and photo ideas, suggested text for social media posts, and goodwill events he’ll be expected to attend. The first four weeks are laid out around his practice and game schedules, while the next few months are described in broader terms.
Talk about building a brand. Emma’s got Gabe’s image pinned down like he’s one of the character sketches my mom does for her romance novels. In Emma’s version, he’s a regular guy doing a great job balancing talent, fame, and his personal life. She’s given him a very specific voice—pleasant and friendly—and a consistent feel, down to suggested filters to use on his Instagram feed.