Libby might’ve lived in Newton now with her white picket fence and driveway basketball hoop, but gritty East Boston was our home. Only a year after Mom’s death, I couldn’t understand how Libby was ready to give that up. Without that, who were we? Without my past, was I anything other than the New York City playboy persona I’d meticulously created?
“I’m glad she didn’t see the exposé,” I admitted.
Libby shrugged and wiped down the counters. “She’d have called the reporter a gringo, then turned around and given you an earful. She was the only person allowed to talk shit about us.”
I smiled. “Then she would’ve told me how to move on.”
She looked over her shoulder at me. “You know, good advice is genetic. Not for you, clearly your advice sucks, but I’m great at it.”
“And I suppose you’ll give it to me whether I want it or not.”
“Look at this exposé as an opportunity to make some changes, Sebastian. Both at work and at home. If you listen to this woman—Georgina—and do as she says, you win either way.”
“How do you figure?”
“Either she’s right and you’re better for it, or she leaves.”
I cocked my head. “Leaves?”
“That’s the secret.” She peeled off her rubber gloves and draped them over the lip of the sink. “You wanted to know how to get rid of her? Be so good that the magazine doesn’t need her anymore.”
Well, that was fucking simple. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it. I’d been putting up a fight about everything, even if it was just to disagree with her when I had a nagging suspicion she was right. But was getting rid of her still what I wanted? I couldn’t shake Libby’s suggestion that another guy had potentially taken my shot with Georgina.
Finally, I had exactly what I needed to take her out. Now I just had to ignore the disturbing thought that I might rather ask her out.
10
Georgina
Justin sat in front of his computer making a case for watching Netflix at his desk. And the strangest part was—I agreed with him. Then again, not much about this working environment had been routine.
It was the most engaged I’d seen him yet. Apparently, he’d even arrived before Sebastian today. I’d found him feet up at his desk halfway through season two of Ray Donovan. “It’s research,” he explained. “I want to profile Anthony Pellicano.”
“The private investigator,” I said.
“And real-life ‘fixer.’ His life story has sex, violence, and Hollywood scandal.”
I was glad I’d nixed Justin’s story on the manliest floaties to bring to a pool party. Even though it took a certain kind of skill to write fifteen-hundred words around Shamu references and breast implant jokes, I’d had a feeling Justin could do better. “You have my blessing,” I said. “In fact, we can make this a five-page spread.”
“We rarely do more than four pages,” he pointed out.
“I want to see more thoughtful, in-depth pieces that’re still sexy—like this—and less filler junk,” I said. “Quality over quantity.”
Justin ran a hand through his blond hair, and I thought I detected a hint of doubt, but he nodded. “I can do that.”
“Good.” I smiled. “And make it grizzly.”
“You got it, boss.” He leaned back in his office chair to see behind me. “Look who it is—boss number two.”
I glanced back. As Sebastian approached with his laptop bag slung over one shoulder, I crossed my arms to show my disapproval. In what I’d thought was a rare stroke of generosity, last week, he’d offered to order me a temporary desk from IKEA. That morning, I’d been pleased to find it built and ready for me—with a pink Girl Power mousepad on top and drawers stocked with purple stationery, Hello Kitty stickers, and multicolored gel pens. In the top drawer, a Post-it stuck to a box of Crayola glitter markers read “Harder to lose in a box” in block letters. Sebastian’s neat, contained handwriting made mine look like scrawl. It definitely belonged in the sleek black leather notebook where he was always making notes. Even Broadway tickets to the The Lion King sounded severe in there, with a sharp w, and the dots of his i’s perfectly aligned with their stems.
Yes, I’d stolen a peek at his playbook. As long as Sebastian treated me like an enemy instead of an ally, I’d have to resort to snooping for intel.
“Good morning,” I said, checking the clock to emphasize that it was already past ten.
“Morning.” He nodded at Justin. “Boss number two? Really, dude?”
Justin shrugged. “She lets me watch Netflix at work.”
Sebastian turned to me. “May I see you in my office?”
“Yes,” I said. “You may see me in our office.”
We walked through the cubicles toward the corner. As with every morning, Sebastian’s chiseled features hit me like a Louis Vuitton duffel to the face, but I did my best not to stumble in his presence. Problem was, there was more to him than soulful, green eyes and a strong jaw. He had conviction. He stuck to his guns. He didn’t cave under pressure. I’d be attracted to that if it didn’t frustrate me so much.
“Imagine my surprise when I tried to get to my desk this morning,” he said as we approached the closed door to our office.
“Imagine my surprise seeing my new desk and its contents.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “I was here until after midnight putting it together.” He swung the office door open. Bruno, lying at the foot of Sebastian’s desk, lifted his head. “At least my surprise couldn’t kill you.”
I entered the office and kneeled beside my sleek, blue-gray, utterly lovable Great Dane. “Bruno’s a gentle giant.”
Sebastian closed the door behind himself and walked to his desk to put down his bag. With a squish that made me look up, he slow blinked and lifted his foot to look at the sole.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Did Bruno have an accident?”
“An accident?” Sebastian grunted. “On the contrary, I can’t help but think this is intentional.”
“Or karma, more likely.”
“For . . . ?” he asked, removing his shoe to show me it was vomit, not poop.
If not for everything up until today, then perhaps karma was evening the score for the girly desk, and the other Post-it he’d left on the stationery. It read, Enough to last you ’til the end.
He was counting down the days until my departure.
“Not sure,” I answered him. “There must be lots for her to choose from.”
“Well, karma can thank her lucky stars these seven-hundred-dollar oxfords were a gift from Ferragamo.”
I tried to get Bruno back onto the dog bed I’d dragged all the way from Brooklyn. It was never easy to see him get sick, especially because this meant I’d have to go through the process of giving him his pills again—a chore even on easy days. “Sorry about the smell,” I said, lowering my proverbial weapons since this was a shared office. “I’ll clean up the vomit in a minute.”
“Did he eat something bad?” Sebastian asked.
I wasn’t in the mood to get into details; he probably didn’t care, anyway. Dogs were just animals to him, and I was no more than a temporary nuisance. I stood and took my purse from the couch. “Must have.”
“You don’t think he might be more comfortable . . . anywhere but here?”
Of course he would. Coming to the office was clearly too much excitement for him. “My sitter had an emergency, and I needed to be here today.”
“Ah, right. The sitter.”
I fished out the orange, blue, and white labeled canisters with Bruno’s pills and set them on the desk. Bruno made his way over to his dog bed, where he dropped down with a sigh. Next, I pulled out a small jar of Trader Joe’s peanut butter and a plastic knife.
“You carry that in your purse?” Sebastian asked.
I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to give Bruno his meds at the office, but when he was with me, I never left home without them. I got to work covering each pill in peanut butter. “It’s his favorite,” I said. “And my last resort in getting him to take his pills.”