“Nathan,” Gretel said. “This is Madison Shore.”
That much I could see for myself. The information I was missing was what the hell she was doing here.
I cleared my throat as Madison reached out her hand. “Madison,” I said, trying to pick the most neutral greeting I could muster. I took her hand, shaking it while trying to ignore her warm, soft skin, and dropping it as quickly as good manners allowed.
“She’s the journalist with the Post who’s here about the profile. She’s going to be your shadow for the next few weeks.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
I felt like I’d just been torpedoed through the air. I’d lost all sense of control of what was going on around me. How was this possible?
Gretel was babbling but all I could focus on was how I could extricate myself from this situation. There must have been a mistake.
“Madison used to write for Rallegra magazine but has recently joined the Post,” she said as if I was supposed to be focusing on her explanation.
There was no way this could happen. Madison could not be the one here to help rehabilitate my image.
I needed to tell Gretel that I’d be happy for any other Post journalist to interview and profile me. Just not Madison Shore.
Knowing Gretel, she’d threaten to resign again. And then I’d have to confess that Madison really wasn’t the best person to tell the world that business, rather than partying, was my main focus.
That hadn’t been the case Saturday night. She’d been my complete focus then. Those delicious, full breasts that I’d sunk my teeth into, that perfectly cup-able arse that I couldn’t keep my hands off. Without thinking, I dipped my gaze to remind myself how perfectly round it had been, and then I caught myself. This was Madison Shore, journalist from the Post, and she was here to interview me.
To save my position at my company.
To tell the world how they’d gotten it all wrong, and I wasn’t an unfocused womanizer.
Oh, the irony.
“I’ve just been introducing her to your top team,” Gretel said, “and explaining about how you’re really very hands-on with everything. How you like to get into the details.”
I slid my gaze toward Madison, who was staring at the floor. I tried to think back to the weekend. I’d met Madison a matter of minutes after I’d given Gretel the go-ahead for the Post article, so she couldn’t have known she was going to be working with me this week when we slept together. Could she? But . . . It couldn’t be a coincidence. It would be too weird. I tried to figure out the connection. There must be one. Did Gretel know Noah and Truly?
“Like I said,” Gretel continued. “No questions are off limits. And I’ll get that schedule typed up so you know the order of events for the rest of the week.”
“Schedule?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gretel replied. “I’m getting Madison a copy of your diary so she’ll know where you are each day.”
“Because she’s going to be there too,” I said, reminding myself that I’d told Gretel the Post would get full access to everything I did—personal and private.
“Exactly,” Gretel said.
This wasn’t going to work. The conflict of interest was staggering. If anyone found out that Madison and I had spent the night together, any hope of rehabilitating my image would be out the window. Yet I couldn’t admit the truth about my history with Madison—brief as it may have been. Doing so would just prove the point I was so desperate to dispel.
I glanced back at Madison but her expression was blank. When had she figured out the guy she was going to be writing about over the next few weeks—the one about whom she had to remain impartial—was the guy who made her come at the weekend?
I rounded my desk back to my chair, desperate to get some distance from Madison. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I’d been caught off guard generally or Madison’s particular presence that had my brain foggy but I needed to figure out what I was going to do.
As if the fates wanted to throw one more obstacle in the way of my sanity, my mobile buzzed in my hand and a message from Audrey flashed up. I scrambled to cover up my phone before anyone saw who the message was from.
This morning was a disaster. It was like the walls were tumbling down around my ears.
I needed to find a way forward that didn’t involve me making a fool of myself.
If I confessed to PR that I’d slept with Madison, it could go one of two ways. Make that three.
One, Gretel could take it in her stride, understand that coincidences happened, and get Madison replaced. It was an unlikely outcome, but my best-case scenario.
Option two was she could think Madison on the story was a positive thing because she’d liked me enough to sleep with me. She’d insist Madison stay on the story. Of course, the same outcome would come to pass if I kept my mouth shut and kept Gretel in the dark.