“It’s not about respect,” Thad said tactfully.
“You don’t think I do a good job,” Paisley muttered.
Olivia regarded her with some sympathy. Paisley had been raised in privilege, and it was as much her parents’ fault she was so clueless as her own. “Paisley,” she said as kindly as she could, “you haven’t gone out of your way to be helpful on this tour.”
Paisley abandoned her purse. “That’s only because of how can I get excited about passing out sandwiches to reporters and, like, making sure your suitcases get to the right room?”
A task Paisley hadn’t exactly performed well.
Thad stepped in. “I understand promoting watches isn’t what you want to do, but once you take a job, you give it your best. That includes the parts you don’t like. And every job has those. You need to do them as diligently as you do everything else.”
Olivia had a strong suspicion he might be talking about himself and the work he was doing with Clint Garrett.
Paisley looked ready to cry. “That’s so not fair! I work hard! And I’ve gotten you twice as much publicity as you’d have gotten if you’d left it up to Henri or Mariel! I—” She stopped abruptly. Grabbing her bag, she headed for the door.
Olivia shot up from the table and blocked her. “Maybe you’d better explain that.”
“Forget it.” Paisley tossed her hair, looking as defiant as a teen who’d been caught out after curfew.
It all fell into place. Olivia looked at Thad and could see he was thinking exactly the same thing. “You took those photos,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been feeding them to the gossip sites.”
15
Olivia stared at Paisley as the pieces came together. If she hadn’t been so distracted, she’d have figured it out days ago. Those four photos: Phoenix, LA, New Orleans, and yesterday’s kiss on Michigan Avenue. “You’ve been following us,” she said, stating what was now so obvious.
Thad rose from the table, and Paisley took a step back, as if she were afraid he’d hit her. “So what if I did? You got twice as many interviews as you’d have gotten if all you had to talk about was your lame watches.”
“That’s not the point,” Olivia said.
Paisley looked down at her hands. “I told you I know how to work hard. Like, I got up really early to take that shot of you and Thad coming back from your hike. And I know how to get publicity. Obviously.”
Thad’s expression was as stern as Olivia had ever seen it. “You didn’t have any right to expose our private lives.”
“I was doing my job! Exactly what you said, Thad. If you sign up to do a job, do the work. And that’s what I did.”
“What you did was unprofessional and unethical,” Olivia said.
“I’m sorry, okay!”
She wasn’t sorry, and Olivia dug in. “Becoming successful means working hard, but it also means working with integrity. You won’t go far with any celebrity if you’re not discreet and trustworthy.”
Paisley began picking at a cuticle. “I guess I shouldn’t have done it. But seeing how lame their feeds are made me crazy. I knew I could do better.”
“Then be straightforward about it,” Thad said, “and do some photo mock-ups for Henri. Images that feel fresh but also work for the Marchand brand.”
“Images that don’t involve Thad’s butt,” Olivia added.
Paisley looked only momentarily disappointed. “I can do that.” She tugged on her hair. “So are you guys still pissed? Because if you’re not, maybe you could, like, write a recommendation for me?” She hurried on. “And maybe you could ask Clint if he’d show me around Chicago or something.”
“You’re pushing it,” Thad said. “Let us see those mock-ups before you show them to Henri, and then we’ll talk.”
* * *
The Logan Square jazz club sat half a flight of stairs below street level. It was tiny and dark, with mismatched chairs, sticky tabletops, and an eclectic crowd of hipsters, boomers, and suburbanites. This was mellow, introspective jazz. Restrained and melodic, played behind the beat, a perfect counterpoint to the roiling emotional mess she’d become.
Tonight was their last night in a hotel. Tomorrow, she’d move back into the apartment she’d rented not long before the tour had started and Thad would return to his condo. Tomorrow, she’d go to her first rehearsal. Tomorrow, their relationship would be over.
She gazed at Thad’s hand curled around the tumbler of scotch. Those strong, capable fingers were as beautiful as the rest of him. He’d restrained his wardrobe for tonight: jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and his Victory780. No bright colors or fashion-forward cuts—his sockless ankles visible above a pair of designer loafers the only concession he’d made to his status as a male fashionista. As much as she loved giving him grief over his clothing choices, he wore everything beautifully.