At that, they both erupted into gales of laughter, reminding Kennedy of their college days, when their smallest feats of hilarity could set them off. Like the time they convinced a bunch of drunk NYU students that they were fraternal twins, the only medical rarity of their kind in the country.

  “So, when do I meet with this paragon of tolerance and inclusivity? And am I going to him or is he coming here?”

  Aurora tapped her French-manicure-tipped finger twice on her desk. “He’s coming here. They won’t allow him in the offices while he’s on suspension. I’m pretty sure he’s available tomorrow, so just let me know what your schedule looks like and I’ll slot him in. If not tomorrow, we can arrange it for later this week.”

  “No, I can see him tomorrow.” Kennedy didn’t have anything on her schedule that afternoon. She’d actually hoped to duck out early, but alas, that wasn’t going to happen.

  “By the way, how did your date with my brother go?” Aurora asked, as Kennedy turned to go. “I thought I’d get a call Sunday.”

  Kennedy deliberately made her tone light and breezy. “He picked up the tab and made sure I got home safely, so things went as well as they could.” Nothing except ex-lovers having dinner, one intent on digging up the past, and stirring up everything else in the process.

  “I doubt it’ll make Page Six but we’ll see how things go. Although, I have noticed a tone change in how they’re covering the lawsuit since the picture of us together was published. And, as far as I know, there hasn’t been another article insinuating that my appearance at the press conference was staged.” Hail the almighty power of a nine-year-old photo with his arm around her. If only world peace could be achieved that easily.

  “When are you going out again?”

  Kennedy lifted her shoulder and let it drop. “I have no idea. We’re playing it by ear.”

  The food had been delicious, the karaoke better than a few of the concerts she’d attended, and after the initial stumble, conversation between them had been surprisingly effortless. They’d stayed until ten before calling it a night. Nate hadn’t had to wrestle her into his car to take her home. Her consent had been grudging, but she’d gone willingly. When they’d arrived at her apartment, she’d quickly exited his car, taking a good-night kiss off the table. The goodbyes were conducted with him behind the wheel, double-parked on her narrow street. When they’d see each other again wasn’t discussed.

  Aurora nodded. “Are we still hooking up with Sahara next weekend?”

  “We’re going out even if she has to bail,” Kennedy assured her, before going back to her office.

  These days, the singer-actress spent most of her time in LA. Whenever she was back in the city, they always made a point to get together, even if it was them grabbing a quick cup of joe at her favorite coffee shop.

  At the ding of her cell phone, Kennedy hurriedly checked the new message.

  Eager much?

  Nate: Are you free for dinner this weekend?

  Kennedy had no idea why she stood there grinning like an idiot, and why her stomach fluttered like a schoolgirl whose crush just invited her to the junior prom. She was a grown-ass woman who knew this thing with Nate wasn’t real and would never lead to anything except perhaps another roll in the hay if she allowed herself to go there.

  Taking a seat behind her desk, she texted him back, giggling to herself at her response.

  Kennedy: On less than a week’s notice? I think not!

  She delighted at the inclusion of the exclamation mark. It conveyed just the right amount of faux indignation. Animated bubbles formed on her screen. She watched them avidly as she awaited his reply, only to be startled into almost dropping her phone when it vibrated in her hand.

  “I have to give you a week’s notice?” Nate lamented, before she could get out so much as a hello, when we’re doing this cutesy text messaging, you’re not supposed to call.

  When it came to personal messaging etiquette, men’s intuitive abilities were pretty dismal. They ranked a notch higher than understanding that when a woman said she was fine, she was exactly the opposite.

  Kennedy made a sound of mock affront. “Who do I look like to you, last-minute Molly?”

  “Seven days isn’t exactly last-minute,” he said, sharing the lightheartedness of her tone.

  “I’m a working woman. My busy schedule means I require due notice.”

  “Due notice?” he asked, the la-di-da unspoken in his laugh. “You must be a hoot when it comes to spontaneity.”

  Kennedy made a face and stuck her tongue out at the phone. “There are a lot of other ways to be spontaneous.”

  “Oh yeah? Tell me.”

  For the rest of the day, Kennedy would marvel at how, with a mere drop in pitch, he could make those four words sound so dirty. She would also wonder why the low growliness of his voice always did it for her in that way. She literally had to treat her nipples like troops on the front line primed for battle and order them to stand down.

  “Like surprise parties and marriage proposals.” The second the words came out of her mouth, she wanted nothing more than to snatch them back.

  “Been surprised by many birthday parties and marriage proposals, have you?”

  Kennedy didn’t know what to make of his tone, which on the surface sounded cavalier but carried a rough edge.

  “Is that the yardstick you’re measuring me by?” he continued more congenially.

  “Of course not. I don’t expect either from you. I was just giving examples of spontaneity that can easily fall within my week-notice rule.” The rule she’d just made up and had now taken on a life of its own. That was what she got for her attempt at playful messaging.

  “What can I do to get you to pare that down to something sooner?”

  Eager to move the conversation along, Kennedy said, “How about for our next date, I make the arrangements. Dining out is great and everything, but there’s a lot of other stuff we can do.”

  Lots of other stuff we can do?

  What is wrong with you? You might try thinking before you speak.

  Nate chuckled softly. “You’re right about that. Okay, I’ll leave the arrangements up to you and I’ll send a car to pick you up. Just tell me the time, date, and attire.”

  Kennedy knew better than to argue with him about the car. The man was intransigent on the subject, as she’d discovered on their first date. She’d never dated someone of Nate’s wealth. The closest she’d come was Aidan, who owned a lovely condominium in Astoria and drove last year’s BMW Coupe but certainly didn’t make personal car service ready at his disposal money. Nope, that was for the people who played in Nate’s rarefied league.

  “Good, then. I’ll contact you with the details.”

  “And I’ll be waiting. Have a good day, Kennedy.”

  Suddenly, she was overcome with a sense of uncertainty, and had to remind herself that this—what they were playing at—wasn’t real.

  “You too,” she said softly.

  After she ended the call, she stared at the phone, her mind swirling.

  For something that was supposed to be for show, it sure was starting to feel a tad too real. She needed to slow things down to a crawl and create some healthy distance between them.

  13

  “You picked up,” Sahara exclaimed, the smile in her voice unmistakable.

  “What time is it where you are?” Kennedy asked, surprised by her friend’s early morning call.

  Phone pressed to her ear, she skirted two men in business suits stopped in the middle of the sidewalk carrying on a conversation. An unheard-of sight at seven-thirty in the morning in Manhattan. People had places to go, people to see, and work to get done. All of which applied to her at the moment.

  “Way too early. But it’ll be the last time I’ll be up this early for a while. Today’s the last day of filming and I’m due in the makeup chair at five-thirty sharp, so I have to make this quick. Instead of clubbing it on Saturday, how would you like to go to the launch party for the new couture line? Things have been so hectic, I forgot to tell you about it the last time we talked. And you know I want you and Aurora there. Please say you’ll come. Pretty please.”

  Kennedy chortled. “You had me at ‘new couture line.’ We will be there in our evening best.”

  Sahara had told her about the line a year ago, when it was nothing but a long-held dream and rough sketches of princess gowns and elegant dresses. And now, a year later, the budding fashion mogul was about to realize that dream with a splashy launch party.

  Kennedy dared someone to try and keep her away.

  “I’ll leave tickets for you at the door. Will six be enough?”

  Kennedy did a quick count in her head. If she and Aurora brought dates, that would be four. But if six was Sahara’s starting-off point, she would also ask Jonathan if he wanted to tag along, and of course he would bring Darrell.

  “Six sounds good.”

  “Great. Gotta run now, sweets. My scene is up next. I’ll see you Saturday.” Lately, Sahara was doing more acting than singing, although the movie she was filming now allowed her to show off her vocal skills. After her last world tour, she’d wanted to stay put for a while and bought a beautiful mansion in the Hollywood Hills. There were bargains to be scooped up for a cool ten mil, something Kennedy would have to keep in mind the next time she went house hunting. Right.

  She bade her friend goodbye and made her way up to the third floor. She quickly deposited her handbag in her office and then made a beeline for caffeine. The coffee was ancillary.

  The agency’s small break room contained the standard lunchroom fare, and a vending machine that included healthy snack options. If granola bars counted as healthy. Mina sat at one of the tables, mug in hand.

  “Hey, Mina.”

  She regarded Kennedy, her expression strangely void of emotion. “It should be a crime to be that happy coming into work in the morning.”

  “The Globe isn’t running the original story about Fields Literary Agency,” Kennedy replied, smiling. “What’s not to be happy about?”

  After she’d gotten home last night, she’d received an email from the reporter that he was taking the story in the direction she’d suggested. When Kennedy called Ainsley with the news, the woman couldn’t have been more grateful or relieved.

  Mina took a careful sip of her coffee before answering. “Right now, there’s a lot I could be unhappy about.” Her expression turned downright sinister. “Did you know that if I killed my boyfriend in a crime of passion, I could get as little as eight years in jail? Which would you advise, state or federal prison?”

  Kennedy halted in front of the sink, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “That sounded awfully thought-out.” Smothering a laugh, she opened the cupboard, grabbed her mug, and gave it a thorough rinse. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to have to get another client coordinator and I’m going to have to schedule monthly visits to some prison upstate. My weekends are full enough as is. And I don’t think orange is your color. It would wash out that gorgeous complexion of yours.”

  Despite her narrowed glare, Kennedy could tell Mina’s ire wasn’t directed at her. “The bastard cheated on me.” Her fingers tightened meaningfully around the handle of her mug. “In our apartment. In our bed.” Moral outrage at the former and seething rage at the latter.

  “In your bed?” Kennedy’s voice rose to a squeak. That brought it to a whole new level of hurt, betrayal, and humiliation. “He could have at least had the decency to do it at her place or book a room.”

  Mina’s brown eyes stormed. “He has no decency. He’s a pig. And I wasted three years of my life I’ll never be able to get back on that jerk.” She gave her head a furious shake. “I’m not going to hear the end of it from my parents. They told me to stay away from those American boys.”

  “Aren’t his parents from Pakistan too?” That was where her parents were from. Mina and her older brother were born and raised in Brooklyn.

  “But he wasn’t raised there. As my mother says, he’s been Americanized,” she said, mimicking her mother.

  Kennedy had met Addy at the Christmas office party last year, and he couldn’t be more “Americanized” than Mina herself. She didn’t know what things were like in Pakistan, but when it came to her clothing, hairstyle—an adorable shoulder-length bob—and makeup, Mina was a New Yorker through and through.

  “They can’t actually believe that men raised in Pakistan don’t cheat on their girlfriends or wives?” Kennedy retrieved milk from the refrigerator, checked the date to make sure it was still good before pouring some into her coffee.

  Mina let out a disgruntled groan. “The man living with their daughter better not.”

  “Men are the same all over. It’s all about finding the right one.”

  “Yeah, and now this weekend I’m going to have to tell them I’m not living in sin anymore. My mother was sure we were getting engaged this year.” Tears filled her eyes as she whispered, “So did I.”

  Kennedy stopped what she was doing and hurried to the table. Putting her arms around Mina’s shoulders, she gently smoothed her hair. “Oh, sweetheart, everything will work out. Addy’s an idiot. He doesn’t deserve you. But don’t worry.One day you’ll find someone who does.”

  Mina rested her head on Kennedy’s stomach, her arms circling her slender waist. After a bit, she slowly pulled away. “Men are pigs. As if I’d want another one of those,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I told him he has to give me money to buy a new bed, and to take the one he screwed his girlfriend on when he moves out.”

  “Good for you. Do you think he will?”

  “No, but after I kicked him out last night, I transferred three thousand dollars from our joint account into mine. That should cover it. I left two hundred for his moving expenses.” By the expression on Mina’s face, that seemed to provide her with a measure of grim satisfaction.

  With that kind of money, he’d be able to rent a U-Haul for a few hours and supply a couple of his friends with pizza and beer in exchange for the use of their strong backs and arms.

  Pushing back the chair, Mina stood. “Anyway, enough of my depressing life. I sent you an email about Roger O’Brien. I was able to get in touch with the Simmonses. They heard about his problems and said they’d be happy to go on record about what a sweet child he was and how he’d always been kind to them.”

  “That’s great. I’ll let his coach know. The team will want to get someone out there to talk to them. Stage some sort of event with Roger and the Simmonses.”

  Zion had contacted her about their meetup at the sports bar. Said things went well. That they’d hit it off. Fans had taken pictures and posted them on social media. The majority of the feedback had been positive. A number of Black reporters appreciated that Roger was making an effort. Most important, the press wasn’t talking about him anymore and calls to have him kicked out of the league had been reduced to a dull roar. Silence was success.

  “And I’m already working on finding out all I can about your nine o’clock. Not much out there on social media, though.”

  “Whatever you find for now is fine. Hopefully, he’ll give us more to work with after our meeting.”

  The next hour flew by, and before Kennedy knew it, Joseph Russo walked into her office. And plunged her into comb-over hell. She tried not to gawk at what must have been a painstaking arrangement. Single strands of hair were never meant to perform that much work.

  Hairstyle aside, the news producer was physically imposing, his heavyset frame easily topping six feet. He was fifty if he was a day and moved as if he carried the weight of his newsroom on his meaty shoulders.

  After polite greetings were quickly dispensed with, they sat and regarded each other like fellow gladiators readying for battle. Their goal was the same, but their method would inevitably differ. Kennedy could guarantee that.

  “Before you say anything, I want you to know that, despite what’s being said about me, I have no racial animus toward anyone. And I’m not a sexist or a bigot or a misogynist or homophobic.”

  They did that a lot, her clients, coming out of the gate as if getting the first word in edgewise would give them the advantage in the I’m the least racist person you’ll ever meet competition, and she was the presiding judge. And she didn’t know if he’d just rattled off a list of his possible offenses or was simply being an ass. Neither was a good sign.

  But Kennedy had a job to do, and hoped her smile conveyed that any fire that landed in his vicinity was the friendly variety. “And now that we have that out of the way, Mr. Russo, I’m going to tell you one thing about me. I make it a rule never to judge someone based on what they say because people have a tendency to obfuscate or minimize their actions in these sorts of situations. I assess them by what they do. Our motto here is Show Don’t Tell—that is, unless we’re putting out a carefully worded and properly scrutinized statement.” To that, she sent him a wink and nudge smile. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  For a moment he didn’t say anything, simply stared at her, mouth compressed into a straight line. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face, making him appear more weary than vexed.

  “When I told Alex—Miss Montgomery—to fix her hair, it had nothing to do with the style. It was the color. Parts of it were green and pink. Not the whole head, mind you, just the bottom half. Or maybe it was a third. I can’t really remember anymore. But it was dyed those crazy colors. I can’t believe she expected me to let her on air looking like that.”

  He paused to inhale an agitated breath, before barreling on. “She never said that when she filed the complaint, you know, that she had it colored like that. And no matter how often I told them, they didn’t want to listen. Call me old-fashioned, but I run a professional shop. I expect everyone to look and dress appropriately for their job. I got a bunch of guys who have tattoos and that’s fine. They’re usually covered and they work behind the scenes. But hair the colors of the rainbow is where I draw the line. Always have and always will. I don’t care what color skin you have.”