It was at that moment Kennedy made up her mind about the singer. She was good people, as her father would say. Definitely not the stuck-up celebrity type. It would be great working with her.

  Whoa! Slow your roll, Miss Thing. Are you forgetting that your part in this is all make-believe? You’re an overqualified temp making twenty-two dollars an hour. The company is using you and you’re being rewarded handsomely for it.

  A fact she kept front of mind as the presentation commenced.

  * * *

  “I’d like to incorporate green, yellow, and red into a few of the summer pieces.” Sahara addressed John as they approached the end of the meeting, a full two hours later. “And black and white, if it wouldn’t look too busy.”

  “Do the colors have a certain significance?” he asked, his expression mildly indulgent.

  “They’re the colors of the Guyanese flag,” Kennedy supplied without thinking. When everyone looked at her, brows raised, she responded to the question in their eyes. “Sahara’s father is from Guyana.” A fact anyone could learn from her Wikipedia page. “And so is my mother,” she tagged on belatedly.

  “Your mother’s from Guyana!” the singer exclaimed, showcasing her impressive vocal range. “Which part?”

  Kennedy pressed her lips together, containing a smile. “Georgetown.”

  “That’s where my dad’s from.” Sahara’s eyes danced with excitement. “Oh my god. What are the chances? Small world, right? Listen, after we’re done here, can we go somewhere private to talk? Like your office?” she suggested helpfully.

  Or it would have been helpful had they existed in a world where temporary worker Kennedy Mitchell had an office. And as she did not, alarm struck the heart of every man in the room. Their furtive gazes bounced between each other. What do we do? What could she possibly have to say to her that we’re not privy to? Good god, Kennedy’s not even a real employee.

  If Kennedy had intended to respond, Mr. Edwards’s look would have cut her off at the quick. “That’s a wonderful idea. Unfortunately, with renovations going on, I’m not sure it’s habitable right now.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me—I’m easy. I don’t mind a little mess. Plus, I’m curious to see where you work,” she said, looking at Kennedy.

  That makes two of us.

  Mr. Edwards visibly swallowed, his gambit proving unsuccessful. “Then let me have a word with Maureen since she’s in charge of the renovations.” With that, he got up and quickly exited the room.

  The meeting wrapped fifteen minutes later, and as everyone availed themselves of what remained of the sandwiches and desserts, Kennedy and Sahara proceeded down the hall to “her office.”

  Minutes before, a text from an unfamiliar number appeared on her phone, which she could only surmise came from Maureen.

  212-555-7862: The office is the fourth door on the right when you leave the conference room.

  Kennedy was about to find out what lay behind door #4. Holding her breath, she opened the door and was immediately struck by dark furniture and tall wooden bookshelves. The identity of the office’s current occupant had been wiped clean. No family pictures or personal memorabilia could be seen anywhere. A large monitor, a stack of folders, and a paperweight sat on the desk, and a large drop cloth covered furniture in the corner, which fit perfectly with the renovation narrative. Quick thinking.

  The singer didn’t walk so much as she sashayed, slim hips swinging with a smooth glide to her step when she preceded Kennedy in and crooned a delighted, “Impressive.”

  “Thanks.” It was nice but totally not her style. Too much testosterone. Lighter wood and pastel colors were more to her taste.

  “Was it totally obnoxious of me to ask to see your office?” Sahara had a mischievous grin on her face as she made herself comfortable in one of the high-backed guest chairs.

  “Of course not. I’m sure they see it as a good thing.” When she took a seat in her chair, Kennedy had to bite down on her bottom lip to suppress a moan of pleasure, certain that this chair, with its soft supple leather and gorgeous wood, could spoil her ass for the rest of her life.

  “Okay, first things first. Can I get your card? If everything pans out—which I think it will—I’d like you to be my personal contact. Sarah, Ellen, and Mariah can deal with everyone else.”

  Kennedy didn’t panic easily, but she also didn’t possess the natural instincts of a consummate liar.

  Shit shit shit!

  A business card? Even if they’d been able to magically produce one in time for the meeting, what good would it be without a working phone number and extension?

  “Um, why don’t I give you my cell number? That way you can get in touch with me night or day. Let me just write it down.”

  Kennedy’s gaze made a thorough sweep of the desk. Seriously, not one pen or pencil? Lovely. She tried to open the top drawer, only to find it locked. She then tried the one below. It opened to reveal a box of condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Stifling a gasp, she hastily slammed it shut.

  “Wow, someone must have oiled the gears,” she said, her laugh strangled. “Kind of slipped out of my grasp.”

  She could really use a drink right now. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t was turning out to be thirsty work.

  “No worries,” Sahara said and began rifling through her green Hermès handbag. Pulling out a card, she leaned forward and handed it to Kennedy. “Here, why don’t you take mine? You can leave your number with the message service.”

  The card was black and gold with an embossed silhouette of Nefertiti on the front, a desert oasis on the back, and was made from superior card stock, as one would expect from a star of her caliber.

  “Works for me.” Kennedy tucked it in her purse. An office, business cards—how many other bullets would she have to dodge before the end of the day?

  “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Sahara studied her closely.

  “Sure.” Kennedy could only pray she’d be able to answer it.

  “Are those contacts?”

  Kennedy’s laugh was part amusement, part relief. “Nope, these are my eyes. Got them from my dad.” Her uncommon slate blue eyes were a frequent topic of conversation, compliments, and stares.

  “So, your dad’s what, white?”

  “No, he’s Black.”

  Sahara’s mouth fell open. “Really. Okay. Wow.”

  “He was born in North Carolina. Came from a long line of slaves and slave owners.”

  “And your mom’s Black too?”

  “Yep. Born in Georgetown. Immigrated to the States when she was seventeen. Met my dad in college. Got married and had four children, and here I am, the youngest of the bunch,” Kennedy concluded with a smile.

  One day she might do one of those 23andMe tests to see what her complete genetic makeup looked like, but to the world she was a light-skinned Black woman who probably had some mixing going on in her bloodlines on both sides of her family tree.

  “So do you have any brothers?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Two, both older. Both single.”

  Sahara’s gaze turned coy. “Either of them have your daddy’s eyes?”

  “The eldest.” Kennedy got this all the time. “He lives in California.”

  From the Grammy Award winner and Oscar nominee who could probably have any man she set her mind to without having to bat those thick-lashed eyes at them, more coyness. “You’ll have to introduce us one day.”

  Kennedy snorted a laugh. “I’m sure he’d like that.” Cameron would get a kick out of this, not that his already oversized ego needed to be fed any more.

  Sahara’s expression turned sheepish. “God, I’m so nosy, aren’t I? I didn’t mean to get all up in your business.”

  “No, you’re fine,” Kennedy said, dismissing her concerns with a wave of her hand. “I get it all the time. Especially the questions about my brothers. By the way, my other brother is good-looking too.”

  “Then make that two introductions,” the singer said, her manner playful. “Anyway, the real reason I wanted to talk to you alone was because I like you, and I don’t believe in holding any punches. It’s this thing with me—I meet someone and either I click with them or I don’t. And that’s the vibe I’m getting from you—we click. You’re smart, ambitious, and put together as all hell, but my one concern about working with this company is that you were the only Black person in there.” She gestured in the direction of the conference room. “Please tell me the company and your team are a lot more diverse than the guys sitting in that room.”

  It seemed the moment of reckoning had come sooner than expected. What the hell was she supposed to say? The truth would most likely kill any hopes of Sahara partnering with ECO. But how could she lie? The company was about as diverse as the US Olympic equestrian team. More important, she didn’t have a team, diverse or otherwise.

  But you could have one, a voice in her head whispered, and with that came all sorts of possibilities. Visions of diversification and the end of college loan payments began to dance in her head.

  Could she?

  Should she?

  You could and you definitely should. Judging by the volume and clarity of the voice in her head, it sounded very adamant about that.

  Mind made up, Kennedy met Sahara’s steady and somber gaze. “I can assure you, it’s much more diverse.”

  3

  An hour after Sahara and her team left the building, Kennedy had upgraded her office—as a guest—although this one was equally dark but larger, with a nicer view. She faced the CEO across his desk.

  “Sahara appears quite taken with you.” Mr. Edwards’s scrutiny of her was intense in the most benign manner possible.

  “I assure you, the feeling is mutual,” Kennedy replied.

  “Good. That’s good.” He paused. “If we’re fortunate enough to partner with her, that would mean a great deal to the company’s bottom line. It would also open new doors for us. A celebrity of her status would give us the kind of exposure that money can’t buy.”

  Not only were celebrity endorsements worth their weight in gold, but when stamped by the celebrity’s own particular brand—think Air Jordans—the sky was the limit when it came to earning potential.

  “So, I’m sure it won’t surprise you when I say I would like you to stay on with us in a marketing capacity.”

  And there it was, the job offer, just as Aurora had predicted. Now all she had to do was play it cool.

  Kennedy treated him to a level gaze. “I feel I need to remind you that I’m currently temping at the reception desk.”

  Strictly speaking, I don’t even work for the company and I just saved your heinie big-time.

  His smile thinned. “Yes, I’m painfully aware of that. I wish we’d had you on full-time long before now.”

  Look how much money it would have saved us went left unsaid.

  “You could have five years ago when I applied.”

  That caught his attention. “You applied for a position here?” he asked, his tone sharp and gaze probing.

  Kennedy nodded, feeling a certain sense of karmic vindication. “Right out of college.”

  A shadow crossed his face. “Were you brought in for an interview?”

  “No.”

  “What about a telephone screening?”

  “Nothing. Never heard a word back.”

  “I see.” He drew out both words.

  This couldn’t possibly come as a surprise to him. Had he not ventured beyond the ninth floor to mingle with the peasants on the lower floors in their cubicles? Not a single Black employee existed at the company.

  She discreetly appraised his stalky build in his iron gray suit, with his salt-and-pepper hair and air of self-importance and obliviousness.

  Likely not.

  “I guess that was our loss.” His statement came as close to self-deprecation as she imagined he could muster.

  “Given the way things turned out, some would say so.”

  “I hope you won’t hold that against us and are open to a job offer. And this has no bearing on the outcome of any partnership with Sahara.”

  Oh yes, he was now seeing the benefits of actually having a Black person on the payroll, come what may. Whoever said money was the greatest motivator of all was proved right time and time again.

  “I do have two interviews next week.” She was glad to be able to throw that out there. Nothing like a bit of competition to apply the right kind of pressure and let him know she wasn’t so desperate for a job she’d be willing to accept any lowball offers.

  “Both I hope you’ll cancel. After you consider my offer, that is.”

  “I guess that will depend on the offer.”

  Mr. Edwards smiled then, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He handed her a sheet of paper that represented the opening bid in salary negotiations. “Why don’t you look this over and tell me what you think?”

  “I hope you’re open to negotiations.” She was certainly game. An offer printed up and presented to her in less than an hour said they wanted her bad. Needed her.

  She skimmed the document until her eyes came upon a number. An eye-popping shrimp and salmon can be added to the grocery list number. Kennedy had to force herself not to visibly react because the annual salary listed was 25 percent higher than her previous job.

  Her heart picked up its pace. Farther down on the sheet, another number caught her eye. The sight of the words signing bonus followed by thirty grand set fireworks off in her brain. They’d now ventured into complete student loan repayment territory.

  Breathe. Breathe. You hold the cards here. Never let them know how much you want it.

  Never back down from asking for what you’re worth. Her father had driven that into her and her siblings’ heads.

  But before she presented her counteroffer, there was the not-so-little matter of the promise she’d made the singer. “Sahara mentioned the lack of diversity and wanted assurances that the company and my team were more diverse than the men at the meeting. I told her it was, so you’re going to have to hire more people if you want to keep her happy.” It wasn’t a threat, simply a statement of fact.

  Mr. Edwards barely batted an eyelash when he replied, “Then I guess we’ll be hiring more people. You can take the lead on that and you’ll receive our standard recruiting fee of twenty-five percent.”

  Be cool. You can jump up and down and scream when you get home.

  “Sounds good to me. As for the offer, I propose ten percent more on the base salary. Six weeks of vacation and Election Day off.”

  His mouth quirked in reluctant admiration. “That sounds fair.”

  If she’d asked for 20 percent more, Kennedy was sure he would’ve agreed, which gave her more than a moment’s pause. Worried she was rushing into this without enough thought, she slammed on the brakes and said smoothly, “Wonderful. Now, I hope you don’t mind if I take the night to think it over.”

  “Of course, of course. Take until the end of the week, if you want,” Mr. Edwards said with an understanding nod.

  Kennedy intended to do just that.

  * * *

  “Get in here, you,” Aurora cried the second she opened her front door to Kennedy and all but yanked her inside. Clad in red sweat shorts and a white crop top with her highlighted gold-blond tresses, her best friend looked like the ultimate sun-kissed California beach girl.

  Kennedy had come straight there after her meeting with Mr. Edwards. In her excitement, she’d almost called Aurora before she left the office. But in the end, she decided it wasn’t the kind of news she wanted to share over the phone. That kind of instant gratification couldn’t compete with seeing the look on her bestie’s face when she told her in person. So she’d texted that she was on her way over and turned off her phone.

  “How dare you hold out on me,” Aurora chided, all mock aggrieved. “We don’t do cryptic. We don’t make each other wait. We don’t do torture. Now tell me what happened with Sahara. Did they offer you a job? Come on, spill,” she commanded and tugged Kennedy by the arm into the living room.

  Aurora’s brownstone wasn’t how the other half lived; this was the lifestyle of the one-percenters. Kennedy wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the place. A beautiful three-bedroom in swanky New York’s Upper East Side was far removed from her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Her best friend enjoyed high ceilings, crown molding, gorgeous built-in shelving, tall arched windows, and a kitchen to die for. Nate bought it for her the year his company went public—his junior year at Columbia—and Kennedy didn’t even want to know what he’d paid for it. All she knew was that in Lenox Hill everything cost a fortune—and then some. One day she’d be able to afford something one-tenth the price and half the size. Just not in New York City.

  Kennedy let her friend pull her down onto the oversized sofa in front of the fireplace. “Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “I’ll tell you if you promise to make me one of your famous brown cow floats.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, but I think I can manage that. And count yourself lucky that I just replenished my stock of Kahlúa. Now spill. I want all the details. Great outfit, by the way.”

  That was Aurora in a nutshell. A hundred thoughts and only one mouth from which to voice them.

  “Okay, let’s start with Sahara, who is absolutely fabulous. Really down-to-earth. She’s as beautiful in person as she is in the mags and on TV. Looks younger too. Anyway, we hit it off. I mean, I really think she likes me. She asked for my phone number. Oh my god, the Desert Queen has my personal phone number.” Hours after the fact, she was only now grasping the enormity of that. Even though Aurora’s parents rubbed elbows with a lot of big stars, Aurora rarely did, and Kennedy never had. This was a big f-ing deal.