Page 44 of Tempt Me

Jamila didus all a favor and found a location for the interview and photo shoot. Unfortunately, it was a place I was uncomfortably familiar with, Billie Woods’s mansion in Atherton. Although it was the next town over from Jamila’s, Billie’s neighborhood couldn’t have been more different. It was the type of place I’d expected Jamila to live: an enormous house with an expansive lawn and all of it meticulously maintained. The homes were set far from the winding street, which would make porch-to-porch conversations about avocados impossible. There were no bicycles lying in the driveways or dogs playing fetch in the yard. A stately black Rolls-Royce cruised by on the street. Not a Ford or Toyota was in sight.

Like the night of the party, there was a sticky note above the doorbell instructing me to come in. But when I pushed open the door, I had to step back outside and double-check the address.

The house was empty. The furniture was gone, as were the books on the shelves. Even the rugs had been rolled up and removed. When I’d come to the party, a hundred people had filled the open-plan space with their chatter and laughter. Now it was silent.

“Hello?” I called.

“Back here.” The voice floated from the back of the house.

I followed the voice, my heels clicking on the tile and echoing off the hard, empty surfaces.

I found myself on a grandiose enclosed porch. It was as large as the living room with glass garage-style doors that could be lifted to open the room to the outdoor pool area. The elegant furniture had been removed here too, and mismatched pieces had been brought in, including a white chaise and a few industrial-looking chairs. Gauzy white curtains danced in the breeze from the open windows.

When I saw the photographer’s equipment already set up and the makeup artist adjusting the light at a folding table, my stomach muscles relaxed. Everything looked ready for Jamila. I wouldn’t waste any more of her precious Saturday than necessary.

I checked in with the photographer’s assistant about the plans for the shoot. He showed me the nearby sitting room he’d designated as a changing room for Jamila. A rack of clothing stood beside a screen. While he lowered the blinds over the exterior windows, I checked that Jamila’s outfits had made it there safely. She’d sent a couple of suits and a sheath dress. I’d added a pair of jeans, a T-shirt from her coding camp, and a buffalo-plaid shirt to layer over it to bring out her human side.

Everything was in order.

One side of the room was set up for photos. On the other side was a seating area for the interview. Two tan couches faced each other across a coffee table. A pair of dark-brown wingback chairs anchored the sides. The vase of African daisies I’d ordered was the only color in the space. I hoped they were similar enough to the ones I’d seen on her porch to make Jamila feel more at home.

I introduced myself to the journalist, Nita D’Alessio. I’d read her pieces before. Although she had a definite anti-capitalist slant, her articles were usually fair, and they presented the tech titans she interviewed as human beings.

“Remember, Jamila has stipulated that we won’t be discussing the TikTok incident,” I said. “She’s asked me to cut off any questions regarding that topic.”

“That’s what everyone wants to know.” Nita touched a finger to her chin. “The readers would be more sympathetic if they knew what set her off.”

Exactly what I’d thought. “She doesn’t want to give that guy any more attention than he’s already received.”

“Fair. He’s an asshole.”

“Really? You know him?”

“Sure. He’s the one you stay away from at parties, if you know what I mean.”

I curled my lip. “Gross.”

“Exactly. What about her COO, Winslow Keating-Ashworth? Is he off-limits?” She glanced out at the pool. “It must have been an interesting divorce.”

Interesting? I’d heard it mentioned a couple of times, but I couldn’t imagine that anything about Winslow was as fascinating as Jamila. “Let’s keep it focused on Jamila. She’s the star of Jamilow.”

“Okay.” Nita shrugged. “You can sit on this couch.” She pointed at the one that didn’t have the camera pointed at it. “Jamila will sit on the other one. I’ll be in the wingback chair.”

“Got it. We need to approve any video from the interview before it’s posted.”

“Sure. It’s mostly for transcription purposes, but we’ll let you know if we’d like to release any of it. I’ll send you the file. You’ll have sign-off, of course.”

“Perfect.”

The hairs rose on the back of my neck a second before Nita said, “Ah, here she is.”

When I turned, I had to fight to keep my face from doing anything weird. Jamila strode toward us like she owned the place dressed in weekend-casual denim trousers—I dared anyone to call the pressed straight-leg pants she wore jeans—a tan suede jacket, soft eggshell blouse, and kitten heels. No one, not even me, rocked business attire the way Jamila did. She made it look effortless, like she’d come out of the womb wearing pinstripes.

I wanted to bask in her reflected glow.

I shook myself and pasted on a smile. “Jamila, this is Nita D’Alessio. Nita, meet Jamila Jallow.”

As the women shook hands, Nita sized her up. When Jamila performed her own scan of the journalist, jealousy stabbed my gut. I wished Jamila paid that much attention to me.

---