Page 73 of Tempt Me

“No, thanks. I have to go back to the office tonight.”

There went my hope of a repeat of last weekend. Now I wished I’d driven the convertible, so I wouldn’t have to Uber back to the office in the morning.

“Your server will be with you in a moment.” Frankie bowed and left.

“What do you think, Winslow, cabernet or pinot noir?” Jamila asked.

I sat, incredulous. Why hadn’t she asked me about wine? I’d practically grown up in this restaurant. I could’ve told her the cabernets were uninspired, and she’d do better with a malbec. But she hadn’t asked me. I twisted my napkin in my lap.

While they debated the wine choice, I spotted a man I recognized. Kenneth Royal’s silver temples, gray suit, blue tie, and black loafers telegraphed to the world that he was a banking executive. Here was a way I could make myself useful.

I stood. “Mr. Royal, welcome. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Natalie Jones, and you know Jamila Jallow and Winslow Keating-Ashworth.”

Jamila looked irritated, but she’d been irritated all night. I couldn’t tell if she was still thinking about the bug or if this was a new annoyance. “Evening, Kenneth. Thanks for meeting us.” Her “thanks” sounded like ground glass in her throat.

“We need to talk about the health of our partnership.” He sat across from Jamila but turned his head to assess me. “You’re Charles Hayes’s stepdaughter.”

“That’s right. We’ve met at my parents’ parties.”

“Charles is a smart man.” He looked me up and down.“You’re not the one who owns a software company. You’re the socialite.”

Gritting my teeth, I sat up straighter. “I’m in charge of Jamila’s public relations.”

“I see. Social media posts and whatnot?” He said it like he had a mouthful of overcooked broccoli.

“Yes, and—”

Jamila cut me off. “Kenneth, let’s focus on your concerns.”

I sat back in my chair. Why had she brought me here if she was going to ignore me?

“I’m not sure Jamilow is a good match for FA with all this kerfuffle,” Royal said. “It’s been one thing after another. First, there was Winslow’s scandalous marriage and then his sordid divorce. You punched that journalist and let yourself get snapped on the beach with some bikini bimbo. Now you’ve had yet another altercation with a reporter. Jamilow looks more like a soap opera than a software company to which our august financial institution wants to tie its reputation.”

He leaned back, letting the shrapnel fly from that grenade.

Bikini bimbo?Had Jamila brought me here to apologize?

Jamila’s expression was stone. “Jamilow is an innovative company that generates more creative ideas in one morning than your stodgy bank does all year. That’s why you’re partnering with us. So what if there’s a little drama? You get a group of artists together, there’s going to be some theatrics. However, I can promise no more media hysterics before the release.”

She stared right at me.

Now I understood why I was here. This was her way of showing me the stakes of her life. She had no room for a public relationship with me or the inevitable attention it would bring. My job was to smooth everything over for public consumption and make Jamilow look like a suitable partner to a beige financial services company.

Well, I knew all about smoothing things over. This was what I’d been raised to do. I lifted my eyebrows, and our server glided to our table.

“We’d like a bottle of the Nicolás Catena Zapata, please. And I’ll have a vodka tonic.”

“Really, Nat?” Jamila muttered. “This is my meeting.”

Flashing her my most glittering smile, I said, “Make it a double.”

Once the vodka hit my bloodstream, it was easy to slip back into what everyone, especially Kenneth Royal, expected of me. I ensured everyone’s glass was full. When I spoke, I fluttered my hands to remind everyone I was there as window dressing and not to take me too seriously. I tittered at what they said when it was even remotely funny. I patted Mr. Royal’s arm and gave him my most winning smiles. Slowly, he softened like butter left out on my culinary school worktable.

My behavior had the opposite effect on Jamila. I didn’t need to refill her glass because she hardly touched the wine. She grew more brittle as the night progressed, like chocolate ganache in the cooler.

Finally, dinner was over. Mr. Royal and his august financial institution were won over. He shook hands with Winslow, promising to call him the next time he needed to round out a foursome. He invited Jamila for drinks at his social club. He gave me a lingering hug and offered to give me a ride home in his town car. I declined politely and ordered a rideshare.

Winslow walked out with Mr. Royal, and I expected Jamila to go with them, but she gripped my wrist like a manacle and dragged me behind a potted plant in the vestibule. My heart fluttered with hope. Would she give me a hug to eradicate the oily feeling of Mr. Royal’s? Or at least call me a good girl for making everything go so smoothly?

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