Page 26 of Just The Way You Aren't

Damien stares at me without blinking for a full thirty seconds. Then, without adding anything further, he returns to loading the meals.

“The article did paint you as quite a monster—” the female reporter I am really starting to dislike begins.

“Oh, would you look at the time!” I say, physically placing myself between Damien and the pack of reporters. “Mr. Langley, is that the last of the meals?” I ask as he carries out the final load.

He stacks them in the back of the van and nods. “It is.” He glares balefully at the reporters, so I turn him around and give him a well-meaning nod toward the passenger side of the van before he can say anything worse than he already has.

“Thanks for coming out today, everyone. Now, we need to be getting to the clients before they start gnawing their arms off!” I say cheerfully as I yank the driver’s door open. “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you not to follow us. I am serious about maintaining the privacy of our clients. Many older people feel ashamed that they need help, and I don’t feel a need for them to be broadcast. I’m sure you understand.”

The members of the press mumble unhappily to each other, but I can also tell they’re eyeing each other like a school of great white sharks denied a juicy feast. I get the sense we’re not going to be followed, though. They’re all too busydeciding if they’re going to eat each other. I climb into the driver’s seat and carefully maneuver around the reporters to get out of the back alley.

“Smile and wave,” I say sharply to Damien through a smile that could power Manhattan for a week. “Smile and wave.”

Damien blinks, then puts on a professional smile and waves to the press as we pass. It’s not like his real smile. I’ve seen his real smile. In fact, his professional smile leaves me a bit... cold. Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with it, and I’m sure it’ll come out great in the media. I just know him well enough to value his genuine smile more.

“Mrs. Baumgartner today?” he asks as soon as we’re clear of the news vans.

“Yes.” I frown at him. “So, you brought the press today?”

He grimaces. “My board insisted on it.”

“Got a little negative press somewhere, did we?” I needle him. I feel bad about it when his shoulders stiffen, however.

“The Adirondack Gazette misrepresented something I said,” he grumbles. “A couple of weeks ago, one of their reporters—if they even have more than one—painted me like some sort of thug who was throwing people out of their houses and onto the street. I was telling Bill, the negotiator for that particular project, to offer the people double the value of their houses so we could purchase the area for Guardian Productions’ new studio. They quoted me as saying, ‘They should be happy to give up their homes for this project.’ Completely out of context.”

“I see. So, you did need a little PR bump after that,” I say. I try not to sound accusing, but it comes out in my tone.

Damien sighs. “Yes. I did. And my board arranged this whole thing. But the truth is, I’ve enjoyed doing it. And I’veenjoyed spending time with you.” His face is stiff as though he resents saying it, which is how I know he’s sincere.

“Well, I’m not exactly happy about the PR stunt back there,” I mutter. “But it is good press for Silver Hearts. A little warning over the phone would have been appreciated.”

“I’m sorry, Willow,” he says, sounding sincerely remorseful.

I grin at him. “You know, you nearly blew it back there. Again! Then what would you have done?”

He purses his lips. “I suppose I did nearly blow it again.”

“Hopefully, tomorrow’s headline isn’t ‘pathetic little wannabe newspaper,’” I tease him.

Damien groans and drops his head into his hands. “God, no. The board will filet me. Alfred Rothchild will bring the knife. He wants me to step down as CEO. Or, rather, I think he’d prefer it if I were thrown out under a cloud of shame.”

“I’m sorry.” I wince, recalling Damien has mentioned the animosity between him and this particular member of his board. “This Alfred Rothchild sounds delightful.”

“He’s not.” He sits back up and stares out the window, his features tight.

“You know,” I say, “the clients love you. You’re not such a grumpy Gus around them. And you really are a hard worker. I appreciate all the effort you’re putting in, even if I also know you really did just want to write a check and be done with it. I’m glad that I—we—have you here to help. And I’m glad you stopped that day on the street instead of just driving past me.”

Damien rubs the back of his neck, then smiles slightly. A real smile. “If I hadn’t, what would have happened to poor Pixie?”

Is he actually joking around with me? I tilt my head at him. “I suppose I could’ve tried biking with him down my bra.”

He chuckles. “That would’ve been quite a sight.” His gaze drifts to my chest and I blush when his eyes linger there a moment longer than necessary. He licks his lips, then squeezes his eyes shut.

My heart does a little flip at his reaction. The van suddenly feels very small and I’m hyperaware of how close we are. All I can think about is that moment the other day, when we almost kissed in my office. How his eyes had lingered on my mouth, how the air between us had sizzled with possibility before he seemed to catch himself and gruffly drew away from me.

Does he ever think about it too? At moments like this, when he’s clearly trying to resist whatever this gravitational pull is between us? I should probably be trying to resist it as well. We’re from two completely different worlds.

I force myself to focus on the road, gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter than necessary. “I think you should stick with us for a while,” I tell him, proud of how steady my voice sounds. “You’ll get a lot more good PR. And you are a good worker and good with the elderly. You’re just not good with the press.”

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