Page 22 of Out of the Shadow

My hand tightens around my glass. “They just showed up.”

She turns her head, smiles and waves at them. They take more photos.

Still unable to course-correct my feelings about the papps, I snap, “What are you doing? They’re vultures.”

She shrugs. “Publicity. Maybe they’ll mention the agency.”

“And maybe they’ll make up a story about it that makes you wish you never left Brooklyn.”

Angie’s eyes shoot daggers at me. “Getting my name out there is my goal,” she says. “Play along.”

I open my mouth to object, then shut it just as quickly. Maybe she’s right and they’ll publish a puff piece about the show and namedrop the agency. Maybe not. Perhaps they’ll start digging into her business and uncover some unpleasant truths—like her stunning lack of clientele. Either way, it won’t impact me one bit, so I toss a smile toward the cameras.

The server brings our check and Angie pulls out her wallet. Guilt creeps into my conscience, but she did invite me to celebrate. I fall on the side of being gracious. “Thanks.”

“I have to admit I’m impressed that you took the test so quickly.”

“What do you mean? You told me to.”

She laughs. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you would.”

“I’m surprised myself, too,” I admit. When Dad told me he was cutting me off, getting a job was the last thing I wanted, but it felt good to immerse myself in something. “I guess I’m just full of surprises.” I wink.

We stand and I place my hand on the small of her back to guide her through the front door. I’m hyperaware of the spot where my fingers touch her body. I have an urge—which I shove down as fast as it arises—to pull her into my arms. What’s that about?

When we exit the restaurant, at least eight photographers are waiting for us. Must be a slow news day.

“Are you really in Aroostook to shoot a TV show, King?”

“King, what’s your role?”

“When does filming start, King?”

“King, who’s your lady friend?”

Angie stops at that last question and turns on her heel. “My name is Angie Russo, his co-star, and I own Russo Real Estate. And, yes, we’re going to be shooting a television show for Let’s Do It!”

Her admission spawns another round of questions. Smiling for the flashbulbs, I grab her hand and lead her away from the group before she can utter another word. When a warmth spreads from my fingers outward, I drop her hand as if it’s diseased.

“We could’ve given them more information, you know.”

Still stung by the way the papps imploded my life, I reply, “Let them do some homework and find it out for themselves.”

“I hope they spell the name right,” she mutters under her breath.

I hustle toward the agency. From behind me, she yells, “Wait up. Some of us don’t have long legs, you know!”

Being only five-foot-ten, I’m not used to being considered “tall.” When I reach the office door, I spin around and watch the vertically challenged Angie half-jogging up the sidewalk. She stops and places her hands on her hips, then gives me the evil eye. It’s probably more adorable than she hoped it would be.

I hold my hands up. “What? I wanted to get away from them. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Oh, I see. The high-and-mighty King has decreed howIget to interact with the press corps.”

“I was only trying to protect you.”

Her retort is instant. “Brooklyn girls know how to throw it down!” She does some ninja-like martial arts moves around me, her arms flying through the air, and ends with a kick. I jump back.

“Did you pick that up from a movie?”

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