Page 82 of Mr. Fixer Upper
When Bradley said ambush, he hadn’t been kidding.
“I’m sure everyone is curious to know if you and Gannon—” Esme began.
But Meeghan was running the interview now. She tossed those heavy blonde curls over her shoulder, her extensions slapping Paige in the shoulder. “It’s not true,” Meeghan announced looking into the camera. “Our little Paige here had a crush on my man, and who could blame her? I mean, look at him.”
Paige thought about defending herself and then decided she might as well see where this idiot was going.
“So you and Gannon were never together?” Esme attempted the clarification, but Meeghan pulled the mic away from Paige.
“Never. In fact, it’s kind of sad that she thinks some worthless little production assistant could tempt Gannon King away from this.” She smoothed her hand down her side.
“Meeghan, I feel like we should get a few things straight,” Paige said, smiling sweetly. “First of all, production assistants are not worthless. Without them you wouldn’t have anyone picking up your iced skinny soy vanilla latte with extra whip. Secondly, I used to be a production assistant, and I’m now a field producer, and I don’t recall asking for your opinion on me or my life.”
“You’re just jealous thathewantsme,” Meeghan tossed her hair again, and Paige felt the breeze.
“I couldn’t care less who you do or don’t date. I’m here to do a job, and I take my responsibilities very seriously,” Paige said coolly.
“Listen, you pathetic little nobody. Someone like you,” Meeghan said swiping her finger down the front of Paige’s dress, “could never come between me and Gannon. No hard feelings, sweetie.”
Paige’s hand balled into a fist as all of her calm down techniques flew out of the window.
She felt an arm slip around her waist. “I leave you alone for five seconds, and trouble just finds you.” Paige looked up, way up, at the newcomer. He was tall and lean, blonde and built, with bright blue eyes and a crooked grin. Drake Mackenrowe was even more attractive, in a polished preppy way, off screen than he was on.
If Gannon was the rough-around-the-edges bad boy of TV, Drake was the elegant knight in shining armor.
“I’m not sure what your problem with Paige is, but I don’t think she’s spared you a second thought, Megan,” Drake said smoothly without looking away from Paige.
“It’sMeeghan.”
“Of course it is,” Drake sighed. He finally spared Meeghan a look. “Your eyelashes are coming unglued.”
Meeghan gasped and reached for both eyes.
“Come on, gorgeous,” Drake said, aiming that crooked grin at Paige. “Let’s get you some champagne.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“I’m Drake, by the way,” he said, gallantly offering his hand as the elevator doors closed on the lobby. He wore a sleek grey suit and no tie. His gleaming loafers were the color of rich caramel.
Paige bent at the waist to catch her breath. Anger was rolling through her system like a thunderstorm, and she didn’t want to take it out on the man who’d saved her from further on-camera humiliation.
She straightened up and accepted his hand.
“I know who you are.” She shook his hand, noting that though it wasn’t callused like Gannon’s, there was still strength in his grip. “Network dream boat and New York realty king. I’m Paige.”
“Paige, welcome to the seventh circle of hell.”
She laughed and was surprised that she was able to with rage coursing through her blood. She leaned against the back wall of the elevator. And took a deep breath. “Thanks for your help back there.”
“I’ve worked with Meeghan before. I know the warning signs of cat and mouse.”
Paige shook her head. “I’m a producer. I didn’t sign up for this.”
“No one signs up for that. She’s a narcissistic, unhinged nuclear explosion waiting to happen. Her show cycles through PAs faster than John Mayer cycles through girlfriends.”
“Do you make it a habit to swoop in and rescue damsels in distress?”
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse, an airy space of light and concrete and stainless steel. The quintessential Manhattan billionaire’s bachelor pad.
