Finding proof isn’t going to make any difference to Baroness Bitch. You must know that. And if you don’t find a way to understand that—”
“This isn’t about my grandmother, Maceio.” He paused, struggling to find the truth beneath all the layers of deep-rooted rage grinding away in his gut. “Hoping for Albertine’s acceptance hasn’t been a blip on my radar screen in decades. I don’t want anything from her now, except her absence from my life. This is about me. I need this.”
“Have you considered the possibility that after all this searching, you might find something you won’t like?”
“I expect that to be the case.” Because that was what life was like—holding out the faintest possibility that everything might turn out all right, only to become total shit the moment hope took root. But for his own peace of mind, he had to know the truth. “Stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing.”
Though, as Maceio left for his place and Ivar disappeared into his partially unpacked office while texting Estelle, he couldn’t help but think those sounded like famous last words.
“Finally.” His manager’s cultured voice sounded downright crabby when he answered her call about a minute later. Usually Estelle McGahee did everything with a smoothly low-key composure, but apparently she was a different person past her bedtime. “Have you really been interviewing Scout Upton for five hours, or are you avoiding me?”
“I have been learning how to Chicken Dance.” That wasn’t completely true. He’d managed to avoid doing the actual dance. But he’d learned what part of the dance he liked.
There was a beat of silence. “You’re joking.”
“No.” The perfection of Scout’s ass was nothing to joke about.
“You’re incapable of doing anything that’s not proper and dignified. Did someone have you at gunpoint?”
He sighed. Did he really come off as that repressed? He was no more than what he’d been trained to be, just like any other dumb animal made to jump through an endless sea of hoops. “What was it that was so urgent you had to contact me on a weekend, Estelle? I know you must be busy with other clients, and I know you do not have anything scheduled for me until the beginning of the month.”
“Right. Yeah. Um, about that whole not-working-until-April thing. That’s become a teeny little sticking point that I need to talk to you about.”
A schedule change. Goddamn it. “ No, Estelle. Do not even think about it.”
“Now, Ivar—”
“You know what I am trying to do. You know that I have no time to waste. Scout Upton is on holiday until the beginning of April, which means I have an opportunity to get some answers. Because of this, I told you that I cannot accept any more contracts until that time. There should not be a problem here.”
“I had a long chat with Liesl’s agent. Liesl is unexpectedly available now that Fashion Week is over, and Haute magazine has decided they want her as their August cover.”
“Liesl.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Mm-hm. Everyone’s favorite model.”
“Fuck,” he muttered again. He’d rather do the Chicken Dance on his grandmother’s formal dining room table than deal with that photogenic but unfortunate head case. “Will all of my stipulations be met when it comes to working with her? If not, I do not even know why we are having this conversation.”
“According to her agent, Liesl handled Fashion Week with only one mini-tantrum, and she was there for every single one of her shows. She’s on her meds and her people have agreed to have her therapist onsite when you’re there.”
“If she is late by so much as a minute, I walk. I refuse to wait like a dumbass for her—or anyone —while they sit sulking in their trailer because they do not have the right bottled water.”
“That’s not going to happen again.”
“Damn right.” He rubbed at his eyes once more. It wasn’t more satisfying than
“This isn’t about my grandmother, Maceio.” He paused, struggling to find the truth beneath all the layers of deep-rooted rage grinding away in his gut. “Hoping for Albertine’s acceptance hasn’t been a blip on my radar screen in decades. I don’t want anything from her now, except her absence from my life. This is about me. I need this.”
“Have you considered the possibility that after all this searching, you might find something you won’t like?”
“I expect that to be the case.” Because that was what life was like—holding out the faintest possibility that everything might turn out all right, only to become total shit the moment hope took root. But for his own peace of mind, he had to know the truth. “Stop worrying about me. I know what I’m doing.”
Though, as Maceio left for his place and Ivar disappeared into his partially unpacked office while texting Estelle, he couldn’t help but think those sounded like famous last words.
“Finally.” His manager’s cultured voice sounded downright crabby when he answered her call about a minute later. Usually Estelle McGahee did everything with a smoothly low-key composure, but apparently she was a different person past her bedtime. “Have you really been interviewing Scout Upton for five hours, or are you avoiding me?”
“I have been learning how to Chicken Dance.” That wasn’t completely true. He’d managed to avoid doing the actual dance. But he’d learned what part of the dance he liked.
There was a beat of silence. “You’re joking.”
“No.” The perfection of Scout’s ass was nothing to joke about.
“You’re incapable of doing anything that’s not proper and dignified. Did someone have you at gunpoint?”
He sighed. Did he really come off as that repressed? He was no more than what he’d been trained to be, just like any other dumb animal made to jump through an endless sea of hoops. “What was it that was so urgent you had to contact me on a weekend, Estelle? I know you must be busy with other clients, and I know you do not have anything scheduled for me until the beginning of the month.”
“Right. Yeah. Um, about that whole not-working-until-April thing. That’s become a teeny little sticking point that I need to talk to you about.”
A schedule change. Goddamn it. “ No, Estelle. Do not even think about it.”
“Now, Ivar—”
“You know what I am trying to do. You know that I have no time to waste. Scout Upton is on holiday until the beginning of April, which means I have an opportunity to get some answers. Because of this, I told you that I cannot accept any more contracts until that time. There should not be a problem here.”
“I had a long chat with Liesl’s agent. Liesl is unexpectedly available now that Fashion Week is over, and Haute magazine has decided they want her as their August cover.”
“Liesl.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Mm-hm. Everyone’s favorite model.”
“Fuck,” he muttered again. He’d rather do the Chicken Dance on his grandmother’s formal dining room table than deal with that photogenic but unfortunate head case. “Will all of my stipulations be met when it comes to working with her? If not, I do not even know why we are having this conversation.”
“According to her agent, Liesl handled Fashion Week with only one mini-tantrum, and she was there for every single one of her shows. She’s on her meds and her people have agreed to have her therapist onsite when you’re there.”
“If she is late by so much as a minute, I walk. I refuse to wait like a dumbass for her—or anyone —while they sit sulking in their trailer because they do not have the right bottled water.”
“That’s not going to happen again.”
“Damn right.” He rubbed at his eyes once more. It wasn’t more satisfying than
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