TEMPTATION - A Bad Boy Romance by Gabi Moore Page B

Seven
     
    I turned the package over in my hands again and again. It was almost a perfect cube, tastefully wrapped and giving no clues at all about what could be inside.
    “Oh my god, is what’s-his-name still sending you shit again?” said Clara.
    I’m pretty sure I’ve had hours-long conversations with Clara only to discover at the end of it that we both had been talking about completely different what’s-his-names. Present circumstances meant I was relieved from having to lie to her, which was convenient, so I managed to be less curt with her than I usually am.
    “Yup, from what’s-his-name. Idiot.”
    “Open it.”
    “Nah, later.”
    “How did the meeting with what’s-his-name go?”
    “Fucking hell, Clara, which what’s-his-name? I can’t believe anyone ever lets you near a keyboard.”
    “You know, buddy, what’s-his-name …Tom Hood. Your interview with him.”
    “Yeah it was OK. He’s a bit of an asshole, no surprise there.”
    “Oh,” she said, taking her turn to look over the box.
    “Complete ego maniac. Wants me to write a big piece singing his praises.”
    She lifted her eyebrows. “Are you going to?”
    “Nah. What kind of asshole does that? I’m just going to write it like I see it,” I said, putting on a phony accent and shrugging. Why was I saying this? Why couldn’t I tell Clara what I really felt?
    Her face went serious.
    “It’s such a big story, though. And it is kind of weird. No offense, but …well, why not get Penelope to write it? Why did he ask you ? No offense.”
    I took the package from her hands.
    “None taken. He just saw that I had mentioned him in another piece and he thought I owed him an apology.”
    “That’s it? So, Tom Hood, the Tom Hood, wants you to do a feature piece on him, just like that?”
    I shot her a sour look and she balked immediately, sensing she had overstepped.
    “Whatever, celebrities, I don’t understand them,” she said breezily.
    “He’s not just a celebrity you know, he is an actual entrepreneur … and a lot of what we’ve written about him is actually kind of shitty and--” I stopped. Clara was staring at the package with renewed interest.
    “Oh my god. That’s from what’s-his-name isn’t it?” she said slowly, eyes widening.
    I spun around and went to shove the package in my desk drawer.
    “Yes, it’s from what’s-his-name, so what?”
    She backed away with a sheesh and left, leaving me to think about what had just happened. Was she jealous of me? It hadn’t occurred to me, but many women would have killed for the chance I had. More seriously, my mind wandered again to a darker thought: why had I thrown him under the bus like that? What counted as staying true to my story angle and what counted as a stupid crush on a hot celebrity?
    Look, I’m a decent writer. But Tom Hood’s life seemed harder and harder to explain. I was getting drawn in, when all I wanted was to occupy that calm, neutral territory of a true pro, be objective, show people that I didn’t care how glitzy and glossy a thing was, my job was to get to the bottom of things …and I intended to do that job well.
    I opened the drawer again and tore off the wrapping. Inside was a padded jewelry box, with a delicate gold bangle nestled inside. Along the bangle’s edge was a beautiful etched eye motif, like something you’d find marked on the entrance of an undiscovered Egyptian temple. It was so exactly my style that I held it in my hands for a moment, taken aback by its weight and cool surface, how pretty it was.
    A tiny note inside was scribbled with a time and a date, as before. It was from him. I was being summoned, again. I snapped the box closed and flung it aside. Here I was trying to brainstorm a flattering and subtle profile for this man, and he was just a garden-variety player after all. Trying to buy me with stupid trinkets… One hot tear was growing on my lower lashes.
    I had never both badly wanted and not wanted a thing at the same time