WILL
“WILLIAM Henry Harper!” a voice called out from behind him. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
He dropped a wad of cash on the bar. Grabbing the rum and cokes he paid for, he spun around slowly. He knew that voice, but he didn’t particularly want to speak to its owner at that moment.
“No story here,” he told Morgan, one of the writers at Zoey Fromme. “Just a guy buying two drinks.” He glanced down. “So you can put your little iPhone away.”
“Who are you here with?” she asked, not moving an inch.
“Come on—it’s a Friday night. Don’t you have something better to do than spy on people having more fun than you?”
“It is called Spy Bar.” She nodded at the sign stretched across the wall behind him.
“I’m sorry.” He grinned at her, determined not to show how much she irritated him. “I meant, don’t you have anything better to do than stalk people who don’t want to talk to you?”
Morgan Cummings had been hunting his story for several months now, ever since his father Henry Harper had announced that Will would be taking on more responsibility at Harper Global to prepare for his ascension to CEO. Thanks to her, his quiet life of clubbing with people in his inner circle had become public knowledge—and the public didn’t seem to like what they saw.
“It’s a job, so don’t take it personally,” she said indignantly. “And unlike you, I actually like what I do, despite its lack of a silver platter.”
He liked his job too, working under the COO of one of the largest snack companies in the country. But he also liked to play hard when the week was over—something he was trying to do, if Morgan would leave him alone.
“Lots of good things come on a silver platter.” He held his arms out, a drink in each hand. “If you’ll excuse me…”
He turned around and headed toward his table, not bothering to look back. He knew the doe-eyed, opportunistic reporter well enough—he could picture Morgan following after him, shoving her way through the crowd.
She caught up to him and grabbed his elbow. “You won’t even give me the name of tonight’s date?”
He glanced down at her; she stared back at him hungrily—though not for his body, which he would have appreciated. No, that hunger was reserved solely for his story, and nothing turned him off more than an eager journalist digging for dirt.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” He scanned the crowd above her head. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, but he wanted to send her a message—that her tabloid reporting of his every move didn’t bother him in the slightest.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said, yanking his elbow again. “Tall, redhead, wearing that slinky black dress with no back?”
“Now, why would you be asking me that? If you think I’m here with someone, why not introduce yourself to her and get her name on your own?”
Morgan grit her teeth and glared at him. “I can’t get anywhere near her and you know it.”
“Oh, right,” he nodded, as if it had just dawned on him. “You reporters don’t get paid very well, which makes it difficult to get past the velvet rope.” He smiled at the bouncer standing next to the entrance to the bottle service and walked right past him, leaving a fuming Morgan behind in the middle of the club.
“A gentleman would invite a lady to join him,” she shouted after him over the din of the vibrating music.
“I would,” he replied over his shoulder, “but I know all about your disdain for silver platters.”
He would never give her entrance into his world, and not just because Morgan would blog all about it the next day. The bigger issue was that she was petite, brunette, and squawky, like an obnoxious parrot—not exactly his type of girl. So why give her the time of day?
Jaycee, on the other hand, was exactly the kind of woman he wanted to spend his time with. He sat down across from her in their booth and poured the drinks into
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