Casey’s twin, Caleb, squeals when I pull up outside of his apartment building. I should be embarrassed that I have no other dating prospects than a man who bats for the other team, but Caleb is honestly one of the sweetest people I know. Plus, he’s aware of the Plan.
Step One: Go on a date with Gwen and Duke.
Step Two: Somehow lure Duke into private conversation, in which I propose that he give me an interview for The Tribune.
Step Three: Gain recognition as a successful sports journalist.
Step Four: I have no Step Four. I deliberated about it in the shower this morning and, honestly, I’d be ecstatic just to interview the guy. Even if he has been sucking on the ice in recent seasons, and even if I do think he should promptly retire.
I somehow convinced my boss to let the feature on Duke slide, as I told him that I had plans for something better. He didn’t ask me what those plans were. I’m half-terrified that I’m about to get the can.
“Get in, get in,” I tell Caleb, unlocking the passenger’s side door so he can jump in.
When he sees me, he gives a little howl of pleasure. “You look delectable,” he says enthusiastically. “That dress? Where did you get it?”
“Target.” I edge my car across two lanes, bypassing at least three angry drivers who honk their horns and visibly roll down their windows to shout obscenities at me. “In the sales section.”
“Really?” Caleb peers closer like he doesn’t believe me. “How much?”
“Eleven dollars. I’m on a budget.”
The Cambridge Tribune doesn’t exactly pay well. In the past, I’ve picked up freelancing gigs on the side, using them to balance out my income into something a little more substantial. Lately, however, there just hasn’t been enough time. I think Josh is feeling the pressure of subscriptions dropping and local advertisers pulling out, and Casey and I have had to pick up extra hours creating ads with absolutely no graphic design background.
I would say that it’s been a fun experience, but that would be a bald-faced lie.
“Hmm,” Caleb murmurs. He runs a hand through his neatly trimmed brown hair. “It’s nice, though. If I were straight, I’d tap that.”
“If you were straight,” I say with a laugh, “you’d be tapping someone much better looking than me.” With a free hand, I tug at the hem of the dress, which has inched up my thighs. “Okay. Let’s go over this again. Gwen is who?”
“The evil witch of the west,” he deadpans. “Girl, we’ll be fine. Unless she actually starts melting in front of me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Actually, there is everything to worry about. What if Duke Harrison sees straight through me? What if he takes one look at me and turns the other way? What if Gwen attempts to slaughter me at the table, à la Game of Thrones’ Red Wedding? These are all probable outcomes, and my brain has been stuck on repeat for two days now, overthinking every last one of them.
By the time we roll up to the restaurant, we’re right on time. My nerves turn my palms into shallow pools of sweat and I carelessly run them down the length of my new dress. I spare a quick glance downward. I suppose the red sheath number is pretty. In an understated, simple sort of way.
We give the host our name and then wait off to the side for the other half of our party. I turn to Caleb, panic lining my voice when I ask, “What if they don’t show?”
Caleb plucks my hand off his arm and gives it a quick squeeze. “We eat, drink champagne, and go home to our separate beds. It’ll be the best date we’ve both ever had.”
He may be kidding about himself, but his assumption is still relatively accurate on my end. I don’t recall the last time I had a proper date. If I can’t remember, then it has obviously been way too long.
Glancing down at my wristwatch, I check the time. They’re late. By a minute. Jenny would be climbing up a wall right now. I settle my nerves by imagining my future desk at The Boston Globe. This will work. I just need a little faith, that’s all.
“Oh, my God, don’t you just look so precious, Charlie!”
I’m struck by both the relief that we haven’t been stood up by the power couple, as well as a heavy dose of annoyance that Gwen has made me feel like a toddler trying on my mother’s clothes.
I twist around, forcing a strained smile to my face. My smile falters a little when I catch sight of Gwen. She is also wearing a red dress, though hers is at least two times more revealing. The front cuts down between her breasts and the hem cuts short just below her crotch. I can’t help but wonder if she’s cold. I’d be cold; my crotch would be cold. It’s thirty degrees outside and the weather forecast this morning called for flurries.
She’s either stupidly brave or asking for a case of strep throat.
Possibly both.
She holds out her hands, gathering me in for a hug like a long-lost friend. I’m not fooled in the slightest, and gingerly pull back from the witch’s claws. “It’s good to see you,” I say, looking from Gwen too Duke.
He stares back at me. His blue gaze is furious, and I busy myself with drawing Caleb forward and making introductions.
Stick to the plan.
Suddenly I’m wondering if this was a good idea.
The host sidles up to us, his mouth dropping open a little at the sight of Duke. He recovers admirably. “Would you all come this way?” he says, his voice hovering just short of all-out awe. He lasts all of thirty seconds on the way to the table before he breaks. “Mr. Harrison, you’re, like, my hero.”
A grin tugs at the corner of Duke’s mouth, and suddenly I know. I know what it is about him that makes women pant at the sight of him. It’s utterly ridiculous, and I throw a can-you-believe-this look at Caleb only to realize that he too looks awestruck. Damn it.
Undaunted, Duke grins like he’s totally accustomed to being fawned over by random strangers. “You a hockey fan?”
The host nods like a bobble-head doll. “Oh, man, yeah. When you made that final save against the Penguins a few weeks ago? It was fuck—I mean, it was fantastic.”
Duke gives a low, husky laugh. I think Caleb just got a hard-on. I can’t be certain, but he’s walking funnily beside me now, and he keeps muttering “not now” to himself in a way that’s increasingly suspicious. He’s not alone. The host is blushing like an adolescent, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s on the verge of asking for a selfie with the Blades’ first round goalie.
“What’s your name?”
In the face of Duke’s question, the host halts in his tracks. “Um, Steve, Mr. Harrison. Steve Zet.”
“All right, Steve Zet, you’ve got two tickets on me. Next game, just let the ticket booth know and they’ll let you in.”
Duke Harrison has just earned himself a life long fan, if the expression on Steve’s face is anything to go by. Pure love. I’ve always wondered what it looks like and now I know.
It can easily be confused with constipation, so you have to look closely to distinguish the difference.
Steve finally seats us at our table, and a small game of who-gets-what-chair ensues. Gwen claims the seat closest to the crackling fireplace—I knew that she had to be cold—and then points a finger at Duke when he goes to sit next to her.
“No, no, not there. You can’t sit there.”
Duke looks toward Caleb and I. Hell if I know what her problem is. With a shrug, I take the seat diagonal to Gwen and plant my butt down. My feet are already on fire. You can put me in a nice dress but you can’t make my feet accept the death traps that are better known as stilettos.
Gwen motions to the chair on my right. “There,” she tells Duke, “sit across from me.”
Caleb, bless his soul, is never one to let a snarky opportunity pass, and quips, “Gwen, if I start playing footsie with you, I apologize in advance. I’m just so accustomed to sitting next to my lovely Charlie that, well”—he shrugs boyishly—“it’s a habit now. You’ve been forewarned.” Then he pulls out his chair, plops down, and promptly plucks my hand off the table to kiss my knuckles.
He’s laying it on thick. My nose scrunches as I ease my fingers out of his grip and go for my short glass of ice water. I barely manage a sip before the chair beside me screeches across the hardwood floor and Duke Harrison lowers his big body down onto it.
Almost immediately I’m assaulted by the scent of man, pine, and sexiness. Yes, sexiness has a scent. I’ve only just discovered it, seeing as how Duke just showed me that it existed, and I resist the urge to inch my chair to the right. I want to decipher what it is exactly that makes him smell so good.
As if knowing that I’m thinking insane thoughts, he tosses me a stop-being-weird look before slouching back in his chair. His crisp, blue button-down parts at the neck, revealing a tan throat and a hint of black ink.
He’s tattooed. On his chest. Obviously his ‘Got Milk’ campaign is not from a recent photo shoot. I can’t help but wonder if his rock hard stomach looks the same now as it did in that photo, whenever it was taken.
The stalker in me itches to snatch my phone from my purse and Google him again for a more recent shirtless photo. What is it that he has tattooed on his body? The question eats as me almost religiously. The mentally sane woman in me—the woman with a Plan—has no intention of Googling anyone. In fact, the sane part of me isn’t even interested in him. For the following reasons:
1) He’s obviously got something going on with Gwen James.
2) He’s not my type.
3) He hates my guts, as evidenced by the fact that he keeps sending me dirty glances.
I’m back in control of my raging hormones by the time the server comes around for a drink order. Gwen opts for Dom Perignon—clearly, she’s not expecting to pick up the tab tonight; Caleb chooses some sort of imported ale, and Duke goes for an American beer.
Sam Adams, a Boston classic.
“And you, Miss?” the server asks me politely.
“House white,” I answer primly. If this bill is getting split into thirds, there’s no way that I can afford much more than the outrageous entrée prices. My Target dress and I should have been left on the curb to rethink our life decisions.
Beside me, Duke shifts in his chair and his arm brushes up against mine. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice, “I think these chairs were designed for someone . . . smaller.”
It’s the first time he’s voluntarily spoken to me, as I’m not counting our Twitter private messages. Picking my words carefully, I say, “You are rather monstrous.”
His face breaks into a half smile, but even that slight tilt to his lips warms his rugged looks. “Monstrous.” He says the word with a shake of his head. “That’s a new one.”
From across the table, Caleb pipes up, “How tall are you?”
“Six-four,” Gwen interjects. She throws a sickeningly sweet glance across the table at the man who has once again retreated into silence. “I know how much he weighs too.”
I cough awkwardly into a closed fist at the same time that Caleb mouths “weirdo” before slamming back his ice water like it’s straight Patron. If Gwen contents herself with making creepy comments all day, it’s no wonder that Duke Harrison is practically a mute in her presence.
Why bother opening your mouth when you have a talking parrot to do the job for you?
In an attempt to smooth over the awkwardness which has taken hold of the table, I murmur, “That was real nice of you. With the host, I mean.”
Duke passes a hand over his dark blond hair like the praise makes him uncomfortable. “It’s nothing, really. I meet a lot of fans. A few tickets here and there isn’t gonna hurt me.”
“Duke is great with charity.” This from Gwen, naturally.
I’m beginning to wonder if her mere existence is comprised of telling Duke Harrison what to do and alternatively acting as his pseudo-PR agent.
The server arrives with our drinks, takes our food order—I go for steak—and whisks away again, leaving the four of us to a miserable silence that I’m responsible for. The aura of fury radiating off Duke in waves has lessened, not that this does anything to ease the awkward vibe at the table. I swirl my white wine in its glass. Kick my foot out to Caleb. He kicks me back, and I withhold a taunt curse.
Surprisingly, it’s Duke who breaks the pitiful reign of silence. “So, Caleb, what do you do for work?”
On cue, Caleb’s shoulders inch back and he sits up straighter. “Oh, you know, this and that. Nothing as important as being a hockey player.”
“He’s a real estate agent,” I tell Duke from the corner of my mouth, effectively killing Caleb’s parade of mystery. “He wrangles in clients, promises them their HGTV dreams, and then takes their money.”
Caleb’s brows knit together. “You make me sound like a marauding pirate.”
“Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp?” I ask, and Duke once again surprises me by taking the question seriously.
His blue eyes focus on my fake-date, then slowly drags his gaze back to me. “Johnny Depp,” Duke drawls, and it’s as if he knows that his answer will light a fire under Caleb’s butt because there’s an unholy glimmer in his blue eyes. And, oh Lord, he’s grinning now.
Widely.
At me.
“The left incisor is fake.”
I jolt, feeling very much like I’ve stepped into a bucket of water, and then stuck my finger in an electrical socket, just for kicks. “What?”
Duke runs his tongue across his top left teeth. It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. That one swipe of his tongue makes me feel dirty. I just took a shower, but I need another one immediately. Then, he reaches out to tap his left incisor. “This one,” he says, “it’s not real.”
“Oh.”
It’s all I can say. I’m still recovering from the vision of his tongue and where I would like it to be—on me.
What is wrong with me?
“You said the other day that my teeth must all be fake.”
“Did I?” I busy myself with a gulp of wine. “I don’t recall that.”
“No?” He watches me carefully. “It was right before you said that I’m overrated as a player.”
This is not good. I reach for my wine, only to realize that I’m on E. I pointedly look toward Caleb, but he notices my searching glance and pulls his pint out of reach.
Spoilsport.
I sip my water instead like a true lady.
“So, Charlie,” Gwen butts in, her chin resting on an upturned palm, “how’s work been lately? Hard? Still thinking about quitting?”
Through sheer force of will, I do not grimace. “It’s fine,” I tell her with a toothy smile, “We’re taking on a few new projects. Very, very busy. So busy I don’t have time to think about quitting.”
Duke is looking at me again. I can practically hear his thoughts—“If you’re so damned busy, than why the hell have you been harassing me on Twitter?”
I desperately need more wine if I’m going to survive this dinner. Obviously I did not think this plan through. I wonder if anyone will notice if I head to the bathroom and don’t return.
Gwen tilts her head to the side, fingers dangling over the rim of her champagne flute in a poised way that grates on my nerves. “I heard through the grapevine that The Tribune is on the verge of bankruptcy.” She pauses almost deliberately. “That’s where you are, right? The Cambridge Tribune?”
I hate the way she’s watching me smugly. “It is,” I grit out, “but, you know, The Tribune is on its way up the ladder.”
“Is it?”
No. Which is why I’m being forced to reel Duke Harrison into this ridiculous setup. If I had my way, I’d send his PR agent an email with a request to set aside some time to answer my questions. He or she would say yes. Done deal.
Instead, he’s told me “no” in five different ways. Sitting next to him only serves to remind me of the fact that I spent the last two nights tossing and turning in bed, thinking about what dinner with him would be like. And not like this fabricated double date—a dinner with just the two of us.
The corner of my mouth cramps from my too-wide smile. I push forth undeterred to prove to Gwen that I’m not some daydreaming journalist.
Even though I sort of am.
Duke, no doubt sensing that a fight is on the horizon, breaks the tension. “So, what’s ‘Charlie’ short for?” He flags down the server and points to my empty glass. I almost weep with gratitude, even as I think that he must be up to something. “Charlize?”
I blink. “As in, Charlize Theron?”
Across the table, Gwen snorts derisively and I curl my hand into a fist against my thigh.
Caleb kicks my foot, disrupting any homicidal thoughts that may or may not have entered my head. “Both you and Charlize have blonde hair,” he points out. I love him. I might love him more than I love his sister, and that’s saying something.
“Hers is sleek. I look like a lion stuck its mane into an electrical outlet.”
Duke chuckles. It’s a deep sound that curls my toes in my shoes and reminds me of toasty fireplaces and crackling wood. It’s the sort of chuckle that you want to hear up close and personal, with your cheek pressed against a solid, male chest, and that sexy laugh rustling the top of your hair.
I’m hopeless. Casey will have a field day when she hears about this disaster.
“Ooo, I’ve got it!” Gwen claps her hands together. “Charlie Sheen!”
Is.
She.
Kidding?
My toothy grin slips. Nothing like being compared to the “Winning” King to make you feel less attractive as a woman. “It’s actually just short for Charlene,” I tell the table stiffly. “It was my grandmother’s name.”
Like a true friend, Caleb murmurs, “A beautiful name. Very ancestral.”
Gwen doesn’t bother to say anything at all, as she’s now got her phone out and is scrolling through God-knows-what. Probably selfies, if I had to guess.
“I’m named after the Duke of Wellington. Duke Wellington Harrison. My parents are huge Anglophiles.”
It’s said so abruptly, so out of the blue, that both Caleb and I freeze as though we’ve suddenly found ourselves on a tightrope hoisted twenty feet above the ground. If someone were to tell me a month ago that I’d be having a legitimate conversation with Duke Harrison, I would have told ‘em to lay off the coke.
But this is reality. We are actually sitting her with the Boston Blades’ first-string goalie, and while he’s not exactly smiling, he’s not frowning either. If anything, he appears . . . uncertain. A little embarrassed.
It’s almost endearing.
He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m talking about the English military general, not the entrée.”
As if scheduled by the gods, our meals arrive and, sure enough, a Wellington is placed in front of Duke, whose cheeks are now roasting with color.
Pointing my fork at his plate, I say, “I like coincidences. Tell me, did you plan it?”
“Of course he did,” says Gwen, who has switched her focus from her cell phone to the dainty salad placed before her. “Also, Duke, the GQ editor just sent me an email about a feature with them. They want a full spread. Next week.”
The good humor on his face slowly seeps away. The broody frown is back. I’m not sure whether I should be disappointed or pleased. Except—hold on now.
I direct my attention to Gwen. “What is it that you do again, Gwen?”
Immediately I begin to pray. Please no, please no, please—
“I’m Duke’s PR agent. That’s how we met, actually. Duke’s sports agent hired my firm, Golden Lights Media, and it was almost like love at first sight. We spotted each other after a game and, oh, it was just magical.”
“Gwen,” Duke growls sexily, even if he is saying another woman’s name, “we are not together.”
Despite his assurance that he and Gwen are not, in fact, an item, my stomach drops somewhere south of my feet. Perhaps to Hell. I risk a quick glance at Caleb, whose mouth is pursed tightly like he’s holding back laughter.
This is worse than I expected.
I almost wish that Gwen and Duke were dating. I imagine it would be easier to navigate that mess than one in which Gwen James is actually The Mountain’s PR guru. There is absolutely no way she’ll let him even speak with The Tribune, off the books. She already thinks the newspaper is going down the drain.
And, yes, she would be correct on that assumption.
But how can I compete with G-freakin’-Q??!
Sweat beads on my forehead and I feel a mite bit dizzy. The conversation calls for a response, but I have nothing to say.
Well, nothing besides: fuck me.
Since this is neither appropriate nor a reasonable response, I force a bright smile. “That’s so . . . sweet,” I grit out, none too gently stabbing a piece of my steak. “So, Duke, does that mean mixing business with pleasure is accepted within the Blades’ organization?”
His frown deepens. “Gwen and I aren’t—”
“What he’s trying to say is that we’re a team, Charlie. We look out for each other, and make a sound decision on whether a tabloid photo or an interview—whatever—is beneficial to Duke’s overall career before rolling with it.”
There’s a hidden message if I ever heard one. I just haven’t quite uncovered all of the subtleties yet. Somehow, I imagine that those subtleties are lined with unsheathed knives.
I put down my fork and knife. “So, an interview with a local news publication. Would that be completely off the table?”
Duke drains his beer.
Caleb excuses himself to make a “very important phone call.”
And Gwen . . . Gwen just turns to me with such a serene smile on her face that I’m reminded of my twenty-one year old self, who thought Gwen James was the coolest girl ever. Thankfully, I no longer suffer from such delusions.
“Is that a hint that you’d like The Cambridge Tribune to interview Duke?” she asks smoothly. Her smile might be wide and guileless, but the same cannot be said for her narrowed eyes.
I hold her gaze. “It was just a thought. The Tribune’s fan base doesn’t read Sports Illustrated or other, more well known publications.” I’m lying through my teeth, not that I care. “I just think that it would be nice for some of our locals to see a side of their favorite hockey player from their favorite newspaper.”
“I don’t think so.” That’s all she says before her phone rings and she’s forced to step away from the table to take the call.
Which effectively leaves Duke and I alone, seated side by side.
We’re facing a wall and neither of us turns to look at the other for long, heavy moments. Even so, I can feel his presence beside me as tangibly as if he’d pressed his knee to mine. I’m tempted to do just that, to slide my right leg just two inches over and touch him. But his body is rigid, his left hand curled tightly around the cutlery.
In fact, he might not be breathing.
“So,” I murmur, taking a sip of my wine, “you and Gwen?”
He blows out a breath of frustrated air. “You’re slick, Charlie Denton. I’ll give you that.”
I keep my gaze fixated on the wall. “Not enjoying our double date, Mr. Harrison?”
He leans forward and, oh God, his knee is now touching my bare leg. Shivers chase down my spine, and the thrill has nothing to do with the food in front of me and has everything to do with the man at my side.
“This date is a sham and we both know it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniff. “Caleb and I—”
“Are not together,” he finishes in clipped tones. “Let’s not even pretend that he’s remotely interested in you. I walked up to you both, and his gaze went immediately to my crotch.”
Ah, hell. I can’t even blame Caleb for that reaction. Anyone with a pair of eyes would have a hard time keeping their gaze above the belt when it came to the man seated beside me. Duke Harrison just has that magical effect on people.
“He swings both ways,” I say, offering up another healthy lie. “Obviously he was just struck dumb by your presence.”
“A presence you ensured would happen when you reached out to Gwen.” His voice is a growl, and hearing it sends a flicker of awareness through my body. Is this how he sounds in bed?
I ignore the flutters in my belly. “Do you want me to be honest?”
The exaggerated wave of his left hand snags my attention, and I finally turn to him. He’s already watching me, I find, and his blue eyes are nearly a dusky black. “That’d be a nice change of pace.”
My eyes fix on his handsome face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He plants a hand on the table and leans in, invading my personal bubble. This close, I can see that he has a scattering of light freckles spattered across the crests of his cheeks, as well as a deep, pink scar that extends from his left nostril to the corner of his mouth. My lips part on the breath I’ve been holding, and Duke’s gaze drops down to my mouth.
“It means,” he says in a low, rumbling voice, “that you play dirty.”
“No, it just means that I play to win.”
Almost despite himself, his mouth kicks up in a wry grin. “Like I said, dirty.” He breaks eye contact and slouches back in his seat. “The answer is still no.”
“Because Gwen said so?” Now it’s my turn to plant my hand on the table and lean forward.
Chin tucked to his chest, he lifts his gaze to my face. That one look is potent. Sultry. Dangerous. It’s a very obvious reminder that while he might be playing nice with me right now, this is a man who is generally feared on the ice.
I lower my voice, mainly to conceal the quiver I fear will emerge when I speak. The way he is affecting me is so not in the plan. “Is it because you do everything she says, even if you two aren’t together? You sure she isn’t secretly your girlfriend? Oh, wait, I do believe I hear wedding bells ringing.”
He ignores my blatant taunting and plays it cool, reaching for his beer bottle and touching the glass to his mouth. He’s on empty, if I recall correctly, but perhaps for the sake of our battle of the wits, he doesn’t let on that anything is amiss. This almost makes me grin, because who knew little ol’ Charlie Denton from Cambridge, Massachusetts, could throw off the big, bad Mountain?
“You were saying?” I prompt with a little I’ve-got-this grin.
“How badly do you want this interview?”
Badly. And now that I’ve had the chance to speak to him alone, I’m craving more contact. It’s completely unreasonable, seeing as how we exist on two very different planes.
Him: professional athlete.
Me: struggling journalist.
Nevertheless, I tell him, “I’m not willing to go to jail over this, but yeah, I need this interview to happen.”
His left brow arches high. “Even though I’m ‘overrated’?”
Now my grin is full-fledged. “We’re all overrated in some capacity, don’t you think, Mr. Harrison?”
“All right.”
“All right, what?”
He studies me as he takes another fake hit of his beer. It’s still undeniably sexy, and I squeeze my knees together under the table. “All right, if you want this interview then—”
“Duke!”
It’s Gwen.
I slide back into proper position on my chair, facing the wall like a naughty school kid caught breaking all of the No. 2 pencils. Almost simultaneously, Duke places the beer bottle on the table and resumes his muteness.
Gwen doesn’t seem to notice, if the way she pauses to squeeze his shoulders on the way to her chair is any indication. She waves her phone in the air. “You will never believe who that just was.”
“The pope,” I say, cutting into my steak.
Her tone is snippy when she replies, “No, Charlie, it was not the pope.”
“A shame.”
I swear I feel Duke’s knee jostle mine, but the contact is so fleeting it’s possible that I’ve imagined the entire thing.
“Anyway, that was actually the sports editor from The Boston Globe. He gave a fantastic pitch.” Gwen resettles in her chair and flicks her voluminous hair over her shoulders. “You know, Charlie, I have you to thank for this opportunity.”
I don’t like the sound of this. Sending a hasty glance over my shoulder, my thoughts head straight to Caleb. Where in the world did he disappear to? He’s supposed to be my emotional support for the night. In other words, he’s failing at pretending to be my beloved my fake boyfriend. When I fail to spot him, I slowly bring my attention back to Gwen’s face.
Smug.
If her expression had a name, it would be “Smug” with a capital S.
Still, I can’t let her see how much she’s getting to me. I straighten my shoulders, tip my chin up and say, “You’re welcome.”
Her brows knit together in consternation. “In case you’re wondering how you’ve helped this—”
“I’m not.”
“It’s because if it weren’t for you, I would have told that editor no.” Gwen offers up another too-sugary smile. “But it was you, Charlie, who just pointed out that locals want to have a piece of Duke. So, we’re going to give it to them.”
My heart flops over in my chest. “You’re going to let The Tribune hold the interview?”
“What?” Throwing back her head, Gwen laughs. It’s one of those delicate ha-ha-has that celebrities used to hand out in spades on Oprah, the ones that don’t sound genuine. The ones you’re convinced are practiced in front of the mirror to check the line of a neck, the squint of the eyes. Gwen’s laugh is perfect.
Perfectly fake, that is.
“No, Charlie,” she says, wiping an equally fake tear from under her eyes, “Duke will be doing the interview with The Globe.”
Lovely.
