Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“No,” I fire back. “You got someone who bleeds for the Vipers jersey, who puts it on the line every night for your team, for your profit. Someone who’ll fight until there’s blood on the ice and banners in the rafters.”
“Yes, I want all of that, Grizz. But I’ve had enough of the negative headlines. Enough of the press circus. This organization can’t afford to keep cleaning up your messes. Unless you want to spend the rest of the season watching from a press box next to my suite, we’re doing this my way now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your way?”
On cue, he reaches for the intercom on his desk phone and presses the button. “Send her in.”
Behind me, I hear his door click open, followed by that unmistakable sound… heels on hardwood.
I turn around to see a beautiful woman walking in like she owns the place. Black blazer, gold hoops, a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other. Her dark hair is knotted in a bun at the top of her head, which only serves to highlight the elegant line of her neck. Her blue eyes lock onto me and her expression is the exact opposite of impressed. She looks like someone who’s more dangerous with a pen than I am on a breakaway.
Langley straightens, practically puffing out his chest with pride.
“Grizz McAvoy,” he says. “This is Daisy Turner. She’s not with our usual PR firm, rather coming in from traditional media.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Traditional media?”
“Investigative background. I need someone a little tougher than the usual mitigators we’ve put on you.”
Daisy gives me a once-over, taking inventory of the damage. Langley keeps going, undeterred. “She was with Contour, one of the best, most influential magazines in the country. Broke some major stories in the fashion industry—”
“Got fired for it, didn’t she?” I interrupt, leveling a smirk her way. I remember seeing something about the big kerfuffle on social media a few days ago. “Yeah, they canned you, didn’t they?”
She shrugs. “I got too loud for the people I made uncomfortable.”
Langley gives a tight smile. “Which makes her uniquely qualified to handle you. She’ll be overseeing your public narrative, image control, messaging. All of it.”
I run my eyes down the length of her in cold appraisal before turning to Langley. “You brought in a journalist to follow me around and tell me how to do my job?”
“She’s more than a journalist,” Langley says. “She’s the one who’s going to make sure you’re still employable by Christmas.”
I laugh. “You think some magazine girl with a notebook and a grudge is gonna fix this? What’s the plan? Write a think piece about my inner demons? Spin me into a misunderstood antihero?”
“I’m not here to babysit you, Mr. McAvoy,” she interjects.
I meet her eyes. “Good, because I didn’t sign a contract that calls for some media chaperone following me around with a halo and a crisis binder.”
Her gaze doesn’t flinch. “I didn’t sign up to hold your hand through a meltdown. I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to do a job. You blow things up, I keep the fire from taking down the entire building.” She steps closer, now just inches from me. Not blinking. “You don’t have to like me. You just have to listen. Because right now? You’re not a hero. You’re a headline with legs. And I don’t plan on letting your self-destruction ruin both our reputations.”
Langley chuckles under his breath. “Excellent. I’ll leave you two to… get acquainted.”
He walks out, and the door shuts behind him, leaving me and my babysitter in silence.
I look at Daisy. She doesn’t look away.
This is going to be a problem.
Chapter 4
Daisy
Istep into Central Park and onto the paved path near Tavern on the Green, leaving behind my apartment on the Upper West Side. Tourists cluster near the restaurant’s brick facade, posing with cocktails. I slip past them, weaving through families with strollers, joggers in head-to-toe Lululemon, and a man strumming a six-string with his dollar-filled guitar case showcasing a solid day’s earnings.
Heels are a bad idea. They always are, and today they feel like punishment. I make it halfway down West Drive before ducking onto a side path shaded by American elms. At a quiet bend in the trail, I stop, toe off the heels, and swap them out for the ballet flats in my tote. The relief is immediate.
Near the lake, where the path bends beneath elms that have turned amber, a woman sits cross-legged on the grass with a canvas propped against her knees. She’s painting with oils (actual oils), her coat streaked with reds and blues at the cuffs, a tin of turpentine glinting beside her. She’s just decided this patch of ground belongs to her art, and apparently that’s enough.
I slow without meaning to.
Her brushstrokes are fearless, broad, confident sweeps. Whatever she’s rendering bears no resemblance to the landscape before her. It’s abstract, all fractured geometry and blazing warmth, as if she’s capturing the feeling of the park rather than the reality of it. Hundreds of people have probably walked past in the last hour without stopping, because the world doesn’t tend to notice women doing quiet, defiant things. People notice the spectacle. But a woman on the ground with paint under her fingernails, building beauty from nothing? Invisible.