That can’t be good, so I hop over to Twitter. The Carpe Diem feed is stuffed with replies that make my day go pear-shaped.
-What a bunch of elitist garbage.
* * *
-Who cares what rich fucks do?
* * *
-Not like I was ever gonna buy a fancy watch, or a ridic perfume, since, ya know, I was never gonna score an invite to one of their parties.
* * *
Groaning, I drag a hand down my face. Sure, the parties come with a fee, but I’m not asking for country club dues. The price is reasonable.
But I know better than to defend myself online. Everyone knows you can’t argue with Twitter.
Twitter always has the last word.
Trouble is, I’ve built a solid, trustworthy business that I manage personally. My reputation matters, and a couple of errant comments can snowball.
Worse, they can worry business partners.
Like Victoire.
Because Ms. Damon emails, wanting to chat. Dreaded words.
From my office, I call her right away. “Hello, hello, Angeline. What can I do for you?”
“Easton, level with me. Should I be worried that these kinds of negative comments are going to be an ongoing issue?”
Well, I’m worried, but I don’t let on. “I don’t think it will, Ms. Damon. I take the brand and the business quite seriously. There will always be some who don’t like what I do, but our reputation is solid and strong.”
“Then let’s focus on some press that shows the power of the personal touch,” she says. “I’ll put you in touch with my PR team.”
“That would be great, and I’ll come up with something too. This is my issue to solve, and I plan to do just that.”
“Glad to hear.”
We say goodbye, and I exhale sharply.
I’ve got to fix this.
Some romances need a little extra effort to save, just like this deal with Victoire. How to do that, though, is the question.
As I leave and walk to the cake shop to meet Bellamy, an idea starts to form.
It’s only the start of an idea and still leaves me feeling unsettled. If I don’t tamp my emotions before I get to the shop, I’ll come off irritable and frosty. I don’t want to head in guns blazing when I plan to ask Bellamy for something.
When I see her inside, seated at a table, it’s like she’s radiating sunshine and sparkling rainbows.
What the hell? Is she happy about the Twitter reaction?
I can’t get a read on her, and that’s before she stands and draws me in for a hug.
Mmm. That’s unexpected but so very nice. Her honeysuckle scent flirts with my senses, and I forget what had me so annoyed. Who the hell cares when she smells this good? One embrace and she’s disarmed me.
She lets go. “First of all, I wanted to thank you,” she says, and there’s not a shred of ire in her demeanor.
“For what?” We sit, and I try to focus on business and cleaning up the toxic social media spill.
“You know . . . what you said the other day after we were in the studio?” she prompts.
“I said a lot of things on the phone that night.” I’m still unclear where we’re going.
“What you noticed.” She scans the shop and lowers her voice. “About David.”
His name seems difficult for her to say, and my Spidey senses tingle. “I remember.”
She fiddles with a pen on the table, picking it up then setting it down. “I met with Bryn yesterday. She does some consulting for The Dating Pool. And, to make a long story short, I wasn’t the only woman there who was experiencing those . . . issues with him.”
Oh, hell. I sit up straighter, tension whipping through me, but hope too. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“When I spoke to Bryn about what had happened, she said another woman had complained earlier this week too. Well, Bryn took matters into her own hands.” Her eyes are shining, but her voice is strong. “And . . . he resigned this morning.”
She lets out the biggest sigh in Manhattan, her face the picture of relief. “This is such a weight off me. And I don’t think I would have said anything if you hadn’t noticed his behavior.”
Suddenly, my concerns are nothing but smoke in the air, and all I care about is what this woman has done.
She’s brave, and I’m damn proud of her.
“That takes serious guts, Bellamy. And I don’t deserve any thanks. This is all you.” I hold up a hand to high five. She smacks my palm. “Congratulations. That is awesome.”
Her smile is wider than the avenue. “Thank you. But you should accept some credit because I’d been denying what was happening. I told myself it was just part of being a woman in the workforce. I was in denial, then you said something. And I realized it was not normal and I shouldn’t have to feel this way. Now I don’t have to work with that asshole.”
I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if I wanted to. “Good for you. You are seriously a rock star.” This is a good day, no matter what happens with Victoire. “We should celebrate with cake. It’s on me.”
“We should.”
I ask her favorite, and she chooses a chocolate buttercream cake with chocolate frosting. “Decadent,” I observe.
“And we deserve it,” she adds. “But the slices are huge. Want to share?”
“As long as you don’t encroach on my half.”
“I’ll make no promises.”
“I suppose I’ll take my chances.”
I order a slice and we devour the chocolate fiesta, matching each other bite for bite. With one forkful left, I take no prisoners. “I’m afraid I have no choice here, Bellamy,” I say, scooping the last bite onto the fork and into my mouth, then going full Giada De Laurentiis as I roll my eyes in pleasure.
“Was it good?” Bellamy asks when I’m done.
“So satisfying.”
Her eyes tour my face. “I’ll say.” Then she sets down her fork on the empty plate—not a crumb is in sight. “But that’s not all I wanted to tell you.”
I keep my hurt out of my voice; it’s not as difficult as it would have been an hour ago. “Hit me. Apparently, I’m your favorite punching bag, but I can handle it.”
She smiles. “Your grandmother helped me too. She told me something at her house about speaking up and speaking your mind. I don’t know if you heard that?”
I nod. “I did.”
“That stuck with me. And that’s why I wanted to apologize to you.”
My head spins all the way around and back. “For what?”
She gives me an apologetic smile. “Look, David pushed me to be hard on you, but I’m still responsible for what I say on my show.”
“He pushed you because of his inappropriate feelings for you?”
“After you left last week—”
“When he kept inviting you to have dinner late in his office?”
She winces. “Yes, and I said no. I told him I had to see my aunt. But not her cat.”
I don’t laugh. She doesn’t either. “I’m glad you didn’t have to have dinner with him,” I say, solemnly.