The ad cut to a black and white photo of a man with a seriously ridiculous mustache and a twinkle in his eye.
“In 1963, Charles Devlin founded the company that would become Devlin Media Corp. And today, more than sixty years later—” the picture shifted to that of a young handsome couple with a smiling child on their lap, oh god that must be Grant’s parents, and then to a paparazzi shot of Grant and I smiling adoringly into each other’s eyes at the gala—“it’s still in the family.”
The picture faded out to a shot of the Devlin Media Corp headquarters, silhouetted by a setting sun blazing gold, orange, and bright pink. Fancy lettering blooming beneath the silhouette: Devlin Media Corp. Family continuity. Family stability.
The lights came back on. “We’re blitzing with stuff like this,” Ken said gleefully. “And man, people are just eating up all this stuff about continuity, all that jazz about stability and stuff.”
My stomach felt the opposite of stable. My stomach felt less stable than a war-torn country in the Balkan Peninsula.
“Good work, everyone,” Grant said. “Keep it up. Be sure to make regular progress reports to Lacey, and come to her or me with any questions.”
Everyone filed out, Grant forestalling any more congratulations by slinging an arm around my shoulder and leaning in to whisper in my ear in a way that broadcast ‘this is an intimate communication, stay the hell away if you want to retain your jobs and also possibly all of your internal organs’ to even the most body-language-impaired of our employees.
“Jennings is back on board with the buyout talks,” he whispered in my ear. It was absolutely goddamn criminal how his dark honey voice and hot breath made that sound sexier than the most explicit dirty talk. “You’re an absolute wonder with that man; he couldn’t be more wrapped around your little finger.”
“That’s right,” I sassed, trying to keep my breathing under control. “I’m the brains of this operation. You just stand there and look pretty.”
He laughed and took my hand. “Come on down to my office, Lacey. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
? ? ?
Somewhere, in an alternate universe where up was down, red was green, and Grant did things without an ulterior motive, the person Grant wanted me to meet was my new assistant, finally hired and overflowing with qualifications, great ideas, and a can-do attitude.
In this universe, the person Grant wanted me to meet was an event planner named Siobhan, who wore a series of gauzy rainbow veils and a general sense of disdain.
“So pleased to meet you,” I managed to muster in response to Siobhan’s greeting of a pointedly raised eyebrow and half-sigh at my presence. Then I rounded on Grant. “I said no wedding plans! You promised.”
“And I have delivered,” Grant assured me. “Siobhan is solely here to help us plan our engagement party.”
“Our—you rules-lawyering little weasel—”
“Don’t worry,” Grant said with his trademark wicked grin. Did he actually have that trademarked? I’d be willing to bet real money that he had that trademarked, and probably insured for several million. “It’ll be an intimate little affair. Just me, you, and oh, five hundred of our closest friends.”
“Oh, you won’t have to lift a finger,” Siobhan murmured, as if speaking any louder might cause her irreparable pain, or else exhaust her to the point where she had to drop onto the carpet in a deep sleep. “I’ll take care of everything. But, if inspiration should strike—” she threw me a look that suggested inspiration would be more likely to strike a lamppost or small potting shed—“here’s my card.”
She languidly extended her hand with the card in it, and after I took it, glided from the room as if she were dancing underwater.
“She really is quite brilliant,” Grant said, though he was struggling to keep a straight face. “Eccentric, certainly, but she’ll take care of everything. Jennings recommended her.”
“Ah, so that’s why you went for Sleeping Beauty,” I said. “Everything makes much more sense now.” I wandered around to the other side of the desk and sank into the lush upholstery of his leather chair. “Are you done complicating my life, or is there anything else you want to throw at me?”
“Well, I had planned on just handing this to you, but if you want to test your hand-eye coordination—”
Grant tossed a small object into the air and without thinking, I caught it. It was a key.
“I know you think I’ve been doing a good job, but I think the key to the city can wait,” I snarked. “Give me another couple weeks, at least.”
“While I have no doubt you will one day earn that privilege, this is another matter entirely,” Grant said. “It’s a duplicate of the key to my apartment. You’re moving in tonight.”