I’m not entirely sure why I’m surprised when Evie bursts through my office door. Any barriers between us were bulldozed down during the Big Sur trip. But the panic on her face does surprise me. Jean’s on her heels, and her demeanor isn’t better.
“Look,” Evie says, letting that Texan accent she’s always so desperate to hide come out with blazing insistence. “You have to be honest with us. It’s the only way we can help you.”
Ceremoniously, I close my laptop, clasping my hands over it. “Perhaps I could if you gave me a friggin’ clue what the hell you’re talking about.”
Jean hands me her phone and points at the screen. “I’ve already called a press conference for first thing in the morning.”
Reading the headline that’s about to go public, I swallow my disbelief.
long multinational leverage a sham—s.e.c. to investigate
Wait. What?
I read further.
Sources have revealed that Margot Long, acting CEO of Long Multinational, and Liam Cooper Byrne, mystery mogul representing the Alliance, have been in an intimate personal relationship since the beginning of the so-called leverage of twelve companies. Video footage is reported to show . . .
“This is all speculation.”
“Really,” Evie cries out. “Is video footage of the two of you in an elevator from weeks ago speculation?”
“Fuck,” I mutter, knowing that I need the bad publicity and Evie’s nagging about as much as I need a urinary tract infection.
Pacing back and forth, Evie spits out, “You’ve got that right,” as if responding to my innermost thoughts.
Jean calmly stands by, holding herself together with the sophistication and polish she always does. She’s the polar opposite of Evie, who continues her unfiltered freak-out on me.
“Hey, have yourself a hot piece of man-candy like Liam Cooper Byrne. You go, girl. But take it from the girl whose family owns the media, you’re about to get fucked by the press. And let me tell you, they don’t hold back, and they don’t use lube.”
I look to Jean, nearly begging. “Jean, help me out here.”
“Well,” she says, lowering herself to one of the leather chairs. “Evie’s description might be colorful and vulgar, but she’s not wrong. The press loves this. The more vulgar, the better.”
I dread asking, but I have to. “Have you seen the footage?”
Strangely enough, neither has, and both shake their heads.
Jean offers what she has. “None of my sources have a copy.”
“Mine either,” Evie says with obvious disappointment.
Skeptical, I ask, “And exactly what sources do you have, Evie?”
“The usual. Google. YouTube. TikTok. Twitter. And I found nothing.” She shrugs. “I even tried a few hashtags. ElevatorLove. ElevatorPlumber. DallasPoundTown. PenthousePussyGalore. MoreMargot. CoopsCock—about fourteen variations on CoopsCock. Lots of really hot videos, but not of you. At least, I don’t think it was you. And you’ll have to check the footage yourself because in a lot of them, the man’s face is out of frame, but I’m confident you could spot Coop’s dick a mile away.”
Already exhausted from her ramblings, I say, “Trust me. None of them are him.”
Evie shoves her phone at me, live-action video rolling on her Twitter feed. “But—”
“It’s not him,” I say, cocking my head to catch the tail end of the mind-blowing X-rated footage in front of me—fairly certain that these sex moves should come with a reenactment warning and be reserved exclusively for Chinese gymnasts. I return her phone to her, sliding it across the desk.
Thankfully, my phone comes to the rescue with a familiar chime.
“I need to take this,” I say, using my businesswoman tone.
The expressions Evie and Jean exchange mean, one—they know it’s Coop. And two—they half suspect I’m going to use this critically important moment for phone sex. I let it roll off my back because, let’s face it, they know me.
And knowing me means they trust me to do whatever I have to do to protect the company and all the people associated with it. Even Evie.
The ladies quietly file out of my office and close my door, giving me the privacy I need to have this painfully awkward discussion with Coop.
“Hi,” I say into the phone, my voice coming out nervous.
“Hey,” he says, and his deep tone resonates through me, making me feel better just from the sound of his voice. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“Um . . .” I stall, realizing I’ll be the one breaking the news to Coop. “Preparing for a press conference tomorrow. About us.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have dinner?”
“Coop . . .” Worried I’m about to hurt him—or us—with what I’m about to say, I speak softly. “There’s a headline about to hit—”
“Oh. You mean hashtag LoveInAnElevator? That one?”
I can’t decide which is more of a shock. That he knows and is taking this so calmly. Or that Evie was totally on the right track, and nearly nailed it.
“And here I was worried you’d be concerned.”
“Not even remotely,” he says with a confidence known to both the geniuses of the world, and the insane.
“And why is that?”
“Just meet me for dinner. And you’ll see.”
Before I ask the question, I know the answer, but I ask anyway. “Where?”
Upbeat and casual, he says, “My place.”
Of course.
* * *
I’m halfway to the elevator in the lobby of Coop’s building when I hear the two-toned whistle of someone who likes what he sees. He’s standing by the vacant concierge desk, and I take a minute to drink him in.
Coop’s wearing a navy button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled almost to his elbows, showing off just enough of his forearms, and a pair of jeans that catch the flex of his thigh muscles as he heads toward me. His piercing gaze with his gold-green eyes and his five o’clock shadow absolutely melt me. And when he breaks out into a smile, I totally forget what I’m doing here in the first place.
“This way,” he says, resting his hot palm on the small of my back.
God, I want this man.
If I could form words, I’d ask where he’s taking me. But between the heat of his body and that swirl of cologne blending with his own scent, I seriously can’t think.
Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe it’s not having seen Coop in nearly a day. Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s only going to be amplified by watching some porno of us in an elevator.
He leads me down a hall and into a small office filled with monitors. “This is Walter,” Coop says as I shake the man’s hand. “He runs security for the building.”
“Pleasure,” I say, noticing Walter is wearing a pullover and sweats, casual and comfortable in a room that has to be ten degrees colder than the rest of the building. I’m already shivering when Coop pulls me against him, his hot body loaning warmth to mine.
Walter gestures to the monitors in front of him. “Coop asked me to check the footage, but there isn’t any.”
I cock my head, not sure I understand what he means by that.
“You see,” he says, “all video footage is on a seven-day loop, after which it records over itself.”
Frowning, I think that through. “But someone could’ve snagged it off the cloud backup.”
Walter shakes his head. “That’s what everyone thinks. But we not only pride ourselves on security, but privacy as well. We don’t do cloud backups. Everything we have is in this little freezing-cold, fireproof room. If someone hasn’t noticed unusual activity in seven days, too bad for them. Now, the residents are free to have whatever security system they want in their apartment. Video. Cloud. Kept forever and a day. But it’s on them to make those arrangements. We only monitor the common areas. The exterior. The lobby. The elevators. And the roof.”
“Monitor?” I ask nervously. Fuck.