I glare at my top-of-the-line MacBook Pro’s screen, almost unable to believe my eyes. My teeth clench together as I read. The more I scroll, the faster my breathing becomes. Even though the words are swirling before my gaze, I know this is bad––really bad.
After slamming the laptop’s lid closed, I pick up the device and rear back to sling it like a Frisbee into the luxurious infinity pool.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Brinkley, my trusty, capable personal assistant glides by and saves the computer. After setting the device well out of my reach, he sits on the edge of my lounge chair and asks, “What’s wrong? Did an online troll blast you for what you wore to last night’s gala? I told you, yellow isn’t your color, my dear.”
“No,” I snap, perturbed at both his guess and the fact that he was right about the color of the dress not suiting me. I look completely washed-out in the photos.
If anyone else dared to speak to me with the brutal honesty, edging on disrespect, that Brinkley uses, he or she would be fired on the spot. But I’ve always had a soft spot for the flamboyant man. Over the years, he has turned into much more than a simple employee. In fact, he’s one of my closest friends.
He picks up my hand and begins massaging my palm. My pent-up tension immediately begins to release. I tip my head back and take a deep, calming breath.
Already feeling better, I say, “If you weren’t gay…”
“I know, I know. I’m a total catch, but I’m not into all of that,” he waves his hands over my middle.
I chuckle at his candor. “Got it.”
When I lift a single, manicured eyebrow in his direction, he immediately picks up on my unsubtle hint and resumes rubbing my hand. “So, what was on the computer screen that has you riled up enough to throw your laptop into the pool?”
I huff out a breath, before answering. “The Atlanta Bugle ran a huge article about my family as their top news story of the day.”
“That doesn’t sound like a problem. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”
I glare over my Gucci sunglasses at him. “There is when they are sharing deep, dark family secrets that we don’t want anyone to know.”
“Ohh… I see.” Brinkley nods his understanding.
I appreciate it that he doesn’t ask me what the secrets are. Granted, I’m sure he’ll look up the blasted article as soon as he’s not with me, but at least for now, he’s keeping his curiosity at bay.
“So, what are we going to do about this?” he asks, already shifting into efficient fix-it mode.
“Well, for starters, I’m going to buy the Bugle and fire anyone who had anything to do with the release of that story,” I say, plotting aloud.
“On it,” he answers, already on his phone sending out instructions.
I love it that whenever I come up with a crazy, outlandish plan, Brinkley immediately sets it into motion and makes it a reality. The man is a true godsend when it comes to getting things done.
He’s still typing furiously with his thumbs when I add, “I also want to find the source, who gave them their information. I paid big bucks to make sure that none of the Morrow family’s personal information was leaked after the Life Chat data breach, so we need to find out who is behind this and how they got their hands on our secrets.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Brinkley tells me, already standing to make some phone calls.
Secure in the knowledge that my assistant will quickly get this sorted out, I decide to go for my evening swim. After diving into the perfectly clear, 88º pool, I let everything else go as I slice through the water.
Once my laps are done, I emerge from the pool, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
Brinkley holds a large, fluffy towel open for me. As I tie it around my chest, he says, “I found the culprit behind the leak of your family’s secrets.”
I’m beyond impressed that my savvy assistant has already managed to get to the bottom of this. He’s truly the best at his job.
Since I know he’ll appreciate a cash bonus more than my praise, I say in a brisk tone, “Nice work. Tell me.”
He glances at his phone as if he can’t quite believe what he found. “It looks like he’s just an average Joe––literally. His name is Joe Scott. He owns a small motorcycle repair business. He’s single, no kids, his parents are happily married, he has one sister who lives down in the Florida Keys. He doesn’t have an arrest record. He pays his taxes on time. Apparently, his only vice, if you could even call it that, is collecting classic motorcycles that he rides too fast.”
Brinkley’s voice takes on a wistful tone when he turns his phone screen around to show me the man’s picture and says, “If only he were gay…”
Ignoring that last bit, I narrow my eyes at the handsome man’s photo and say, “You’re going to be sorry because you messed with the wrong woman, Average Joe.”