Page 51

“Come on, Paul. We’ve got work to do.”

Miriam appears at Brie’s side, her forehead creased with concern. “What the hell just happened here?”

I step in, drawing her attention from Brie like I’m a human lightning rod. This whole mess is my fault. It’s my job to fix it as best I can. If I can. “Let me explain—”

She waves a hand, cutting me off. “I’ve changed my mind. Not here. Not with all these people listening. We need to leave. Now.”

Miriam marches off like a general leading her troops into battle, and we follow her like good little soldiers, stopping briefly at the coat check to grab Miriam’s oversized fur jacket—faux, she assures us—and Brie’s cashmere cape.

The elevator ride down to the lobby is awkward and silent. Once we’re downstairs, Miriam finds a grouping of uncomfortable looking high-backed chairs in a quiet corner and sits us down.

“All right. Spill. And don’t leave anything out, or I won’t be able to do damage control.”

I give her every last, gory detail. Brie chimes in at the end, taking the credit—or the blame—for throwing her glass of sauvignon blanc at Irene. Miriam taps notes into her smart phone, only looking up when we’re done.

“You.” She points at me. “You should have walked away when you had the chance. And you.”

She points at Brie. “You know Irene likes to stir up trouble. It’s how she and that gossip rag she works for stay in business. You can’t let her get to you. Especially in a room full of industry power players.”

“I know.” Brie’s eyes are downcast. “And I’m sorry. But she—”

Miriam waves her hand again. “No buts. I swear, I have half a mind to drop your sorry ass. I have plenty of clients. I don’t need to be dealing with this shit at 11:00 on a Saturday night.”

The color drains from Brie’s face. “Please. I—”

“Don’t worry,” Miriam says, her tone softening slightly. “I’m not going to drop you. Yet. But you have to promise to do exactly what I say, or you can kiss your budding career goodbye.”

“I promise,” Brie answers solemnly.

“Me, too,” I throw in for good measure. I feel as responsible for this shit show as Brie. More. Her agent is right. I had the chance to stop things before they started, and I didn’t.

Miriam stands, tossing her phone into her bag and shrugging into her coat. “I’m going to make some phone calls. Try to head this thing off before it gets out of control. Keep your cell handy. I need to be able to reach you any time, day or night.”

Brie nods, and Miriam reaches down to pat her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with a lot worse in my day. Handled correctly, this stuff will blow over. But it can’t happen again. Once is a mistake. The public will forgive you. Twice becomes a habit that gets you anger management counseling and a spot on every producer’s blacklist.”

“Understood.”

Brie rises to hug Miriam, who returns the embrace then breezes through the lobby and out the door into the chilly New York night. Brie excuses herself to use the restroom—which I’m almost positive is a cover story so she can have a few minutes to herself—and I call an Uber, figuring it will be easier than flagging down a cab at this hour.

She’s unnaturally quiet on the ride back to the loft, and so am I. Miriam’s words keep ringing in my head.

It can’t happen again.

Twice becomes a habit.

A spot on every producer’s blacklist.

If I stay with Brie, odds are it will happen again. Some other bottom-dwelling blogger will bring up my background. And Brie, being Brie, will leap to my defense.

I love her too much to let her throw away the career she’s worked so hard for and enjoys so much and is so good at. The thought is simultaneously breathtaking and bittersweet.

I love her. And I have to let her go.

“Well, that sucked,” she says when we’re finally inside the apartment. “But next time will be different. We’ll be prepared for their questions. I’ll see if Miriam or the studio’s PR person can work with you.”

“I can’t.” The words stick in my throat. It takes all my inner strength to push them out.

“Can’t what?” She brushes past me into the living room, blissfully unaware of the turmoil twisting my insides into knots the size of golf balls, and takes off her cape, tossing it over the back of a chair. “Meet with them? I’m sure we can find a time that works with your schedule.”