Page 35 of Famous for a Living

I press my lips together to keep from smiling at my uncle’s gesture—particularly when everyone else’s labels seem intended to keep them in their place. Even Peggy’s badge says, Secretary—Part Time.

It seems he wants to make sure I feel as important as possible, even when there is no one to be senior over. I would bet money he spent more time than was prudent trying to figure out how to level up the job title of Will Start an Instagram Account for Us.

He looks at me with quiet eagerness.

“Wow.” I take the badge and pin it on my coat. “This is lovely.”

“And here is your desk.” He moves a hand toward the desk in the corner. I look at the metal folding chair and ancient wooden desk, trying hard to think of something complimentary to say. “And right next to the heater too.” I look at the baseboard heater, because really, heat seems to be the most important commodity around here.

“Yes!” he exclaims. “Moved the printer area for it. We’ve been having some issues with the heaters the past few days.”

Peggy coughs.

“Months,” Uncle Terry amends.

Peggy coughs again and Terry shoots her an annoyed look.

“Okay, years. Figured you of all people weren’t used to this cold.”

My grin stiffens. I mean, it’s true, the whole place can’t be warmer than sixty degrees with these ancient baseboard heaters trying to keep up, and equally ancient single-pane windows trying their hardest to keep the frost out, but still.

I can be tough.

I am not a delicate flower here.

Nobody needs to stare at me given recent circumstances, or go out of their way for me, or heaven forbid, pity me.

“Oh, it feels rather cozy to me.” The reactionary words pop out of my mouth before I have time to stop them. Several brows rise as if to say, Really?

Zaiah’s eyes, I can’t help noticing, squint slightly like he knows he caught me in a lie.

Great. The only thing worse than admitting you set the thermostat to seventy-three degrees in your penthouse in winter is lying and saying you like freezing to the point of hypothermia within ten minutes.

I fumble to add, “It’s just all so beautiful. The snow, I mean.”

Several expressions ease.

“Yes, it is,” Uncle Terry says proudly, giving my arm an extra squeeze. “Now that’s the Cranwell spirit.”

Suddenly, the phone rings behind him.

He looks back toward it, then to the group. “I’ll need someone to give Catherine a tour around the park. Show her everything. From the reptile lounge to the picnic areas. Anything so she can get a jump on revamping our accounts.”

“Now hang on.” Kevin frowns. “What’s wrong with our accounts? I don’t see anything wrong with our accounts. They’re just like the Glacier Boys’.”

“They are not just like the Glacier Boys’,” Mina says.

Kevin throws out a hand. “Okay, fine. They are different. They’re fun and educational.”

“Kevin.” Jax groans and throws his head backward as if this is a daily argument. “Writing a series titled ‘You Ask, We Answer: At exactly what angle do umbels of allium cernuum face downward?’ is not fun. Nobody asks that, Kevin. Nobody asks.”

“Some people don’t have lakes full of rainbow rocks in their park to throw up on their feed every day,” Kevin says. “Some people can’t just post the same image of a bald eagle flying over Lake McDonald and get a gold star.” Under his breath he adds, “Lazy bums.”

Wow.

I don’t know who the Glacier Boys are, but the national park competition is real.

“And that’s precisely why Catherine will be handling all forms of social media from here on out,” Terry says, redirecting the conversation. “This is her expertise. This is what our park sorely needs.”