Page 11 of Arranged To Be Mine

I swiped to accept and brought the phone to my ear. “Mr. Corwin, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Blackwell.” His voice was gruff, which told me this was not a friendly phone call. “I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to hire you.”

“You know that would be a conflict,” I said.

“Not to go against that jackass Jack. I want to hire you to help with my daughter’s image.”

I almost laughed. “With all due respect, sir, I saw the press conference. She definitely stepped in it. But I’m not a PR guy. I’m an attorney.”

“I know exactly what you are.” There was a pause and then a sigh. “What you did in that courtroom and to me is exactly what I’m looking for. If you can convince a jury that Jack Montana was the victim in our legal dispute, you can polish anyone’s image.”

I blinked. “Well, jury trials are all about optics. It’s not just about the evidence. So I suppose you’re not entirely wrong.”

“Look, I need someone who can change the current narrative going on with my daughter. And that’s you.”

I stepped back from the curb and out of the way of the many pedestrians. “Is your daughter on board with me helping?” I asked.

The pause that followed told me everything I needed to know.

“She’ll be on board if I tell her to be,” Lou said finally.

“So that’s a no.”

“It’s a ‘she’ll do what she’s told to save her ass.’”

Those icy eyes could be weapons. Her dismissive glance. The glares. She was going to hate this. She would hate me.

“Sounds like a challenge,” I said.

“Is that a problem?”

I smiled. “Mr. Corwin, I don’t have problems. I have opportunities.” I stepped back up to the curb. “I’ll give it a shot.”

4

DARCY

Idid what any self-respecting CEO-in-waiting would do after publicly declaring that love was hopeless under her leadership. I hid. I went home, changed into my oldest sweatpants, and spent way too long in my greenhouse. I talked with my tomatoes and strawberries. Told them all about my worries.

My house was my sanctuary. A four-bedroom remodeled home in Bel-Air. It was my own little oasis in a loud, sprawling city. Gardens, my greenhouse, and a pool all surrounded by lush greenery to give the illusion I lived alone on an island.

I’d spent time renovating it to make it mine. Italian leather furniture. A fireplace I’d never used but always planned to when I had time one chilly January day. Art on the walls that a consultant had picked out because I didn’t really give a shit about art. I preferred to look in my backyard. Better yet, I preferred to be in my backyard listening to the birds and appreciating nature. I was five minutes away from buying one of those bird feeders with a camera. I heard it was supposed to lower your stress level. At the rate I was going, I’d need fifty.

I stretched out on the couch, contemplating whether I could feasibly never leave this house again, when my doorbell rang.

I didn’t move. Whoever it was could go away. It was a gated community, which meant it was a neighbor or someone on my approved list. Since that list was very short, it wasn’t difficult to figure out who it could be.

I still didn’t move. The doorbell rang again. Then my phone buzzed.

Open the door. I have pizza.

Dad. Bingo. Mystery solved.

I dragged myself off the couch and padded to the front door. When I opened it, he stood on my doorstep holding a pizza box and a six-pack of beer. He was still in his suit from the office, though he’d loosened his tie. His silver hair was slightly disheveled, which for him was the equivalent of looking like he’d been through a hurricane.