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“It won’t come to that,” I reply. “Ms. Davis is very good at her job.”
“Excellent,” Madeline says. “Better safe than sorry, though. I left the folder on your desk. Is that all?”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “Thanks again.”
And then she’s left, leaving me with my thoughts. There’s still an hour before Harley’s set to arrive. She doesn’t have that much to do here; even Gabriel moaned about the pointlessness of spending time in the office, filming the odd PR short or rewatching his old footage to improve his cinematography. I could easily make an excuse about why Harley would be better off working from home for the time being. Or even taking a break until the next StormTV shooting. It’s not like she didn’t make enough to tide her over for several weeks at least.
Then again, I have to film that announcement today. Ever since we released the statement about Dad’s tax evasion yesterday, online SJWs have been screaming about the need for me to make a public statement myself on where Storm Inc. now stands and our plans for the future. So I will need Harley after all. At least, at 3 PM, when I have my time slot with her booked.
The next few hours, I fritter away. That’s the one thing I can’t get used to about being president: while on paper there’s a lot more you’re supposed to do, in reality, you’re in charge of finding the right people to solve the right problems. Once that’s done, there’s not much more to do, other than answer the odd email, and schedule meetings no one really wants to go to.
I visit Landon to help with the specifics of putting Storm Music on the market, his new job now that he isn’t bogged down with the impossibility of Storm Inc.’s books. I eat lunch in my office. I return calls.
And then, at 3 PM, I go over to Harley’s desk.
“Hey.” She brightens at seeing me.
“Hey,” I say. “You look…” I catch myself just in time to growl, “professional.”
That was close—too close. Telling your employee she looks ‘good’ is a fast track to a harassment suit. Inappropriate.
But she does look good. Hot as hell, in fact. Her pencil skirt shows off her trim middle and generous hips, while the tie of her high-neck, slightly sheer teal blouse is beckoning for me to untie it, rip it off to see what’s underneath.
“Thanks.” If she noticed my almost-slip, she’s giving no sign of it. “You look professional too. Is it time for us to film?”
“According to the schedule,” I say.
“How long do we have?” she asks.
She seems so casual. Isn’t she finding it insanely hard, keeping this space between us that feels intrinsically wrong? All I want to do is take her in my arms and see if she can keep that cool, devil-may-care tone any longer.
“Nothing scheduled after this,” I say, “We can take as long as we need.”
“Oh.” She grins. “Good. Since I’m a perfectionist.”
“You’re going to have your work cut out for you. I’m useless in front of the camera.”
“Don’t worry,” she says easily, “I’m good at coaxing the best out of people.”
I’ll bet. As for what I’d like to coax out of you…
“Great,” I practically choke out, tearing my eyes off her so my brain can have some chance of focusing. “Let’s go.”
Once we’re in the film room, I can’t help but heave a sigh of relief.
“Tired of being under scrutiny 24/7?” Harley jokes.
“That’s not it,” I say, even though it is part of it.
“OK.”
The clock in this room is loud, each tick echoing around the high ceilings. The whizz of an overeager fan isn’t helping either.
“You’re right,” I finally admit. “It just comes with the job: the expectation that I’m some kind of man-God. Even though I’m no role model.”
Harley’s looking at me with something that, if I didn’t know better, I’d say was admiration. “The best ones never think they are.”
God, what the steady hazel gaze of hers does to me…
“Right.” I make for the green screen. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Harley hefts her camera on her shoulder. “Who knows, maybe it’ll be good the first take. It does happen.”
Not with me, it doesn’t. Talking to the camera feels like talking to my dad when he was in one of his stubborn moods, or even my batty old Grandma Josephine, who would as soon pat you on the head as chuck a slipper at your face screaming about elder abuse and demons in the Honey Nut Cheerios.
I take out the notes Madeline made for me and get reading. “This is Greyson Storm. As you may have heard recently, an unfortunate truth has come to light regarding my father, the late Collin Storm’s, tax evasion…”
Harley yawns loudly, mouthing: Bo–ring.
I glare at her, falling silent. So much for a perfect first take.
