Page 1 of The Problem with Playboys

One

Chloe Burnett came by her knack for crisis public relations honestly. She was born into it.

“Ms. Burnett, I have three things for you before you leave.” Chloe’s assistant, Forrest Mack, ducked his head into Chloe’s office. Forrest was impossibly tall and broad. People often assumed he was a professional athlete, but he was actually an aspiring master chess player and total softie.

Chloe sat back in her chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Ugh. Right.Before I leave.Why does my mother do these things to me, Forrest?”

Forrest took the question as an invitation and marched into Chloe’s office, immediately straightening piles of paperwork on her desk. “I don’t know. She seems like a lovely woman, but I can imagine her being quite demanding.”

Demanding wasn’t the half of it. The life of Eliza Burnett, Chloe’s mom, was one long soap opera in which Eliza played the role of unlucky-in-love wealthy matriarch and Chloe was the unflappable workaholic daughter who could be guilted into anything. Even something as ridiculous as riding all the way out to Long Island on a Friday, and thenallthe way back, simply because her mom couldn’t bear to face her soon-to-be ex-husband, but also didn’t trust him to ship the last of her belongings.

“She’s going to owe me for this, big time.”

Forrest nodded in silence, which was basically a reminder that Chloe said that all the time and never, ever called her mom on the debt. “The three things?”

“Yes. Go.” Chloe closed her laptop and shoved it into her eggplant leather Prada computer bag.

“Thomas Henley’s publicist wants to move your nine o’clock breakfast meeting on Monday to eight-thirty on Tuesday. And we got the security camera footage of Dakota Ladd. She’s definitely shoplifting, but you should probably watch it for yourself.”

Chloe drew a deep breath in through her nose and got up from her desk. “The meeting time change is fine as long as it fits into my calendar. As for Dakota, set up a call with her manager. I think we might need to send her to rehab for another thirty days. Even if it doesn’t do any good, it will at least look like she’s doing something to get better.”

“Got it.”

Chloe breezed past Forrest. “Wait. What’s the third thing?”

“Liam has the car ready downstairs and there’s a cinnamon coconut milk latte waiting for you in the back seat.”

“Thank you.” Chloe smiled up at her amazing assistant. “I’m going straight to a bar after this little errand, so no need to wait for me to come back to the office. I hope you enjoy your weekend.”

“You, too, Ms. Burnett.”

Chloe strode through her office, acknowledging her employees with a nod of her head. Her team was up to thirty-two people and her firm, Burnett PR, was growing every day, in part because there was no shortage of crises in the world of business and entertainment. If all went well, she’d work like crazy until she was fifty, sell the company and retire on a beach somewhere. Crisis management wasn’t her dream, but she was incredibly good at solving problems. So good that she garnered top dollar.

Chloe punched the button for the elevator and rode down to the parking garage, where her driver, Liam, was quick to open the door of the black SUV. She climbed inside and a flutter of happiness went through her when she spotted the coffee cup waiting in the cup holder next to a bottle of cold water. Forrest was an angel.

She got settled then went right to work making calls, sending emails and watching the dreaded security camera footage using the car’s mobile Wi-Fi. Dakota had been a working actress in Hollywood since she was five years old and it had done a real number on her sense of self. She was prone to all sorts of bad behavior, but the shoplifting was the most persistent problem. When someone was paid seven million for a film, it didn’t look great when they were caught stealing ten-dollar earrings from a chain store at the mall. As near as Chloe could tell, Dakota was crying out for help. But Chloe was not a psychologist and Dakota always dismissed Chloe’s pleas for her to find a less troublesome hobby, like meditation or knitting.

Chloe’s phone buzzed with a text from one of her best friends, Taylor Hayes. Taylor and Chloe, along with Alexandra Gold, had been best friends since they were at prep school together in Upstate New York—The Baldwell School for Girls. There they’d spent six years together, confiding in each other, getting into trouble and becoming impossibly close in the process. It had been twelve years since graduation, but they were still as thick as thieves. Coming from similar old-money families made it easy to understand each other, and all three of them living in Manhattan made it possible to remain close.

I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about @LittleBlackBook.Taylor sent through a link to a social media account by that name.

It was Chloe’s job to have her finger on the pulse of anything and everything. Being at the top of the crisis PR game meant she couldn’t afford to be out ofanyloop, big or small. But she had no clue what this was about.Haven’t heard of it.Chloe figured it must be inconsequential. If anyone cared, she would’ve already been up to speed.

Seriously? Everyone’s talking about it.

Even more perturbed, Chloe pulled up the account. The profile picture was simple—two letters in gold leaf against a black background—SA. The bio was short, but cryptic.I could have been a scandal. Instead, I was hidden in plain sight. Now it’s my turn to spill secrets. Every last one will be revealed.The follower count next caught Chloe’s eye—nearly one million. That was a hell of a number for one post, especially when there was no big name attached to it. What was this? A stunt? The single post gave only the tiniest sliver of additional information—the gold letters were from the cover of a black leather-bound journal. The book was worn at the corners. Quite possibly old. Not inexpensive. In truth, it looked like the most benign thing in the world. But then Chloe read the caption: “If you run in rich and powerful circles, you might want to look over your shoulder. @LittleBlackBook probably has dirt on you already. If not, I’ll get it.”

A chill zipped along Chloe’s spine. Who was behind this? And what did those initials—SA—mean? Chloe was indeed intrigued, but that feeling was accompanied by a distinct sense of dread. It sounded as if somebody somewhere was about to have their secrets dragged out into the light. She felt for them. She consoled people like that all day long, then tried to help them figure out what to do with their lives. How to move forward. Then again, if there were rich and powerful people about to have their dirty laundry aired, it might mean new clients for Chloe.

Interesting. Thanks for sending.

The three dots that meant Taylor was typing immediately appeared. Are we still having drinks tonight?

I think so. On my way to my mom’s soon-to-be ex-husband’s house on Long Island. Retrieving the last of her things.

That’s two hours each way! Can’t she pay someone to do that?

It’s my daughterly duty.