Page 90 of Wait for Him

It's contagious.

Michael and Ms. Monroe are sitting across from each other with matching scowls firmly in place, and whatever was happening before we walked in has stopped so abruptly I can practically see the skid marks.

“May we join you for a few minutes?”

Whatever's crackling between them is palpable. There's a specific charged stillness to two people who were mid-something and snapped their mouths shut the second the door opened, and these two are practically humming with it. Michael's jaw is set. Ms. Monroe's spine is a little too straight. Behind me, I can feel Frank and Jackson clocking it too, their attention doing the same quiet bounce mine just did: Michael, Blaire, Michael again.

Wonderful.

I'd love to know what the hell that's about. Truly. Unfortunately, the list of interpersonal mysteries currently awaiting my attention has developed a backlog, so this one can take a number.

“What's this about?” Michael asks.

“The press is running a story.” I gesture toward the screen on the wall. “One of our sources flagged it about thirty minutes ago. May I?”

I reach for the cable.

“Please,” Blaire says before Michael can answer.

My brother glances at her, and something passes between them that looks suspiciously like the continuation of whatever argument we interrupted, but he lets it go.

Thank Christ for small mercies.

I connect my laptop, the screen changes, and whatever strange little war is happening around this table gets temporarily demoted by the much larger one staring back at us.

"The Los Angeles Journal is running a piece framing the Monroe Communications engagement as a publicity stunt. The angle is that the board brought in outside help specifically to manufacture investor confidence ahead of Meridian closing," I start. "They're calling it damage-control theater."

I take it from there while they read on, walking them through the gist of it: how the piece names Monroe Communications outright, how it cites the board's private concerns about Bennet's image almost word for word, how it frames the whole hire as a calculated performance to soothe skittish investors rather than any real change on my brother's part. I point out the quotes as they hit them. The unnamed sources, one after another, all singing the same tune: a fractured board, a last-ditch grab to hold Meridian together.

I look up, and my eyes land on Ms. Monroe, who's gone very still and very professional in the way of a woman watching her own name become a liability in real time.

"How long before it's published?" Ms. Monroe asks.

"Live within the hour."

Immediately everyone starts strategizing, but my brain's already made the plan. It's right there in front of us, plain as day. Considering Michael's obvious disdain for this woman, though, I already know exactly how this is going to go.

I brace for impact. "May I suggest something?"

Michael's jaw clenches, and he doesn't even look up. "What."

Fucking hell. Here we go.

"Position yourselves as the couple. Ms. Monroe isn't here as a PR consultant. She's here because the two of you have a long-distance history, friends who got closer and finally took it somewhere. Get photographed together. Same engagement, different frame. It kills both narratives with one carefully curated story."

If he could get over himself for one second, he'd see this is the play.

"Abso-fucking-lutely not." He's immediately on his feet, grabbing his jacket, and then he's out the door without a word or a glance in our direction.

Goddamn it, Michael. For fuck's sake.

"I'll get him. We need to discuss this with some level of maturity."

I step into the hallway. Michael's got both hands pressed flat to the wall, leaning into it, head hanging low between his shoulders.

My anger isn't aimed entirely at him. It's a simmering pot of everything, all of it at once, and I can already feel the boil-over coming up through my shoulders as I close the distance.

"Bennet." I use his formal name in place of Michael since we're in earshot of passersby. "I don't care what tantrum you're winding up for, or what stick you've got lodged up your ass where Blaire Monroe is concerned. I cannot fix this mess by myself. Not this time."