This again. Shit.
I sighed and bowed my head.
“Yes.”
His eyes twinkled.
“And as my publicist, it’s your responsibility to be available whenever I go out into the public eye, correct? To be on hand in case there’s any...trouble?”
I didn’t like the sound of this.
“...yes.”
His face lit up with another victorious smile.
“In that case—I’m afraid I’m going to need you around. And furthermore, I’m afraid there won’t be any time for you to change out of that incredible dress.”
My teeth clenched, but I forced my glare into a dangerously sweet smile.
“And what might we be doing, pray tell?”
The doors opened, and he gazed out towards the horizon.
“Today...we’re going to get into a little trouble.”
Chapter 9
The players: Nicholas Hunter and Abigail Wilder.
The stage: All of New York City.
The objective: To cause as much mayhem as possible.
To be fair—that was Nicholas’ objective, not mine. While as a publicist, I should have been focused on stopping him, my only real goal became to somehow stay inside my dress.
“This is, without a doubt, the cruelest thing you’ve ever done to me.”
A gust of wind threw open my trench coat once more, and I yanked it shut. The winter winds and busy pedestrian streets hadn’t been kind to my particular ensemble, but Nick was in such festive spirits, he didn’t seem to mind.
“That’s not true,” he countered, cheerfully pausing to take a selfie with some adoring fans. “What about the time I took you to the serpentarium?”
A belated shudder ran up my spine.
“I thought we had agreed to never talk about that...”
A practiced grin spread up the side of his face, as he knelt down to be at the same height as two middle-school-aged girls. A neon flash lit up their faces, then he turned that grin to me.
“I think it was a day of existential growth. Facing your fears, and whatnot.”
I studied him carefully for a moment, then turned sharply on my heel.
“I quit.”
“Oh—come on!” He flashed the twelve-year-olds a conspiratorial wink, before taking off after me, weaving his way through the crowd. When he finally caught up, I was in the process of hailing down a cab. He arrived just in time to wave it away again. “Abby—I’m sorry, okay? I was actually taking you out today to apologize.”
“To apologize,” I repeated caustically. “You were. Really.”
Again—they weren’t phrased as questions.