Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy #1) - Lauren Rowe Page 0,64
my instinct to rebel, and say, “I’ll stay for a quick lunch. But no dessert. I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.”
Sniffling, Mom wipes her eyes. “You don’t have a girlish figure. You’re a strong, muscular man. Just like your father.”
“It was a joke, Mom. It’s called sarcasm.” I rise from the bed. “Stay put. I need to make a quick call to arrange a later flight, and then we’ll head to the dining room.”
“But you’re coming back?”
“Yes, I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Pulling out my phone, I dip into the hallway.
“Howdy, boss,” Owen says, answering my call.
“Change of plans, O. I need a new flight to LA, about an hour and a half later than the original one. Book me private, if necessary. I don’t care how much it costs, just as long as I make it to the RCR concert before it starts.”
“What’s up?”
“My visit with my mother is taking a little longer than planned. We’re going to enjoy chicken pot pies together.”
“How lovely. My favorite.”
“Believe me, I wish you could be here to take my place. So, listen. Since I won’t make it to the arena as early as planned, you’re going to have to be the one to greet the new Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter when she arrives.”
“No problem. I met with her yesterday and showed her around the office. Her name is Georgina. She’s great.”
Georgina. In a flash, I’m flooded with images of her again. Those earth-quaking kisses. Her mouthwatering tits peeking up from her tank top. Her ass in those tight jeans when she bent over. And, of course, those blazing hazel eyes as she raised her middle fingers into the sky.
I clear my throat. “Personally escort her around backstage, okay? And do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone with Caleb. You got me? That’s your top job. If you fuck that up, I swear to God, you’re fired.”
I can hear Owen smiling on his end of the line. As he well knows, there’s virtually nothing he could do, or not do, to get canned by me. Which is why I feel comfortable threatening him with it all the time, but only to emphasize when a particular task is especially important.
“I got it, boss,” he says. “Georgie gets no alone-time with Caleb.”
“I can’t emphasize this enough, O. Georgina is exactly Caleb’s type and he just broke up with some airheaded supermodel, so he’s gonna be especially on the prowl. A thousand bucks says he’s gonna pounce on Georgina the second he gets a clear shot. So, for the love of God, make damned sure he doesn’t get a clear shot.”
“So, you’ve seen Georgina, then?”
Shit. I remain mute, feeling like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“So... hmm,” Owen says. “I’m sensing Georgina might not only be Caleb’s exact type. Could it be she’s also someone else’s exact type, too...?”
I grimace sharply to myself at my implicit admission, but, nonetheless, forge ahead in a businesslike tone. “I’ll be heading straight to the concert from the airport,” I say evenly, “so be sure to tell the LA car service about the change in my itinerary.”
“Will do, boss. No problem. Enjoy the chicken pot pie with your momma. I’ll text you the new flight info. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure Georgina meets the entire band, all at once.”
“Good. Don’t fuck it up, O. Your job depends on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
After hanging up with Owen, I text the change of plans to my driver, Tony, out front, and then return to my mother’s room. When I get there, I find my mother staring blankly out her window at the garden.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t flinch.
I place my palm gently on her shoulder. “Ready to eat, Mom?”
She turns her head. “Who’d you call?”
“Owen.”
“The gay man who works for you?”
“The gay, smart, loyal, reliable, funny, organized, creative man who works for me.”
“I like that you have a gay male secretary.”
“Owen’s not my secretary. He defies traditional description.”
“So do I.”
I laugh. I meant that Owen’s job defies traditional description, thanks to everything he does for me and the label. But Mom’s retort was too funny—and accurate—to correct. “That’s true, Mom. You most definitely defy traditional maternal description.”
“Have I met Owen?”
“No. But guess what? His last name is French. Boucher.”
She gasps. “Butcher! He’s from France?”
“Not Owen himself. But somewhere along the line, someone in Owen’s family tree was French. He told me about it once, but I forget the details.”
“Yet another reason for me to meet this man. My instinct tells me Owen Boucher and I would