Chapter 44
1600words
I absentmindedly toyed with his damp curls as the car pulled up to the curb.
The first time I saw this place, it had stunned me. Another glimpse into the world of the wealthy and influential that had left me breathless.
Now? I knew the names of every bellboy and receptionist. I knew which days to collect the mail so Nicholas wouldn't encounter unflattering headlines about himself. I knew his allergies and preferred chefs in the kitchen. I even knew the service elevator passcode to discreetly escort his overnight guests, ensuring they didn't cross paths on the stairs.
Yes—this place held no secrets from me anymore.
In a strange way, it almost felt like home.
"Max," I called out, rolling down the window a crack when I saw Nicholas's bodyguard, "can you lend me a hand over here?"
The man hurried over. Tall. Italian. And concerned.
We had discovered Max on a last-minute trip to Rome. Nicholas had promised some barista he'd met online that he would pick her up at the end of her shift (at the time, he may have also been pretending to be Italian). At any rate, it was a good thing we were in Germany at the time, because against all the odds, we actually made it to the café where she worked just as it reached closing. Unfortunately, we had not counted on the presence of her body-building Italian husband. The woman had left out the fact that she was married.
Max had swooped in to save the day. He'd been sitting outside, drinking with friends, and had taken pity on Nicholas's half-hearted attempts to explain himself in broken Italian. Educated in the States, Max understood his English perfectly—whereas the husband did not—and stepped in just in time to stop him from getting his ass kicked by a band of Italian thugs.
He'd been an indispensable member of our team ever since. Ironically, his daily tasks hadn't varied much from that first day.
'I thought you were supposed to be on your big date tonight," he ventured, as he opened the door and helped me lift Nicholas out of the car.
The guy was class act—didn't look once at my increasingly revealing ensemble. Didn't even mention the fact that we were both soaking wet.
'Yeah," I gritted my teeth as we stumbled towards the revolving door, 'so did I."
Together, we managed to get Nicholas to the penthouse elevator and lower him down to the floor. Insisting on a private elevator for Nicholas's exclusive use, was one of the first changes I made when appointed head of his PR team. There were simply too many wild variables in his life to risk mixing him with the rest of the population.
The doors dinged open on the top floor, and Max offered me a sympathetic smile.
'You want me to carry him the rest of the way in?"
Nicholas snored obliviously on the ground beneath us—his face pressed up against a piece of Ethiopian marble that cost more than my whole apartment.
I nudged him tentatively with my shoe and shook my head.
'Naw—we'll manage. Thanks, Max."
With the practiced skill of someone who had done it far too many times, I draped Nicholas's arm once more over my shoulder and half-carried him into the foyer. As the door dinged shut behind us, Max bid me a typical goodnight.
'Sorry about your date."
I waved over my head with a quiet sigh.
'Me too."
The door closed, and the two of us limped across the tile towards the bedroom.
Nicholas was in that hazy drunken state between consciousness and sleep, and although he tried his best to help me, it was an arduous journey at best. When we finally made it inside, he made a bee-line for the bed—only to get stopped by me.
'Not so fast."
He stood there obediently as I took off first his suit jacket, then the white collared shirt just below. Both of them peeled off his skin, before landing in a wet pile on the floor.
'Louise will kill me if you ruin another pair of sheets," I murmured, working as quickly as I could. Louise, the Bavarian housekeeper, had proven even more terrifying than myself.
Nicholas said not a word as I worked. Lifting his arms when indicated, and stepping meekly out of his soaking pants.
They were strange—these behind-the-scenes kind of moments.
As the person whose job it was to create the narrative spin, there were times I almost believed it myself. Times when I forgot that my clients were people, just like the rest of us.
But as globally publicized as Nicholas Huntington was, no one ever saw this side of him.
Vulnerable. Quiet. Almost childlike. Wet hair still dripping down the sides of his neck.
When he started shivering, I hurried to the bathroom and returned with a towel, sponging up his curls before pointing him in the direction of the bed.
'Don't fall asleep yet," I instructed as I returned to the bathroom once more, 'you need to drink some water first. You'll be starting a foundation for scallops in the morning..."
'Scallops?" he repeated in confusion. 'Will I?"
'That's if the media doesn't crucify you first."
At this, he snorted with laughter—pressing a smile into his pillow.
'Never. They love me." He twisted around in the blankets, cocooning himself in the center as his eyes fluttered open and shut. 'Besides, we have a deal: no crucifixions."
I returned with a glass of water, and perched on the edge of the bed.
'Sit up." He did as I asked. 'Now drink." I watched him thoughtfully for a moment, my own hair dripping little streams of water down my chest. 'And for the record, I'm the one who made that deal. I can revoke it at any time."
He flashed me an adorable grin.
'But you won't do that either. You love me too."
I pressed an Advil into his hand and gestured to the cup.
'We'll see."
As he swallowed the pill, I wanted to lecture him. Wanted to give him my standard speech. The ‘fame is a fickle friend' speech, and tell him to keep his damn head down for once.
But such speeches had never really worked on Nicholas. And to be honest, he was right.
The press did love him. They always had. They probably always would. He was their dream—a man who knew no limits. No boundaries. Every page—an open book.
Over the years, he'd become something of a folk hero. The crown prince of mayhem who couldn't be tamed. A source of constant entertainment and levity for the masses.
But even by celebrity standards, Nicholas was a rare breed.
Because beneath that careless playboy persona, beneath all the money, and mischief, and that unquenchable sense of adventure...he had a genuinely good heart.
It was this ‘good heart' his father's company had hired me to promote. To protect. To shine a spotlight on all the good things—half to highlight them, half to keep that same spotlight off everything bad. By protecting his image, I was protecting their shareholders, and thus—doing my not inconsiderable part to contribute to the massive global conglomeration that was his father's company. The Huntington Corporation. The family's crowning achievement.
He handed back the empty glass and lay down on the pillows, gazing up in sleepy disorientation as I pulled the decadent comforter up to his chin. I was just tucking it around his shoulders, when he shot back up in sudden surprise—propping himself up on his elbows.
'Fuck Avy—you look really good tonight."
My perfect coif might have spoiled, but the look had shifted in other ways. Wet hair sticking to my shoulders. Equally wet dress clinging to my slender frame. Bright red lips, puffy from me biting them so many times in frustration.
'Oh yeah?" I asked, leaning over to push him back down. 'And why is that?"
He faltered, blinking several times as my hair dripped onto his cheeks.
'Is this a trick question?"
'Think, Nicholas. Break the stereotype."
It took him a second. Then it all came rushing back.
'Your date!"
Bingo.
'That's right," I said dryly. 'My date."
He leaned back with a bright smile.
'How did it go?"
I contemplated giving him a punch. No one would find out. He wouldn't remember in the morning.
"Well, it ended in your apartment—"
"As all dates should."
"—so what does that tell you?"
He hesitated for a moment, then popped back up to plant a sudden kiss on my cheek.
"I'm sorry about your date, Avy." He flopped back onto the bed, wrapping the covers around himself once more. "It won't happen again. I promise."
"What?" I couldn't help but smile. "My date? Or your interruptions?"
His eyes fluttered open briefly before closing again.
"...that's the spirit..."
Without another word, he drifted off, probably dreaming of lobsters and his heroic schemes to save them. The same schemes that would undoubtedly drive me crazy.
I grabbed an extra blanket from the closet and curled up on a chair by the foot of his bed to sleep, kicking my wet heels off onto the floor.
Just another typical day in Nicholas Huntington's world...
