No More Secrets: A Small Town Love Story (The Pierce Brothers Book 1) (28 page)

“Thanks, Shauna.” She had almost forgotten about the benefit tonight. Trust Quincy to remember for her. She took the bag from Shauna and hung it from the hook on the cubicle wall. She unzipped it a bit.

“It’s the fuchsia Elie Saab you liked from the shoot last week. Quincy stashed it away for you.”

It was beautiful and would look perfect with a carefully mussed chignon. But her pulse had yet to stir. When had she lost her lust of high fashion? Was this just a side effect of the sadness that plagued her?

“Thank you, Shauna. I don’t suppose —”

“Shoes are in the bag. He took pity on you and went with gold gladiators that wrap up to the knee so you won’t have to spend the entire evening sitting.”

“He thinks of everything.”

“So, how’s that gorgeous farmer of yours?” Shauna asked. Summer could hear it, that sharp edge. The need for a tasty morsel. Well, she’d just have to dine somewhere else.

Summer gritted her teeth and zipped the bag. “He’s looking forward to seeing the story this month,” she snapped. “I guess I’d better go get ready. Thanks for bringing this down.”

She brushed past the hungry assistant and made her way to the ladies room.

After the fashion show in June, the office had been abuzz about Carter. A few staffers had dropped some not-so-subtle hints about whether he and Summer were an item or he was just an evening’s eye candy.

She had yet to tell anyone what had happened in Blue Moon and why she had returned so suddenly.

But the hive still gossiped.

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T
hat night, she crawled into her apartment just shy of one in the morning. She hadn’t wanted to stay so long. But the music and the conversations were more of a comfort than the silence of her apartment, the emptiness of her bed.

She slipped out of the gown and pulled on a cozy robe. She’d just check her email one more time before bed.

A quick scan told her nothing had to be addressed before morning. Except for Niko’s email. Subject line: Farm art.

Summer told herself not to click on it, but her finger didn’t listen.

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F
inished editing. Thought you’d like to see some of the art for your story.

- N

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H
e’d attached a link to an online gallery and Summer was opening it before she could talk herself out of it. She could look at his pictures. She was a professional. It wasn’t too painful for her. Her memories of Carter and the farm and Blue Moon Bend were something to be treasured.

The first shot punched a hole in her heart. Carter was standing knee-deep in a field, his legs braced apart. His arms crossed. His uniform of well-worn jeans and t-shirt clung to all the right places. A warrior in the garden. Behind him, the farm rolled out until it met the blue-skied horizon.

It was perfect. Her editor’s mind immediately labeled it the lead art, while her lover’s heart ached.

One thing was for sure. Once this story came out, Carter wouldn’t be lonely for long. Women would beat a path from Manhattan to the gate of Pierce Acres just to catch a glimpse of this perfection.

He would hate that, she thought with tight smile. He’d probably look at this picture and not see what every woman in the world would.

She sighed and clicked through the rest of the gallery. There were shots of the Pierce brothers together, looking rugged and gorgeous. One of Phoebe at the farmers market. The farmhouse. Clementine and Dixie. Even Joey in the middle of a riding class. The farm was in summer bloom with color and growth everywhere.

It looked like heaven. It looked like home.

She caught her breath. The very last picture would never make the story.

It was her with Carter in the orchard, arms wrapped around each other, dirt everywhere. She was looking up at him, laughing. He was grinning down at her. She was on her tiptoes in the beloved boots she had now buried in the back of her closet.

Summer had no idea Niko had been there to capture the moment. And what a moment it had been.

S
he almost didn’t look.

That glossy copy of
Indulgence
lurked front and center on her desk, with the cover proudly proclaiming an inside feature on organic farming and the “new gentleman farmer.” She had proofed the drafts, hadn’t she? There was no reason to review the final piece.

Except that she was being childish.

And she wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman who would be faced with situations more complicated than looking at an article on an ex-lover.

She would read it after she answered some very important emails, she decided. Summer stowed her bag in a desk drawer and distracted herself by booting up her laptop. She returned a few emails and tweets and listened to her voicemails. She ripped off the bandage from her blood test and tossed it in the trash.

But still the issue lurked.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Summer sighed, and yanked the magazine off her desk.

She thumbed through it, past the winter coat guide and the four-page advertorial for a well-known designer’s upcoming holiday collection. And there he was. A two-page spread of Carter Pierce standing arms crossed, knee-deep in soybeans. Niko certainly made the most of what he had to work with.

Carter looked like an earth-bound god.

Summer was sure this picture would be hanging up in cubicles throughout the building, possibly even the city. She skimmed the lead and frowned.

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I
n an otherwise sterile digital world, hot gentleman farmer Carter Pierce and his bachelor brothers teach us the benefits of getting dirty. Very dirty.

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“W
hat the hell is this?” She turned the page so quickly it tore. Gone was her insightful article on health, wellness, and community in Blue Moon. And in its place was a splashy, tawdry pictorial.

Her desk phone rang and she ignored it, skimming the scant copy.

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A
nd the best part, ladies? They’re all single.

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H
er cellphone rang. “What?” she demanded.

“Who got their tabloid talons on this piece?” Nikolai growled in her ear. “What the hell is this trash?”

“This is the first time I’m seeing it. When I looked at the final proofs last week there was no mention of Carter’s ‘farm boy broad shoulders.’” She felt sick to her stomach. Her name was on the article. People were going to think she wrote this.

Carter was going to think she wrote this.

“Oh my God. This is obscene, Niko! It’s like soft porn.”

“Katherine called me a few days ago and asked if I had any shirtless pictures of him or his brothers. I thought she was fucking joking!”

“Obviously she wasn’t fucking joking!”

“Did you read the whole thing?”

“There’s only like three paragraphs.”

“Read it.”

“‘Struggling with PTSD, we think this sexy vet could use some comfort —’ I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick and murder someone. Oh God, Niko. They sent him copies. I know they sent him copies. I have to go. I have to call him.”

She cut off Niko’s reply and dialed Carter’s cellphone. There was no answer. She tried the house phone and again there was no answer.

She tossed her phone on her desk and made her decision.

She snatched up the magazine and stalked out of her cubicle. Katherine’s office was one floor up and Summer fumed the entire way there.

She breezed past Katherine’s unsmiling assistant, a six-foot tall waif with hair the color of midnight.

Katherine was on the phone. She laughed, a silvery little tinkle. “I’m sure I can put you in touch with them. As far as I know they have no representation yet ... Yes, it’s like finding oil in the last place you would expect it.”

Summer tossed her copy of the magazine onto Katherine’s glass desk and crossed her arms.

“Felipe, I must go. I’ll have my assistant give you the information ... You too, darling.” She hung up the receiver and steepled her manicured hands. Last winter’s nip and tuck was tastefully done, leaving her face looking refreshed and youthful. The rich red of her lipstick never smudged. Summer often wondered if it was tattooed on.

“What can I do for you, Summer?”

“You can explain why you took a piece that was about something deep and meaningful and turned it into this trash,” she said, drilling her finger into the open page.

“Excuse me?” Katherine’s frosty tone was meant to stop perceived insolence in its tracks. But it had the opposite effect on Summer.

“You heard me. Where is the story I wrote and why did you slap my name on this bullshit?”

“Darling, I don’t think you understand how things work here. Need I remind you that you are an
associate
.” She enunciated the word as if speaking to a toddler. “You work for me. I have the final say in what goes into this ‘bullshit,’ as you so eloquently call it. You turned in a weighty piece that would have readers tossing it in the recycling bin. You’ve been in production meetings. Advertisers want sex. What you wrote was a boring ode to an obsolete way of life.”

“What about the readers?”

“The readers want what the advertisers tell them to want. They don’t want some sappy love story about a simpler way of life. No one wants that. They want bigger, shinier, more.” Her voice was as sharp as the corners of her desk. “They want this,” her finger tapped Carter’s bare chest.

“You made what they do into a joke.”

“No, I made their lives.” Katherine brought her purple tips to the glass top as she rose. Her wrap dress hugged a trim figure made possible by the finest plastic surgeons in Manhattan. “I’ve been fielding calls all morning from agents wanting to represent them and designers wanting to use them. There’s no more playing in the dirt for these men. We just made them famous.”

“There was no ‘we’ in this. And there is so much more to life than chasing fame.”

“That’s right. There’s documenting it. That is what we do. We hand these people the American dream and watch what they do with it. Do you know what we love more than America’s sweetheart? America’s sweetheart on a very public downward spiral.” She held up the magazine. “It’s vicious. I’ll be the first to say it. But in order to thrive in this business, you have to have the stomach for it.”

“You put my name on this.” Summer glared at her over the desk.

“And you should be thanking me. The digital piece has been getting more hits than the cover story. This could be the fast track to getting what you want, my dear, so be very careful how you proceed. You can either give my assistant Carter’s contact information while I talk to a few select people about a new senior editor position, or you can think about how it would feel to go back to copy editing.”

Summer leaned over the desk, her fingers leaving smudges on the glass. “Actually, there’s a third option that I feel really good about. You can take your sexy advertising and your emergency moisturizers and your constant need for ass kissing and shove it. I quit!”

She turned on her Manolos and stormed out, past the assistant, past the creative department, past Quincy calling her name in the hallway.

She took the stairs back to her floor. In her cubicle she shoved her laptop and phone in her bag. There was nothing else there. No personal mementos, no trinkets. Just an empty desk. It had been on purpose. No personal items until she was in an office. And then it would be carefully chosen pieces that reflected the importance of the position and the responsibilities she would carry. She snorted.

Summer put the bag on her shoulder and marched to the elevator. Phones started ringing and heads were popping out of cubicles.

“She’s at the elevator,” someone whispered loudly into their phone.

It was the
Indulgence
version of Blue Moon’s online gossip group. And it made her smile.

She was still smiling when the doors closed on the floor of gawkers.

She pulled her phone out of the bag and dialed Murray, part of
Indulgence’s
elite legal team.

“Hey there, Summer. I just heard.”

“Good, then I’ll keep this quick. My blog, is that mine or does it belong to
Indulgence
?”

“You started it before you had the job. It’s yours.”

“How about an article that I wrote for
Indulgence
that they chose not to use.”

“I’d double check your contract on that, but if they chose not to exercise their rights to it then it’s possible you could resell it.”

“What if I don’t want to sell it?”

“You want to keep it for personal use? That’s probably a little less murky. Read the fine print and text me if you need clarification.”

“Thanks, Murray. It was nice working with you.”

“You, too, Summer. Good luck.”

She was halfway home when her phone rang in her bag. Nikolai. She silenced it and let her momentum carry her the rest of the way home.

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S
he burst through the door of the apartment she could no longer afford and dumped her laptop on her coffee table. She would fix this. All of it.

Summer wrote from the heart, letting the words flow.

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I
’ve spent my years since college mapping out a career path that would bring me the trappings of success that I so desperately wanted.

An apartment with a view ...

A collection of shoes that makes other women sigh with envy ...

A wardrobe by all the right designers ...

The right circle of interesting friends ...

My name on insightful articles perfectly crafted to tell you the stories that deserve your attention ...

I sit here in my apartment with its charming bay window that overlooks a neighborhood grocery store and barbershop in my Manhattan-approved, this-season’s-hottest outfit with my barely worn Manolo Blahniks sitting on the floor next to me. My circle of “friends” consists of advertisers, designers, and industry insiders who are all very busy and terribly important.

Many of you have probably seen the “Hot for Farmer” piece under my byline in a magazine that, from now on, shall remain nameless. It’s getting big hits online. Enough attention that maybe a new position could open up for me.