Chapter 17 – Pleasing the Boss

“I’d love that.” He winks. “But first, how about some wine?”

My face is instantly hot, and I put my hands up in the air, as if I can stop what’s happening. As if Hadrian can be stopped at all. “No. No. Definitely no. I came here to talk. I came here to tell you that you can’t just summon women to your room, dangling their future above them like a predator. And you trying to romanticize it with wine and dim lighting and whatever this is playing—”

“Sibelius,” he says, patiently.

“Sibelius, thank you. It’s very nice, by the way. But it doesn’t erase the fact that you are using your power to try to coerce me into f**king you, and it’s not happening. Not, not happening.”

“Not not? Is that a double negative?” He extends a glass out toward me, despite my speech.

“It was for emphasis.” And because I could actually really use a drink right now, I take the glass and down half. “Thank you.”

“It’s a Vieux Château Certa. Two thousand five.”

“That means nothing to me.” Admittedly, it really does taste good.

“An exceptional year for Bordeaux because of the dry winter—”

Honestly, Hadrian is unnervingly charming, and at dinner I learned that I’m kind of fascinated with most everything he says. Despite that, somehow, I remember myself, and cut him off. “Stop. I’m not here to learn about f**king wine.”

“You’re here to talk. I’m talking.”

“Oh my God. That’s not what I want to talk about.”

“What is it you do want to talk about, Brystin?” He leans against the bar, and the tilt of his hip opens his shirt up farther, and unf. The man really has imp**ssive abs.

I force my gaze away from his perfect washboard and realize that of course he’s caught me ogling. His l*p twitches, and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

Refusing to let him throw me completely off task, I focus on my point. “I want to talk about all that I’ve already said. Were you listening?”

“Very carefully.”

“And you have nothing to say for yourself?”

“I have much to say. It’s late, so I keep the lights down. I often play music when I’m alone in my rooms—classical is my favorite in the evenings. It’s beautiful, and I like beautiful things. The wine is also something I quite enjoy. I poured you a glass as well because I’m a good host. Let’s see…then you mentioned something about me being a predator and that I couldn’t summon women to my room. But you’re here, aren’t you? So it seems that I…can.”

He must sense that I’m about to blow because he sweeps his hand in the air, as if to erase the words he’s just said. “I think perhaps the most important thing you said was that I was trying to use my power to coerce you into my bed—”

“I said f**king. Romanticizing again.” I take another sip of my wine, though, because I’m starting to feel a little unbalanced. Ironically, it’s probably the wine’s fault.

“‘Coerce you into f**king.’ That’s right. Where exactly did that notion come from?”

Now I definitely feel unsure. “Uh. Elvis said…” I try to remember his exact words. “That you would give me the anchor spot on a show if I came to your room.”

Hadrian nods, not in agreement, but like I see. “Actually, what I said was that I couldn’t give a job like that to someone so green. I suggested that if you truly were interested, that I’d need to spend more time getting to know you.”

“Huh.” I can’t decide if he’s trying to convince me he meant something different than he most obviously means or not.

Or if he might actually never have meant it the way Elvis perceived it.

“You were right when you came in here, Brystin. We should talk.” He takes my near empty glass from my hand and turns to refill it. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll be right over to join you.”

He nods toward the seating area, and though I’m pretty sure that no good can come of me staying any longer, I’m also hung up on that teeny tiny possibility that I might still get the job from just a conversation.

So against my better judgment, I say okay and head further into the suite, taking the opportunity to take in the surroundings. It’s really more like an apartment than a suite. There’s a living room set and a fireplace and bookshelves and walls with fine art and the bar has a full size fridge and microwave. There’s a door to my right that seems to lead to a bathroom and a door at the back of the room that probably belongs to the bedroom. It’s open, but the lights are off beyond it, and I find that strangely comforting.

The furniture is manly but modern, all in deep earth tone colors. I sit on the couch, assuming he’ll sit in the armchair across from me, but when he crosses to hand me my drink, he sits next to me, twisting so that one leg is bent, and he’s facing me.

No, he definitely meant what Elvis thought he’d meant.

I don’t drink anything from my wineglass before setting it down on the coffee table. “Look, you’re gaslighting me.” I put a fi**ger up to stop him from interrupting, which I can tell he badly wants to do. “Don’t try to tell me that ‘get to know me’ isn’t some kind of euphemism.”

He laughs, the sound low in his ch*st, but not ominous. “Like in the biblical sense?” He considers as he takes a sip of wine. “I mean…” He opens his free hand to the air, as if to say, possibly.

“Yeah, yeah, see?” I shift so I’m facing him as well. “You don’t want to say it outright, but the implication is plain as day. If I want this job, I have to f**k you.”

“That’s not—”

I cut him off. “Yes or no, you’ll give me this job if I don’t?”

“Let’s be clear about the situation, okay?” He throws an arm over the back of the sofa. “I have a full schedule of shows. I don’t need a new one. I’m not even in charge of programming. That’s taken care of by people much further down the chain of command. But I obviously have the ability to make things happen, if I want, and I’m very inspired by this concept you and Elvis have brought to the table. I want this show. I want Elvis to produce. I want you to be part of it.

“But let’s not for one minute pretend that hiring you to be the anchor is not a big ask. I’d be foolish for doing it. You’re thirty-three. You’re without national news network credentials. You’re untested. You haven’t earned it. There are a dozen anchors who already work in my studio that deserve the promotion. I’d have to defend myself to the board. I’ll piss off my VP of programming, not to mention the flack I’ll get from my staff. Particularly women who are two decades older who have worked for SNC for their whole careers.”

They’re hard words, but they’re honest. And I need to hear them. “I understand. I’m not ready.”

“I didn’t say that, Brystin. I said I’d be foolish to hire you. It would be a risk, and I’m asking you why I should take a risk like that on you?”

For a second, I think he’s asking me to sell myself again.

But then I realize he’s just explaining why I’m here. In his room. Why he feels justified in wanting what he wants.

And now I’m confused.

“It’s transactional,” he says. He leans over and puts his glass next to my glass, and when he sits up again, his knee touches mine.

Instead of immediately moving away, I glance down at the point of contact. His body is hot against mine, even through the material of his pants, and I suddenly feel warm everywhere. Especially bet**en my legs. Is this really so bad? Would more really be so awful?

“Transactional,” he repeats, and now I’ve hesitated too long, and I have to let my knee stay where it is, p**ssed against his. “I have something you want. You have something I want. And I’d venture to say that I have far more at risk than you do.”

I squint at him, ready to protest, but he intervenes. “I’m not saying that what you have isn’t worth a lot. More, probably. To you. I’m just letting you know where I’m coming from.”

He’s good. Really good. But I recognize it for what it is. “You’re a master manipulator, Mr. Seymour.”

He groans but he follows it up with a lazy smile. “I’m laying out facts, Ms. Shaw. That’s all.”

“You’ve done this before, I bet.”

“Traded one thing for something else? Yes. I have.”

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