Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I set my jaw.
“And then there was the time you were inebriated,” she sighed, “and allowed yourself to be filmed singing and dancing to that vile song in public—”
“It was karaoke. For charity. Years ago. And it wasn’t vile—”
My mother dismissed my protests with a wave, as she did with most unpleasant things, and patted my chest affectionately. “Your father has professional campaign staffers and lets them schedule interviews for a reason, dear. I know you’d hate to harm your father’s campaign, even by accident. It’s best for everyone if you just relax and smile. Jonathan learned that quite early on,” she reminded me.
“Right.” I managed not to sound bitter—barely—at this mention of my beloved, golden boy older brother, JT, a man I would have absolutely hated… if he hadn’t been so damn decent and generous and annoyingly lovable.
Mother nodded serenely at a nearby woman in an elaborately decorated red mask. “Now, then. Have you taken a picture of yourself looking handsome for your internet friends?”
“Yes, Mother.” It didn’t matter how many paid sponsorships I’d gotten or how many social media accounts I managed, my mother insisted on seeing my one million internet friends as a sort of hobby. I pulled away from her fussing hands.
“Now, darling, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your schedule for the next few months. You know I don’t begrudge you a chance to sow your wild oats in the big city, but the governor’s race is heating up back home. I know you’re having fun at this little job of yours, but perhaps once Thatcher’s back from his holiday beach trip, I’ll speak to him about giving you some time off—”
“Do not speak to Thatcher,” I said, so fiercely that she blinked. “Under no circumstances.”
“But he’s a friend of your father’s—”
“I haven’t forgotten.” More bitterness leaked out. “And I know that’s most of the reason he offered me this position. But he’s not my direct boss. I don’t even see him very much.” Or at all. Ever. “And I’m not going to ask for special treatment. Besides, I offered to be part of Dad’s campaign staff and was turned down. I’m concentrating on my career.”
“Oh, Reagan.” The look she gave me was a perfect mixture of parental fondness and crushing parental doubt. “It’s not that we don’t want you to be part of the campaign. Of course we do—”
“In front of the camera, as long as I keep my mouth shut. Behind the scenes, stuffing envelopes as an unpaid volunteer.”
“You make it sound so… menial.” Mother shook her head. “It’s a position that gives you lots of flexibility, remember? And if you’d like to jet off to Corfu with some lucky young woman or perhaps spend some time on the West Coast like you did a few years ago, we’re happy to treat you to those things—”
“I don’t want to do either of those things. I’m a social media manager—”
She patted my arm. “Of course you are. Just like you were a finance expert when your father got you that job with Buck Stanley. And the public speaking internship with Tish Cooper’s firm. Oh, and the design job with Martin, Heller, Bramovich… I think you lasted nearly two months with that one! I’m sure you’re doing great things at Pennington Industries, but really… how long will that last, sweetheart?”
The hardest part about hearing her recite my list of failed career opportunities was that I couldn’t argue with any of it. I’d tried—genuinely tried, I thought—at all of them. But the only talent I’d demonstrated was quitting… once, after just two weeks. I wouldn’t embarrass either of us by insisting, yet again, that this time was different… though it really was.
Late last summer, after JT had come home to Honeybridge and fallen for Flynn, I’d done a lot of soul-searching about what I really wanted (and didn’t want) out of life. I needed a purpose. I’d realized that the things I was already doing—namely, successfully managing social media for myself and several wealthy friends—was making me enough money for a man to live on, if that man was willing to forego certain luxuries. What’s more, I was passionate about social media. I was good at it. And best of all, I could continue to help my father’s campaign while also building my resume by simply taking over as social media strategist for the Trent Wellbridge for Governor campaign. It would be, I’d told my parents, a win-win for everyone.
My father had literally laughed out loud.
Despite my experience overhauling my friends’ images online, despite having over a million Instagram followers, despite the utter lack of social media vision in my father’s campaign, despite the decade I’d spent attending political rallies and public events, he’d told me there was no way he’d consider me for the job.