Page 6 of Famous for a Living

But his eyes are steely grave.

A laugh bubbles in my throat. “Everybody’s here, though. The reporters. The papers. We have a two-week press tour starting tomorrow. Nothing is so important we’d stall.”

He taps the papers. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. This is so important we’d stall.”

“Surely they wouldn’t mind partnering a month or two after launch—”

“Of course they would.” His voice is so startlingly loud a few guests below pop their heads up. “Of course they feel it’s imperative they are anchored from the beginning.”

My cheeks warm as I become aware of the eyes on us. There’s a pause, and momentarily, I feel myself teetering.

Bobby frowns, disappointment in his eyes that I’m even questioning him. After a moment he shifts his posture, clearly trying for another angle.

“Trust me, Cat. It’s just like all the others. I’ve had my lawyers pore over it themselves. I’ve signed it,” he says energetically as he taps on his name beside where mine will go. “Now you sign and we can move on with the celebration.”

And it’s true. From what I can tell, it looks exactly like the others. The same graphs. The same heavy paragraphs and bullet points.

“And if we really want to launch in ten minutes—”

“I do,” I jump in.

“Then there isn’t time.”

We lapse into silence as a staring contest ensues.

Surely there must be another way. Surely we don’t have to have this tremendous setback. All the interviews. The anticipation. The depths and lengths gone to and dollars spent for this party . . .

I would never do it this way. I would never spring this on someone.

But . . . that’s just it, isn’t it?

It’s not just about my way.

I have a partner, and as such, we have to work collaboratively. Regardless of our differences.

For better and worse, we have to work together.

And yet . . . to sign anything without my lawyers . . . This is like the first episode of Travis’s Finances for Dummies 101.

The phone in my pocket begins ringing and I break eye contact, eager to escape the decision at least a few moments longer. I read the name Terry Cranwell on-screen. “I have to take this.”

Frankly, had it been a spam call from Indonesia trying to tell me my nonexistent car warranty was about to expire, I would’ve taken it. I press the Answer button and lift it to my ear. “Hi, Uncle Terry. How are you?” I twist around to face the wall, shielding myself from Bobby’s penetrating gaze.

“Your doorman says I can’t come up and surprise you without your permission. Apparently,” he continues gruffly, “New York City people don’t understand the concept of surprise.”

“Wait. You’re here?” I swivel my eyes past the loft railing to the crowd of guests gathered in the living room below. All waiting for my entrance. The heels of several crossed legs bouncing impatiently from sofa seats for the party to begin.

His voice booms over the speaker. “What do you mean it’s for her protection?”

“Terry?” My eyes tick over to the countdown clock: 8 minutes, 37 seconds.

Pause.

“What do you mean there have been recent attempts?”

Oookay.

Time to go.