Public Relations

Chapter Four

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Author's Note: Hello again! I hope you liked the last chapter! Sorry if you got a notification about part 2 being published, Wattpad glitched and I had to repost it.

No serious warnings for this chapter, just some swearing and a brief reference to Avery's assault. Happy reading!!
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I spend an hour figuring out my makeup and styling my hair into voluminous, 3-inch curls, strapping on a pair of designer stilettos, a slit in the leather exposing my pedicured toenails. I spray on a perfume that smells like aged champagne and pick out gold jewelry.

I check my phone, aloting for the two hour drive into Houston, and walk downstairs, holding my black Chanel bag in my hands. I step into the courtyard, the soles of my heels clapping on the bricks. Jameson is waiting for me, a bouquet of roses in his hands and a sharp black suit on him. He steps aside, revealing the open door to a black convertible Porsche and welcoming me into it.

"The wind is going to ruin my hair," I complain, taking my flowers from him.

"They let you choose your outfits, they let me choose the ride," he responds, spinning the keys on the tip of his index finger.

I get in, laughing, and he slams the door behind me as I put on my seat belt. He turns the key in the ignition, the engine roaring, and he twists the steering wheel as the car accelerates. I throw my hands in the air as we race down the driveway, my hair blowing behind me.

The drive only takes us an hour and a half, with Jameson weaving dangerously through the busy parkway and turning sharply into the parking lot of Masraff's. He tosses his keys to the valet and holds the glass door open for me. The hostess is immediatly in front of me, two menus in her hands, anxious to walk us to our seats. We're led through every section of the restaurant past tables of people on dates and dimly lit booths, the velvet carpeting passing under my feet.

Our seats are in a private dining suite in the corner, partially covered by three walls, but still opening into a view of the elegantly decorated restaurant. Jameson pulls out my chair and takes my coat, draping it over the back of my chair.

I toss my hair over my shoulders as a waiter brings us two glasses of water and takes our drink orders. I ask for a Shirley Temple. Jameson orders a whiskey, showing an ID that convinces the waiter he's legal.

"I didn't know you'd be joining me tonight, Mr. Thorne," I mock.

"I do enjoy a surprise, my dear," he responds.

I chuckle as he puts the card back in his wallet.

The conversation fades to nothing, and I probe the idea of telling him about the cards.

It's now or never.

I take a sip of water, and rip off the band-aid. "I looked through the deck of cards that we found last month."

A look of surprise crosses Jameson's face for a split second as our drink orders arrive. The waiter takes our starter orders—mine an arugula salad with poppyseed vinnagrette and Jameson's the potato latkes with whipped cream cheese and lox—and Jameson looks back at me as we hand over our menus.

"Well...what did you find?" he asks casually, his elbows on the table and his eyes on me.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" I dig around in my purse, pulling out the deck and the photo before tossing them in his direction.

He opens the box of cards first, immediately picking out the five annotated ones.

He lays them out like he's performing a tarot reading and thinks over each number. I take my first sip of grenadine and watch him think.