Ethan’s all-gas-little-brake personality had found me at the perfect time.
After so many years of playing the role of outsider in a family who strived after intangible things, someone finally understood me—believed in me, even.
Allowing the pan of chicken to cool on top of the stove, I made him up a plate of smoked gouda and dry salami from the charcuterie board, arranging several crackers around the edges, and then poured him a glass of red wine. I placed both on the table and sat next to him. He didn’t touch either offering.
Instead, he perched on the edge of my couch as if ready to sprint. “Babe, I had a meeting with Mr. Greggorio yesterday. About you.”
About me? Mr. Greggorio was Ethan’s partner at Cobalt, only he had about thirty years on Ethan in life and in running a successful marketing agency. His name always sparked a flurry of nerves. Maybe because Ethan had never once referred to him by a name other than Mr. Greggorio. Then again, perhaps wealthy, yacht-owning Italian men who agented all kinds of entertainment, talent, and business professionals didn’t have first names? “But my numbers are on the rise. I just passed the six hundred thousand mark.”
Ethan turned on the magnetism he was known for. “Oh, he knows. He’s been keeping tabs on you himself. In fact, he’s been doing a lot more than that.”
I had no response for this. None. Mr. Greggorio didn’t deal with influencer riffraff like me. He handled Cobalt’s VIP clientele only—partnering with product lines associated with sponsors and companies that ranked in the top brands and corporations worldwide. I wasn’t even certain he’d remembered me after our first meeting last year when I signed on as an influencer with them—a low-level one at that. My numbers had barely brushed the one hundred thousand mark, and my brand had been anything but focused. But Ethan had believed in my talent, in what I could do for the fashion and beauty industry as a whole, and he’d signed me on the spot.
We went on our first date just two months later. He’d flown me to dinner at the Space Needle—just under an hour flight from Spokane, Washington.
He stood now and paced my living room floor, his new flat-front chinos flexing with each step without a single winkle in sight—a fashion miracle considering his earlier state of hibernation. He stopped without warning and turned on the heel of his loafer. “He says you have the It Factor. The special quality that separates the fakes from the real thing.” His grin revealed freshly whitened teeth. “Do you have any idea how many clients Mr. Greggorio has worked with in his lifetime?”
If I was stunned before, then I was practically catatonic now. I gave the tiniest shake of my head.
“Thousands.” He laughed. “Thousands, Molly!” A wild spark ignited his gaze. “And I’m not the only one he told that to, either. He pitched you to the media moguls at Netflix. They’re looking to recruit fresh talent for a new feel-good series slated for next year. And their response to him was, ‘Molly McKenzie is already on our radar.’”
“What?” I leapt off the sofa, unsure of what to do with my body other than gawk and flail my arms like a flightless bird. “No. No way. You’re lying to me. This can’t be real. Tell me you’re lying.” A scratchy, unrecognizable whisper escaped my throat. “Are you lying?”
He laughed. “Not even I could tell a lie that good.”
I flung myself at him, and he caught my waist and spun me around. “Oh my goodness! I know you said it would happen someday, that you’d take my brand places I couldn’t even begin to imagine, but I . . . I just can’t believe it’s actually happening!”
Ethan lowered me to the ground and cupped my face in his hands. “As long as you stay focused on the goals ahead, I will work to make your wildest dreams come true.” He smiled as if to let his words soak in. “But before I can submit your official audition to the producers this summer, we need to eliminate every potential weak spot in your résumé to edge out your competitors.”
“Sure, of course.” Whatever cloud-like euphoria had inflated my entire being only moments ago had sprung a leak. Ethan reached for his briefcase, and just like that, Manager Ethan had shown Boyfriend Ethan to the door.
“I wrote some key targets down for you on my last flight. I know how much you like to visualize your goals.”
“Right. Thanks.” My gaze dropped to his briefcase as he popped open the lock. “Whatever I need to do, I’ll do it.”
A slight curve lifted the corner of Ethan’s mouth. “That’s exactly what I told Mr. Greggorio you’d say.”
He scooted the appetizer board and wine glasses to a separate side table.
“So you’re wanting to go over all this right now, then?” I asked, glancing back at our cooling dinner.
“Waiting time is wasted time.” An Ethan quotable if ever there was one. Ethan was not someone who believed patience was a virtue.
“Right.” I took the bullet point list from his hand, and my gaze immediately snagged on the first objective listed.
1 million subscribers
“A million subscribers? By the end of August?”
“Gaining the edge is never easy.”
I raised my questioning gaze to his confident one. “But that’s . . .” On principle, I didn’t say the word impossible, but gosh, if there ever was a time for that word, it was right now. “That’s almost four hundred thousand subscribers in just three months.”
“Yes, it is. And I have a strategy for how to get us there.”
“Does it include praying for a miracle?” My joke fell flat with a quick shake of Ethan’s head.
“You know I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in hard work, dedication, and plenty of grit. All things you have in spades. And all things that make us such great partners.” He grabbed another
