Chapter 6: My Boss Gives Me The Brutal Truth

My new boss stares at me, eyebrow raised in a question.

"I mean it," I repeat. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong, Mr. Everet."

"Roman."

"What?"

"Call me Roman."

Using his first name makes this worse. It makes it... intimate. At least when he was "Mr. Everet" I could sort of pretend he wasn't a real person. The formality made it safer. Easier. But that's not exactly something I can explain to the man in front of me.

"Okay," I say. "Roman. I'd like to hear what you think I'm doing wrong."

He doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drink, and I can't decide if he's giving me one last chance to walk away or if he just likes to watch me squirm. Finally, he puts his glass down.

"It's too much," he repeats.

"What is?"

"Everything. The way you're dressed. The way you try to get the attention of these men. It's coming off as desperate."

"Desperate?" Oh, God. I mean, I know I feel desperate, but I didn't realize everyone else could see it.

But Roman isn't finished.

"Don't get me wrong," he says. "The approach you take is up to you. In fact, I'd venture that there are many men who'd be happy to accept what they believe you're offering. But I don't think you'll be getting the results you'd like. And I'm fairly certain this strategy won't help you win the attentions of any of the Fontaines. Luca and his brothers have women throwing themselves at them all the time. You'd just be one more."

I can read between the lines, as much as it pains me to acknowledge what he isn't saying.

"And I'm not sexy enough to stand out from the rest," I say.

"That's not what I said. I'm only suggesting that the odds would be against you."

That's not exactly reassuring. I run a finger through the condensation on the side of my glass. "What am I supposed to do, then?"

"Your current method might get you a smile and a few polite words, but not much more. Certainly not an interview. You need a far subtler approach."

A far subtler approach. Could he be any more vague? I take a long sip of my Long Island Iced Tea through my straw, waiting for him to continue. To explain. But when I sneak a glance at him, he seems to be waiting for me to speak.

"How... How do I..." Looking him in the eyes makes it harder to ask the question, so I drop my gaze back to my drink. "I obviously don't have any idea what I'm doing. You're going to need to be more specific."

He swivels toward me on his stool, and before I realize what's happening, he takes me by the shoulders and turns me back to face him. Our knees bump together beneath the bar, but he doesn't seem to notice. I, on the other hand, am aware of everything - from the way the fabric of his pants rubs against my bare legs to the heat of his hands through the satin of my shirt. If I thought using his first name made things too personal, him touching me takes things to an entirely new level. Especially because he's holding me so I can't easily look away. I'm forced to meet his eyes, to face this sexy devil of a man who may or may not be my worst nightmare right now. My heart thumps.

"Felicia," he says, "you can't let your nerves about this situation get in the way of your common sense. You're acting like you've never spoken to a man before in your life." He cocks his head. "You're not a virgin, are you?"

My cheeks are flaming. "No! Of course not."

The look he gives me tells me he doesn't quite believe me. When does humiliation become so acute that you explode into a thousand little pieces? Because I'm pretty sure I'm almost there.

"But you've spoken to men before?" he asks me. "Dated them?" I'm reminded of the intensity of the interrogation he gave me over Emilia Torres, like this is one more business problem to solve.

"Yes. Yes, I've dated," I manage. "But I never... I mean, we were always friends first. I've never had to approach them."

"It doesn't matter who approaches. It's about the conversation that follows."

"Well, in that case, no. I haven't had a lot of experience in that area." I realize I'm fidgeting, bouncing my knee against his. I force myself to be still. "I - I mean, I don't exactly have men fighting over each other to talk to me." Admitting that to a guy who could be an underwear model isn't exactly easy.

"But you could. It's all about the presentation." He drops his hands from my shoulders, and suddenly I feel as if I can breathe again.

Still, it takes me a moment to find my thoughts. I gesture at my outfit. "And this is the wrong presentation."

He sits back. "It's not just about what you wear, though that certainly plays a role. It's about what you say, how you engage, and most importantly, how you make him feel. You have everything you need, Felicia, but you aren't putting it to proper use."

I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or not. I swivel back toward the bar and grab my Long Island. At least he doesn't think I'm completely hopeless. Still, his dark, scrutinizing gaze continues to unnerve me. It's like a tickle on my skin, and I suppress the urge to shiver. I don't like being analyzed this closely, especially by someone like him, who's probably never had trouble seducing anyone in his entire life. On the other hand, what do I have to lose? My dignity's already out the window. This is about saving my job. Period.

"What would you suggest I do?" I ask him finally.

There's a hint of wry humor in his expression. "I don't have a step-by-step guide, if that's what you're looking for."

"Then you can't help me?" I ask, and if I had any pride left, I'd be ashamed by how disappointed I sound.

"I didn't say that."

This is the point where I realize that he's dragging this out on purpose - that he's actually enjoying watching me squirm. I see it in his eyes, and that devilish smile that stretches across his lips confirms it. I start to turn away in disgust, but he reaches out and grabs my arm. His fingers feel too warm on my already alcohol-flushed skin. Or maybe I just feel exposed, considering my humiliation here tonight.

"It's not impossible to teach someone seduction," he says, his voice dropping low, "but it isn't simple, either. There's no guide, no preset rules. In fact, some would say there are no rules at all. The question is, are you willing to learn?"

Something about his tone makes my heart beat a little faster - though I'm sure the fact that he's still touching me doesn't help. I pull my arm out of his grip.

"Are you offering to teach me?" I ask.

That smile of his widens. "Perhaps."

I frown. "Don't you have more important things to do?" I mean, he's the freaking CEO of a growing media company. He just bought the largest celebrity news magazine in the country. This guy probably regularly puts in hundred-hour weeks.

"I think this is very important, Felicia. Do you not?"

I'm certain that he's teasing me now, and part of me thinks I should just walk away. He's clearly getting some sort of sick joy out of this, and I'm not sure how I feel about being some big shot's "entertainment" after a long week of work.

But walking away now would mean giving up on this Fontaine interview, and I'm not prepared to do that just yet. I knew when I got into this business that I'd need to be tenacious. That I'd need to push myself outside of my comfort zone. Besides, I still have most of a Long Island Iced Tea to finish. And it's making me bolder with every sip. In fact, I'm feeling pleasantly warm right now.

"Okay," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "Let's do this. What do I need to do?"

Something gleams in his eyes. He's altogether too pleased by this.

"As I said before, there isn't an instruction manual," he says. "But I'll tell you what. Pick a guy. Show me what you can do, and I'll help you refine your technique."

Wait - he wants me to do what?

"You've already seen what I can do," I remind him. Or what I can't do, more accurately.

"Not up close. Not with a chance to truly study you. And this time you know you need to be subtler. Let's see how quickly you learn and adapt."

"Right now? Here?"

"When else? There's plenty of opportunity. And we don't have much time before Hollywood Saves!"

This is ridiculous. I didn't come here to put on some sort of show for Roman. I don't deny that I need the help, but how am I supposed to get better with this guy watching my every move?

But how am I supposed to get better if I don't try?

Another gulp of the Long Island goes down my throat. It's making me feel fuzzy-headed and reckless. I glance around the room. This bar is filled with men. Some young - college-aged - and others old enough to be my grandfather. There are men in T-shirts and men who look like they just got off work. None of them are dressed as nicely as Roman - which makes me wonder again why he had to wander into this bar - but that doesn't help me one way or the other when it comes to getting their interest.

Finally, I look back at the man beside me. Roman looks perfectly calm and perfectly amused. Is this what media moguls do for fun on their nights off? Why isn't he in some swanky club or out on his yacht with a couple of models on his arm? This man could be sitting with any woman he wanted right now. Instead, he's sitting here with me. Asking me to go hit on someone so he can watch. Maybe he gets off on this sort of thing, the sicko.

I think I need another couple of shots.

But damn it, a part of me - the alcohol-fueled part - really wants to prove myself to this guy. To show him that I'm not as inept as he thinks. To prove that I've got the gumption to work for Celebrity Spark.

"Okay," I say. "Let's get this over with."