Professor Feelgood (Page 31)

“Honestly, don’t worry about me, guys. Please, let’s just get through this meeting before the professor gets here.”

Our team today consists of our in-house promotional guru, Sidney, his second-in-command, Shawna, and our social media director, Dominique. There are also three girls who are interning with us for a few months, and I notice how they exchange glances when they open the dossier and see pictures of a semi-naked professor. It’s funny how favorable reactions to him used to make me feel great about this project, but now that I know it’s Jake, I just want to yell, “Stop! Don’t find him attractive! He’s a butthead!”

“So,” I say, while opening my own dossier. “A few of you are already familiar with our latest author, but for those who aren’t, let me introduce Professor Feelgood.”

“Terrible-looking man,” Sidney says, clucking his tongue. “How does someone cope with a hideous body like that?”

“And untalented,” Shawna adds. “I’ve been trawling his Instagram feed for the past twenty-four hours, and … well …” A bright blush starts on her neck. “He really needs to learn how to string a sentence together.”

Serena smiles. “I’m glad to see no one here is immune to the professor’s charms.”

I consider mentioning that at least one person here finds him gross, but what would be the point?

Serena gestures to me. “Asha has done a fantastic job finding us a rare and special gem in the professor, and we need to make sure we capitalize on this opportunity to bring home a monster hit for Whiplash.”

“Have you guys met him yet?” one of the interns asks. “Is he as amazing in real life as he is online?”

“No,” I say, a little too quickly. “Uh … what I mean is, we haven’t met. That’s what today’s for. To introduce him to everyone, answer questions, and generally welcome him to the Whiplash family.”

“Well, one thing the bidding war did was give the professor some invaluable publicity,” Sidney says. “I was chatting with some media friends last night, and they’re all clamoring to find out more about the man who sent the publishing world into a tailspin. There’s already quite a bit of jostling to get early interviews and photo ops.”

Serena nods, impressed. “That’s fantastic news. Getting buzz going early is going to drive the popularity of this book. The more pre-sales we can get, the better.” She turns to me. “Asha, is there anything else you can tell us about the professor?”

So very much, but little that would be relevant to this conversation. “Well, I know he’s a twenty-four-year-old Brooklyn native. He went to a local high school, and his father was a police officer at a Brooklyn precinct.”

I’m trying to make it sound like these are things I haven’t known most of my life, but it’s tough to fake non-familiarity with Jake. I know every major milestone of his life, including his first kiss and when he lost his virginity. Not things I necessarily want to know, but nevertheless, know them, I do.

“Okay. Local boy. That’s a good angle,” Sid says. “Did you warn him about me grilling him today?”

Damn. I’d forgotten that one of Sid’s favorite tricks is to run comprehensive interviews with all our authors, so he can unearth interesting personal stories he can sell to media outlets to gain exposure. He has a way of getting people to tell him incredibly personal anecdotes, but I doubt Jake will succumb to his charms. When it comes to divulging details about his personal life, Jake is about as forthcoming as a steel trap locked in a cast-iron filing cabinet that’s stored in the basement of a condemned building.

Still, if Jake does decide to cooperate, I hope he has sense enough to keep me out of it.

“No warning,” I say, trying to seem unrattled. “I guess we’ll just see how things go.”

“Excellent,” Sid says in his best Bond villain voice. “I like to take my prey by surprise before cracking them open like a walnut. Hopefully Mr. Stone will have some fascinating stories about his life and upbringing.”

Serena starts a conversation with Sid about which photographer to use for Jake’s upcoming photoshoot, but their voices fade into the background as I rub my head. It’s starting to ache, and I need to down some painkillers before I have to deal with him. He makes my head feel like it’s exploding with rage on a good day, so I’d hate to see what happens when my cranium already feels like it’s splitting open like an egg.

“Okay,” I say. “If there are no other questions I’ll leave you to read over the information in your packs for a few minutes …”

“Asha, you’ve spoken to this guy on the phone, right?” the short, dark-headed intern asks.

“Uh … well, yes.”

She leans forward. “Does he have a sexy voice? It seems like he would.”

“Well …” Aaaand here’s the quandary in which I’m going to find myself throughout this entire process. How can I make objective comments about a man I subjectively hate? Whichever way I go, I’ll be denying some version of the truth.

“His voice is … that of a man.” Awesomely dodged.

“But a sexy man?” the brat presses.

“Uh … Some would find him attractive, I guess. Not me, but some.”

“Seriously,” the girl says, holding up a picture of the professor’s ripped physique. “You’re telling me you don’t find this sexy?”

A few days ago, I would have licked that photo and relished the taste. Today, it makes me cringe away like Gwyneth Paltrow from junk food.

“The thing is,” I say, rubbing my head again. “Sexiness is in the eye of the beholder, right? I mean, what I find sexy, you may not, and vice versa. For me, a man has to have an amazing personality to be sexy. He can have the best body in the world, and write prose that would make the angels weep, but if he’s an ass, then for me, that cancels everything else out.”

Even as I say it, something inside me whispers, Liar.

When I stop talking, I notice no one is looking at me. They’re all focused on a point over my left shoulder.

I freeze. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Everyone nods, and I turn to see, Mr. Whip walking toward the conference room with Jake in tow.

Great. He’s early, and there’s no way I can avoid him seeing me in this state without some David Copperfield-level trickery. Damn me for never having the foresight to invest in a smoke grenade.

As Mr. Whip opens the door and beckons him inside, Jake’s eyes lock with mine. Then, confusion spreads over his face as he takes in the rest of me.

Mr. Whip’s reaction is more sudden. The second he registers my appearance, his face drops. “Good Lord, Asha. What happened to you?”

“She was mugged,” Serena says quietly. “They stole her phone. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

He seems taken aback. “Oh, dear. Are you all right?”

“You were mugged?” Jake says, doing a decent job of faking concern. Amazing what he can pull out when he has an audience.

“Not exactly,” I say. “However, someone did steal my phone. Other than that, I’m fine, Mr. Whip. Thanks for asking.”

Jake frowns at me. “You don’t look fine.”

“You really don’t,” Mr. Whip agrees.