Truth or Dare (His Wicked Games #2) (5 page)

“No, of course not,” I say, grateful for
their sudden appearance. “Morgan was just dropping off her supply
list.”

Morgan smiles. “Yup, I was just about to go
finish preparing my classroom.” She turns to leave, but from the
look she flashes over her shoulder, I know that this conversation
isn’t over.

When she’s gone, Dad steps forward, ushering
his companion toward the seat Morgan just vacated.

“You have a minute, don’t you, honey?” he
asks me. “This is Asher Julian. He’s from the
Intown Voice.
He’s writing a piece on us.”

“On us?”

“On the Center. On all the changes we’ve been
making these past few months. Isn’t that wonderful?” My dad is
almost bouncing in excitement.

I glance over at the man sitting across the
desk from me. He has sandy blond hair and bright, friendly eyes. If
I had to guess, he’s in his early thirties, but there’s a boyish
quality to him—probably only heightened by that dimple on his left
cheek. He’s dressed in jeans and a sport coat, casual but
put-together. He extends his hand to me.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Frazer,” he
says, shaking my hand. “I must admit, I admire the work you two
have done around here. This place is truly an asset to the
community, and I think a lot of people would love to hear your
story. At the very least, I hope to give you a little more
visibility. Our little city could use more places like this.”

Okay, this guy definitely knows how to butter
us up. No wonder Dad’s beaming. This sounds like an amazing
opportunity, but still, I’m a little wary.

I used to date a journalist—Garrett, who
shall henceforth be known as The Psycho Ex—and I asked him once,
when we were still together, if he’d run a little piece on us.
Nothing crazy, or long—just a couple of sentences. A
mention.
Garrett laughed and kissed me on the nose and told
me that as much as
he
’d love to do it, his editor would
never approve of the story. I knew he was telling the truth—after
all, he wrote primarily for a site that addressed national business
and financial news, and we’re a small community organization—but
his condescension stung all the same.

And then, when the Center was struggling,
when we were trying everything we could think of to bring in more
funds, we contacted a number of local publications. The only ones
that bothered to respond just sent over their advertisement rates.
I want to ask Mr. Asher Julian where he was when we desperately
needed this attention, but the truth is, we still need it. We might
be on the upswing now, but we can still use all the help we can
get.
Intown Voice
is a small, local publication—the sort
that you find for free on racks outside of bars and coffee
shops—but to my admittedly limited knowledge they seem to have a
decent readership. And they focus heavily on community and culture,
making them a good fit for us.

I smile as I squeeze the man’s hand in
return. “What sort of questions did you have for us?”

Dad leans forward. “I’ve already chatted with
him for a bit, given him the basics about our history and programs.
But he’s especially interested in the changes we’ve made around
here recently, and since you were the brains behind all of that, I
told him he should talk to you.” To Mr. Julian he adds, “She’s
cleverer than me too. And a much cuter subject for any photos you
need to take.”

“Dad,” I say, fighting down a blush. It
doesn’t matter how old you get—parents always like to dote on you
in the most awkward way possible.

“I’ll be right next door,” he says, ignoring
my warning glare. “Just holler if you need anything.”

He retreats back to his office, leaving me
alone with the smiling, eager reporter.

I take a deep breath. “So. What is it you
want to know?”

“It’s not an interrogation, I promise,” he
says, pulling a small digital voice recorder out of his pocket and
propping it up on the desk. “And I won’t take up much of your
time.”

I realize I sound less-than-enthused about
all this, so I quickly put on a smile.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just been crazy
around here this morning. And I’m afraid I’ve had some bad luck
with journalists in the past.”

“Ah, yes. Your dad told me that you used to
date Garrett Afton.”

Great.
That’s Dad—always the
blabbermouth. Things just got a whole lot more awkward.

“Are you two, uh, friends?” I ask. I don’t
know if I can deal with this.

But Asher shakes his head. “I’ve only met him
once—in an entirely professional capacity.” He leans in
conspiratorially. “Honestly, I thought he was a bit of a snob.”

My surprise must register on my face because
he adds, “Don’t worry—not all writers are evil. Some of us are just
poor saps trying to make the world a better place.”

In spite of my concerns, I find myself
returning his smile.

“That’s a very noble goal,” I say.

“The same one you have here, I think.” He
crosses his legs. “What do you say? Do you trust me enough to
answer a few questions?”

“Ask away, Mr. Julian.”

That seems to satisfy him, and his grin
widens. “Call me Asher, please. Don’t think of this as some formal
interview. We’re just talking.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Do you mind if I call you Lily?”

“Oh, no. Go ahead.”

He clicks on the digital recorder and leans
back in the chair, as if we really are just two friends having a
chat. I don’t know why, but I automatically feel a little more
comfortable myself. I feel my shoulders relax.

“I really do love this place,” Asher says,
glancing around my office. “I can tell that you two have poured
your heart and soul into it.”

“Thank you,” I say. “We do everything we can
for the Center.”

“It shows.” He flashes a charming smile and
scoots forward. “You were practically raised in this place, weren’t
you?”

I spend the next half hour talking to him
about my life here—about everything my dad has poured into this
place over the years, about all the programs and classes and events
we’ve planned. I grew up in the Center. My entire life has revolved
around this place.

Asher smiles and nods with encouragement as I
speak, even asking me to elaborate on a couple of points. I’ll
admit—I was a little worried at the beginning, but now that I’ve
seen Asher’s approach, I’m feeling much better. There
are
people in our community who see value in the work we do here. I
could go on for hours and hours about the Center, and Asher seems
perfectly willing to let me.

At one point he gets up and goes over to the
photos on my wall, the same photos Calder was studying only a few
nights ago. I move beside him, and he turns and grins at me.

“You look so happy with the kids,” he
says.

“I was happy. I am.” I reach out and touch
the nearest photo. “I’d do anything for this place.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Asher says it almost
reverently.

I glance over at him. He’s nearer than I
thought, close enough that I notice, for the first time, the
dusting of freckles across his nose.

“It’s rare to find someone with so much
passion for their work,” he says, his voice thick with admiration.
“Trust me, I know.”

I feel a blush coming, so I laugh and turn
away. “As you said, I grew up in this place. How couldn’t I be
passionate about it?”

“Tell me about your latest efforts,” he says.
“Your father said it was your idea to start renting out the gallery
space.”

“Well, I—I mean, I suggested it, but he made
most of the major decisions.”

“That’s not what he tells me. He says you’ve
spearheaded the entire project.”

I sit back down. “I’ve just done what needed
to get done. He has a lot of things on his plate already, and so it
made sense that I’d take on most of the new responsibilities.”

Asher props his hand on the edge of the desk
and leans toward me. “You know, Lily, modesty is a fine quality,
but it doesn’t make for very good sound bites.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm. “I’m not being
modest.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “Oh, I think you
are. You’ll go on and on about the Frazer Center until someone asks
you about your own part.”

I start to protest, but he cuts me off.

“Don’t worry, the readers will eat it up.
It’s pretty charming, actually.”

Wait—is he flirting with me? He flashes
another broad, dimpled smile before returning to his chair.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he
says. “I won’t force you to brag. We can come at it from a
different angle, if you like.” He leans back in his seat. “Tell me
a little about the situation here before you decided to rent out
the gallery.”

I take a deep breath and launch into what I
think is a pretty good account of our situation those final few
months: our failed fundraising attempts, our cutbacks, our ongoing
discussions about our prices and programs. I could talk about
this
all he wants, and I figure I must be giving a decent
answer because Asher keeps nodding.

Finally he says, “Your father tells me that
you guys were doing just fine until you lost a significant donation
you were promised. What can you tell me about that?”

There it is. I should have guessed this topic
would come up. I need to tread carefully here.

“Sometimes pledges are broken,” I say, “and
we have to make do. It happens to every nonprofit organization at
some point, I’m sure.”

“But this was a very large pledge. From a
very well-known family.”

I force myself to shrug. “We don’t know the
circumstances surrounding the decision.” The general public has yet
to learn about the Cunninghams’ financial situation, and I won’t be
the one to reveal it.

“You don’t believe they owe you some sort of
explanation?”

I shift in my seat. “I’m in no place to judge
their decision. They don’t owe us anything.”

“Not even an apology?”

“We’ve received an apology.”

“Really? Your father says you haven’t.”

Ugh, I should have been more careful. I’ve
received an apology from Calder, of course, but my dad wouldn’t
know that. And I certainly can’t explain that to this man without
going into the nature of my acquaintance with the Cunningham
heir.

Time to change tactics.

“I prefer to think of the situation as an
opportunity for us,” I say. “It gave us the chance to grow as an
organization.”

Asher nods and smiles, and I can’t tell
whether he buys my answer or not. But he doesn’t press the issue
further, at least.

“Would you mind if I took a few pictures of
you? A couple in here, I think, and then some in the gallery. And
anywhere else around the facility that you’d like me to see.”

“Of course.” I say, suddenly wishing I’d put
on a little more makeup this morning. Or worn one of my cute
blouses instead of this standard old button-down.

He pulls out his camera, and I frantically
run my fingers through my hair.

“You look amazing, I promise,” he assures me,
shooting me a wink over the lens.

I drop my hair and flip it back over my
shoulder.

“Where do you want me?” I say, trying to
think of all the cheesy business articles I’ve seen. “Typing at my
computer, or…?”

“Whatever you like,” he says cheerfully.

I position my hands awkwardly over the
keyboard while Asher snaps away.

“Relax,” he tells me. “You’re doing great.” I
can tell from his tone that he’s used to this, that I’m not the
first one to be a little stiff in front of his camera. I’m not
camera shy by any means, but it’s one thing to pose for a photo on
a vacation or at a wedding or something and quite another to go for
the whole “fake candid” thing. But Asher’s patient and
understanding, and after a little more coaxing I begin to feel much
more natural.

We head to the gallery next, and then to a
couple of spots outside.

“Are you sure we don’t need my dad for any of
this?” I ask.

“I already got a few of him,” he replies.
“Besides, as much as I hate to admit it out loud, he’s right.
Commercially speaking, you make a better subject for this
story.”

“Because I have breasts?”

He looks stunned for a minute at my
directness, but then he laughs.

“It’s a sad truth of the media industry,” he
says. “Young, attractive women tend to garner a lot of attention. I
swear it’s not as skeevy as it sounds. Every story has to have an
angle, and trust me, if we play up
your
angle—the tale of a
sweet young woman trying to save her father’s struggling art
center—this place is going to get a lot more attention. Nonprofit
institutions struggle and close every day, and
you
are what
sets this place apart. It’s a simple marketing strategy.”

I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea,
but he does make a lot of sense. And honestly—if I thought posing
for nudie pics or dancing on street corners would ultimately help
the Center in some way, I’d do it in a heartbeat. This, by
comparison, is nothing.

And so I smile for Asher’s camera. It isn’t
much longer before he decides he’s captured what he needs.

“Well, it was wonderful talking to you,
Lily.” He pulls a business card from the pocket of his sport coat
and passes it to me. “Please feel free to contact me at any time if
you think of anything else you’d like to add.”

“Of course,” I reply, popping the card into
my pocket.

He clasps my hand in farewell, and his
fingers linger on mine a touch longer than necessary.

“It was a pleasure,” he says, and this time
there’s no denying the flirtatious tilt of his lips.

“Thank you for coming to speak with us,” I
say, pulling my hand away. “And thank you for considering the
Frazer Center for your piece.”

“Not at all,” he says, his blue eyes
flashing. “You do this for a few years, and you start to get pretty
good at sniffing out an interesting story.”