“At first I was afraid.” Slowly I rise. “I was petrified.”

Lorde’s look-alike’s eyes go wide as I really start singing “I Will Survive.” Mr. Blue Eyes grins. And Karen’s assistant frantically picks up her phone.

Throwing my hands wide, I give myself to the song, selling it for all it’s worth. I add in jazz hands because every performance is that much better with a little shimmy.

Blue Eyes begins to clap and egg me on, while the young woman—who quickly hurried to the other end of the room—laughs into her hands.

By the time I’m standing on the chair, doing some weird version of the bump and belting out how I will survive, Karen is in the room, red faced and huffing. From the doorway comes enthusiastic clapping, and I find North and another man watching. North gives me a thumbs-up, which earns him a glare from Karen.

Given that I’m standing on the world’s narrowest chair, my curtsy isn’t as grand as it could be.

Karen steps forward, flailing as if she’s torn between pulling at her hair or me. “What are you doing?” It comes out in a loud hiss of sound.

Sweating and panting, I jump down from my perch. “Warming up the pipes,” I tell her. “However, I’m much better with an accompanist.”

“You are not amusing, Baker.”

“That’s Ms. Baker to you. And neither is waiting for endless hours just so you can try to put me in my place.” I take a drink from my bottled water. “Now, give me the damn scripts before I start in on show tunes, and believe me, I know them all.”

I have a stack of scripts in my hands in ten seconds flat.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Macon

SweetTot: I’m looking through your social media pages.

Delilah left with North about an hour ago. I welcomed the reprieve, knowing she was still pissed at me yet having no idea how to fix it. I take it as a good sign that she’s actually texting. Then again, she might just be bored.

Miss me already?

Yeah, I’m counting the seconds until I see you again. [Insert eye roll here]

Laughing lightly, I respond.

Hide behind eye rolls all you like. I know the truth, Tot.

Uh-huh. Seriously, though, Macon, your accounts are a disaster.

What’s wrong with them?

Personally, I thought they were okay given that I hate maintaining them and feel like a fool every time I post.

They’re so wooden and stilted. And OLD. You never update!

What did you expect? I AM wooden and stilted. And I hate updating.

You forgot old. You’re old too.

A snort echoes in the silence of my living room. I sit back in my chair and get more comfortable.

I’m a few months older than you so . . .

In spirit, Macon. You’re old in spirit.

It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.

She responds with an eye-roll emoji. Don’t quote Indy. You are no Professor Jones.

I bite back a grin like she might see me, even though she’s far away.

You can’t make that assessment until you’ve seen me handle a whip.

I can picture her making a face.

Anyway . . . You need to fix this. Show them just a little bit of the real you.

Sitting up, I hesitate for a second before answering.

What is the real me?

Little dots appear on my screen, then pause, then appear again like she’s deliberating on how she wants to respond. I sweat it out, needing to know. When the text finally appears, though, I’m almost afraid to read it.

Better than what you show. You’re funny when you want to be. You know, in a sarcastic way.

Oh, well, thank you. [Insert my sarcasm here]

I’d never admit it, and I’m suddenly grateful no one can see me, but her words leave me uncomfortably warm. I’ve never been good with compliments. I don’t know how to handle them from Delilah. At all.

I cover the moment by quickly texting before she can.

Consider social media another addition to your duties.

You want me to pretend to be you? Are you feeling all right?

Yes. And yes. Why do you ask?

Because I could make your life hell. I could post ANYTHING.

Snorting again, I shake my head.

But you won’t.

I know Delilah too well. Everything she does, she makes sure to do perfectly. It would hurt her soul to put out bad or embarrassing content. Not because she’d worry about how it reflected on me but because she’d know it was her work, and it couldn’t be subpar.

Damn it, you’re right. Ugh. Okay. I’ll help you. But I’m not doing it on my own. I’ll give you tips, but it has to come from you for the content to be authentic.

I could push the issue, insist she take it over entirely. And then I’d feel like a dick. I already feel like that enough around her anyway.

Deal. But I’m NOT posting torso shots or crap like that.

Another eye-roll emoji follows.

You always thought too highly of yourself, Macon. And you will if I say you will. Abs = love.