The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Sixty Seven: Caprice

**

"This is Sebastian. You know the fucking drill."

I sigh irately—one, for calling Sebastian twenty times already only to be led to voicemail, and two, for the voicemail's existence in the first place. I make a mental note to tell him to change it whenever he feels comfortable with talking to me again.

"Hey, Sebastian. It's me again. I know for a fact you're ignoring me." I play with a stray piece on my button up shirt and sigh. "I don't blame you. I don't know how many times I'll have to apologize for you to forgive me, but I think we should talk first before that happens. Call me back."

I hang up and vow not to call him back. It's already 9:00PM, and I've been blowing up his phone since he left the conference today. Sarah isn't talking to me, either; Lucas won't contact me since Sebastian's word is law for him.

Pedro sniffs at my feet. If I'll be honest, it's kind of annoying having him be so damn clingy to me all of the sudden. I've yet to ask Paul and Beth how babysitting him was, but whatever happened changed the little pup. Even though his clinginess is distracting, it's the only company I have right now.

I sit down on my couch, the silence of my apartment taunting me. Pedro, as expected, sits next to me and lays his head on my thigh. I've tried not to let what happened today consume me, but I've failed horribly at that attempt. The mysterious number (Or Garrett's unnamed minion) hasn't contacted me at all since earlier today, and neither has Ingrid. I've always thought that Ingrid was the said minion carrying out his dirty work while playing the pity card, but her warning today and the clear unstable state of her mental psyche makes me contemplate what to even think of her.

I start on a late-night dinner to steer my mind in another direction. Chicken? Check. Pesto sauce? Check. Jasmine rice? Check.

Table for one, please.

The oven is preheated to 350 degrees as I prepare the chicken and boil the water for the rice. As my hands spread the pesto generously on the chicken, I hear my phone ring in the living room. My heart does infinite summer saults in my chest.

Quickly, I wash my hands and rush into the living room. I don't care if Sebastian wants to talk calmly or scream at me for being the bane of his existence. I just need to talk to him.

To my surprise, it isn't his caller ID on my phone. It's no one's caller ID, actually. Again—an unknown number.

I answer it anyway; what do I have to lose at this point?

"Hello?" I answer.

"Leslie," A female—familiar female—voice answers back. I don't know who this is; I don't reply.

She scoffs like I'm wasting her time. "It's Felicity. Felicity Felix?"

What the hell is Felicity Felix calling me for? I fear the worst.

"Um...why are you calling me?" I respond; a bit of rudeness laces my tone.

"Are you with Sebastian?" she asks me. Her voice sounds like she's in a hurry.

At the sound of his name, I hold my head down as if she's asking me in person. "No, I'm not. Why?"

"My manager who was told by my publicist who was told by my assistant said that you were with him at his house? At his party?"

So that's why Sebastian isn't answering his phone—he's hosting a party. I have a feeling it was a spontaneous party thrown for the wrong reasons.

"Well whoever told you that is wrong. I'm not with him."

Felicity chuckles. "Bullshit. Just fess up and admit that you're with him. Is that redhead bitch with you, too? I never expected you to be the 'three's a party' type but—"