Neighbors in Love Book 3: All Part of the Service
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Elle Fielding
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The New Client
Book 3: All Part of the Service
NAOMI
A crisp, enthusiastic knock pulls me out of my concentration. I blink, dragging my gaze from my laptop as Zara, my assistant, appears in the doorway. She never barges in without reason.
I close my laptop, already bracing. “What’s the matter?”
Zara practically bounces into my office, her energy infectious. “Michael wants to see you. Right away.”
My heart kicks up a notch. “Right now?”
She nods dramatically. “Immediately. Should I tell him you’re heading up?”
A jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. This job is built on urgency, quick thinking, adaptability. It’s exhausting. Exhilarating. Exactly what I live for.
But could this be it? The promotion I’ve been waiting for?
“Yes, please, Zara.”
Her grin widens. “I think this is the moment. He’s finally going to promote you. Just don’t forget about me when you become a partner.”
I let out a laugh. “As if that’s even a remote possibility.”
Zara is impossible to overlook. Today, she’s wearing an orange blouse, a red skirt, and a brown-and-orange scarf tied as a belt—an ensemble as bold as her personality. Her fashion sense has raised more than a few eyebrows among our clients, but she’s exceptional at her job.
Her loyalty and instinct for handling crises make her invaluable.
“You never know,” she teases, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You might become besties with The Barracuda and have no use for me anymore.”
I roll my eyes as I grab my handbag. “I’d rather befriend a shark.”
“Sharks are awesome.”
“You think so.”
Zara smirks but then softens. “Hey, Naomi?”
I pause, meeting her gaze.
“You don’t need it because you’re incredible, but…good luck.”
Something tightens in my chest. She means it.
“Thanks, Zar. That means a lot.”
She blows me a quick kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
As she dashes out, I take a steadying breath and head for the elevator. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, and my palms are slightly clammy as I press the up button. When the doors slide open, I step inside, catching my reflection in the mirrored walls.
I smooth my black-and-red dress, tousle my auburn waves, and add a touch of lipstick. Professional. Polished. A woman who deserves this promotion.
Making partner by thirty—that’s the goal I set the moment I walked through these doors fresh out of university. Eight years of twelve-to-fourteen-hour days, weekend sacrifices, and countless late-night and early-morning calls have led to this moment.
I have earned this.
Watching my friends settle down and build lives outside of work has made me question my priorities at times, but this—my career, my success—is where I find my confidence.
My last relationship? A spectacular disaster. Work is where I thrive.
With my thirtieth birthday looming, I was starting to lose hope of meeting the self-imposed deadline. However, the way I handled the Tate Dawes fiasco solidified my reputation as one of the top public relations managers in Melbourne.
“Thank you, Tate Dawes, for being a challenge that only I could conquer,” I murmur as the elevator dings open.
I step out, shoulders squared, and make my way toward Michael’s office. His assistant is stationed outside like a sentry, her steel-gray bun pulled tight, her mouth perpetually pressed into a line of disapproval.
I widen my smile. She scowls.
“He’s waiting for you,” she clips out.
Nothing can dull my confidence now. I walk past her, knock once, and push open the door to Michael’s expansive corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a sweeping view of the East Melbourne skyline, the city buzzing with life beneath us.
Michael smiles and rises from his seat upon seeing me. “Naomi, come in and take a seat.”
The butterflies that have been fluttering in my stomach morph into something bigger, wilder. But I keep my stride measured, my expression composed as I settle into the plush beige chair with its elegant gold trim.
Michael steeples his fingers, his sharp gray eyes studying me. “Naomi, you know how pleased we are with the way you handled Tate Dawes?”
I offer a smooth smile. “Tate was all bark and no bite. Once he realized I was on his side and I could deliver what he wanted, he was putty in my hands.”
Michael chuckles. “Don’t be modest. You performed a miracle with that kid. I don’t think anyone else could have achieved the same result.”
Satisfaction hums through me. “Thank you, Michael.”
Zara was right. This is it.
Eight months before my thirtieth birthday, and I’m about to become a junior partner. I clasp my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to jump up and celebrate. Champagne is in my near future. Jess, Adam, Kristy, Logan—Zara, of course—will have to join me.
Michael leans back in his chair, assessing me. “You thrive on challenges,” he remarks.
I allow a small smile. “I certainly do.”
Michael leans back in his chair, running a hand through his neatly styled black hair, streaked with just enough gray to make him look distinguished. “We’ve recently acquired a more…demanding client, and I thought you might like to be the first to handle him.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
The bubble I was floating in—the one filled with champagne and celebratory toasts to my impending promotion—bursts so violently I practically feel the splash. The swarm of butterflies drops dead on impact. Rest in peace, hope.
Despite my fading smile, Michael’s remains perfectly intact. “Originally, we had Veronica slated for this client,” he continues, as if he hasn’t just obliterated my moment of triumph. “But after seeing how you handled Tate Dawes, we believe you’re the right woman for this…challenge.”
Veronica Dalton. The Barracuda. My rival from the moment I stepped into this firm. Ruthless. Brilliant. Two years my senior and fast-tracked to junior partner before I even had a shot.
If she didn’t loathe me, I might actually admire her. She thrives on high-stakes clients, the kind most publicists would kill to land.
And now, I’ve been given one meant for her. This isn’t just a client. It’s a statement. A massive one.
But a challenge? Haven’t I already proven myself? Was Tate Dawes not enough?
Exhaustion presses at the edges of my mind, but I shove it aside. I will do whatever it takes to prove I deserve this promotion. Even if it means more sleepless nights and long, punishing days.
I flash a megawatt smile—the same one I reserve for high-profile clients and crisis negotiations. “Absolutely. I’d relish the chance to showcase my capabilities.”
Michael’s expression warms. “That’s what sets you apart, Naomi. Your exceptional attitude. Your hunger. The partners have taken notice. If you can reshape public opinion with this client, I promise you—the promotion is yours.”
Not today. But soon. All I have to do is not mess this up.
I lift my chin, feigning total confidence. “Who’s the client?”
Michael’s smile wavers. Just for a second. “Dominic Wylder.”
Heat floods my face. My pulse skyrockets. “The Dominic Wylder?” My voice almost cracks. “The man behind those ‘Why You Should Sleep with the Bad Boy’ books? And those godawful videos on Granite?”
Michael nods, clearly amused by my reaction. “That’s the one.”
No. No, no, no. Of all the clients in the world. Dominic Wylder doesn’t need a publicist—he needs a full-time handler. He’s a walking PR nightmare, straddling the line between cult idol and canceled-before-the-week’s-out controversy.
His empire started with a blog that exploded into a global brand. Then came the viral videos, the millions of followers, the book deals, and now? The downfall.
His “bad-boy manifesto” schtick worked—for a while. His audience ate up his so-called “brutal honesty” about dating, relationships, and sex. But times are changing. Fast. And lately, the tides have turned against him.
His biggest critics call him toxic. Sexist. Outdated. And if I take him on, his reputation becomes my responsibility.
Michael, ever the diplomat, simply leans forward. “His public image has been rather…volatile lately.”
I snort. His Granite channel is bleeding subscribers by the thousands. Women—the very audience that built his career—are turning against him. The masses are finally waking up to the reality that Dominic Wylder’s only qualifications are partying, womanizing, and monetizing his ego.
And now, I have to clean up his mess? My stomach twists. I know how to rehabilitate a public image. I’ve done it before. But this might just be career suicide.
“I thought he was represented by Marlo and Sons,” I say, hoping for a loophole—any excuse to hand this problem to someone else.
“He was,” Michael confirms. “But he wants to expand into new media, and Marlo and Sons couldn’t deliver. If we succeed, it’ll solidify us as the go-to firm for high-profile, high-risk clients.”
I nod, processing. A miracle, that’s what Michael is asking of me. He sees a jackpot. I see a disaster waiting to happen.
“It’s perfect timing,” he adds smoothly, “since he’s about to release another book that’s bound to hit the bestseller lists.” His eyes practically glow with dollar signs. “We just need to polish up his image a little.”
A little?
I bite back my instinctive response, but my skepticism must show because Michael chuckles. “Come on, Naomi. You love a challenge.”
Not this one. Everything in me is screaming to say no. To let Veronica sink her teeth into this walking PR disaster and focus on something—anything—else. But Michael’s earlier words echo in my head. If I can reshape public opinion with this client, the promotion is mine. And I want that promotion; I’ve earned it.
So, I plaster on another flawless smile, ignoring the anxiety creeping up my spine. “Of course,” I say, my voice smooth, steady. “I’ll handle it. When do I meet him?”
Michael grins like I just made his year. “He’s actually here. You probably passed him on your way up. He’s in the fifth-floor boardroom, and he’s eager to meet you.”
Oh, I’m sure he is. If he thinks I’ll be just another woman falling at his feet, he’s got another thing coming.
Still, I rise gracefully from my seat, keeping my expression neutral. “I’d better not keep him waiting, then.”
“Naomi,” Michael calls out just as I grasp the doorknob. “One more thing before you go.”
I turn to face my boss, a sense of dread already settling in my stomach. “Yes?”
“Dominic is going on tour in a month. As his representative, you’ll be accompanying him.”
I swallow hard. “They still do book signing tours?”
Michael chuckles. “They sure do. And this one isn’t just about signings. He’ll be speaking at events, engaging with fans. Big publicity opportunity.”
Without a muzzle, how am I supposed to keep him from torpedoing himself into permanent cancelation?
My jaw tightens, but my voice remains even. “How long is the tour?”
Michael’s grin widens. “Four weeks.”
“Great,” I say, injecting fake enthusiasm into my tone.
I turn sharply, gripping the door handle. I need air.
But as I step into the hallway, Michael’s parting words chill me. “Good luck, Naomi,” he says, amused. “I have a feeling you might need it with this client.”
He chuckles as the door swings shut behind me. And as I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back, I know one thing for certain. I just stepped into the most dangerous PR campaign of my career. And Dominic Wylder? He’s going to make me fight for every damn second of it.
