ANDREA’S POV
The penthouse had been transformed into a military war room, if war rooms smelled like hairspray and expensive foundation.
I sat in a high-backed leather chair in the center of the living room, surrounded by three people who were pulling, poking, and painting me. A woman named Chloe was blending something cool and creamy onto my cheekbones. A man with sharp glasses was attacking my hair with a curling iron. And Leo was pacing in front of me, reading from a tablet like he was reciting nuclear launch codes.
"Okay, listen closely," Leo said, scrolling through a list of photos. "This is Jonathan Pierce. He owns Pierce Media. He is seventy, hard of hearing in his left ear, and hates talking about politics. If he approaches you, ask him about his racehorses."
"Racehorses," I rep
