Genevieve stare at him.
“I want a career like his. And they say you helped him.”
Grant gave a little shrug. “You know how things get around. Especially in this business.”
Genevieve looked away, privately hating how easily her cheeks colored. Until Upton, Genevieve had never gotten close to those she’d decided to favor. Instead it had been discreet business conducted at a distance. But Upton had ducked under her defenses, and though she hadn’t walked carpets with him and had always been careful to maintain a publicly cool demeanor . . .
“How do you decide?” Grant asked, cutting into Genevieve’s thoughts.
She felt her face grow even hotter. “What do you mean?”
“How do you choose who . . .” He groped for the words. “Will benefit from . . . Whatever it is you do?”
“They call me fickle,” she told him, blinking rapidly to try and stop the tears that were threatening. “And maybe it’s true. It’s only ever a whim.” She gathered herself; suddenly the evening felt unseasonably chilly. “I think you should take me home now, Mr. Owen.”
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