Bad Influencer by Kenzie Reed

Chapter Twelve

Elliott

It was not baby number four. It was a burst appendix. Mrs. Sanders was rushed to the emergency room late Wednesday night.

I know this because we get a phone call from Mr. Sanders at 8 a.m. Thursday morning. He rings the suite phone and mournfully tells Jillian they aren’t coming back to the park. He needs to be with Mrs. Sanders in the hospital.

“Heck, no! This was your dream vacation, and we’re not going to let a little thing like major surgery ruin it! We can go stay in your suite and take care of the kids,” she says.

I shake my head, trying to clear my ears. It almost sounded like she said…

“No, no, I insist!” she chirps. “We’d love to! I can come to the hospital and pick them up and bring them back here. Don’t worry, I’ve babysat for my nieces and nephew, and my friends’ kids. I’ll just need car seats, but I’m sure in a family resort, I can find some.”

I stand there making frantic no, no, no motions.

Jillian mistakes my frantic waving. “Yes, Elliott’s totally on board! He’s so excited he can barely control himself!”

When she hangs up, she’s grinning from ear to ear. I hate to burst her bubble, but… no, actually, I don’t. I am going to savagely run the sword of truth right through her bubble and feel excellent about it.

“What the actual hell?” I shout.

“Oh, wipe that sour look off your face,” she scoffs. “Their mother is going to be out of the hospital tomorrow. We just have to watch them for a day.”

I fold my arms across my chest to shield myself from the heat of her smile, and glower murderously. “Not this day. Not the day before the park opening. Call him back immediately.”

“Never.” She meets my gaze defiantly. “But on the bright side, you’ll be rid of me for a few hours while I’m picking up the kids.”

“You know I have neither the time, desire, or the ability to babysit, right?”

“You know that it couldn’t hurt to get a little more comfortable around kids given that you’re the owner of a chain of family amusement parks, right?”

“I hate you very much, Jillian Fletcher.”

“No, you don’t,” she says cheerfully. “Nobody hates me. Not even my family. You may be massively annoyed by me, but you don’t hate me. You find me festive and whimsical.”

“Those were not the words running through my head right now, I assure you.”

“Be back before you even notice I’m gone,” she says, and strolls away.

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” I shout after her retreating back.

The door shuts behind her. As I’m strolling towards my bedroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in a wall mirror and realize I’m smiling. What the hell is wrong with me? This is not the time for merriment. But when I spend time with Jillian, I just can’t help myself. I keep catching glimpses of myself in reflecting surfaces as we walk through the park, and more and more often, this unfamiliar expression of frivolous glee is distorting my mouth.

I stare in the mirror and make myself think of the smarmy owner of Park City Properties strolling into our boardroom and plopping down in the seat that I, and my father before me, and his father before him, used to occupy. I imagine my grandfather still being alive, and the look on his face as the story hits the news—the story of my failure. The story of how I lost our legacy. My grandfather had faith in me when I was still too short for some of our rides. He saw me as the savior of our company—and here I am mooning around after a flighty, pretty party girl when I’m fighting for our very existence.

No, this is no time for screwing around. Literally or figuratively. I don’t have time to start a relationship with Jillian. Not that she’s indicated any romantic interest in me—has she?

I mean that kiss—I can’t stop thinking about that kiss. And she’s pointed out women checking me out on several occasions, with a look of annoyance on her face. Kind of the same way I feel when I see men checking her out. It makes me go all caveman-ish.

Nope. That is a fantasy. A dream. I don’t have time to live in dream-land, not when Park City Properties are swimming shark-like around my company, sniffing for blood.

I slap both of my cheeks, shake my head, and march out of our suite, heading back to my second home, the operations center.

In what feels like no time at all, she’s back, meeting me in the children’s play area with all three kids. And Edith and Trevor. They’re each holding a triplet. Trevor, the no-good bastard, promptly hands me his. It’s one of the girls, wearing a romper adorned with ladybugs.

I squint at her.

“Which one are you?”

Devil-child flashes me a smug, dimpled smile. “You have to guess.”

I squint down at her. “Manhattan?”

“Okay. That’s my name today,” she declares. “You have to call me Manhattan. If you call me anything else, I won’t answer.”

Promise?I think to myself.

“Aren’t they adorable?” Edith twinkles at the little boy in her arms. He’s got a Gummy Bear stuck in his hair, and his nose needs wiping. What’s adorable about that?

“Et tu, Edith?” I say accusingly. “I suppose you think this is a good idea? On the day before the park opens?”

“Ice cream!” Manhattan shouts.

“Love it,” Edith coos. “Jillian’s a genius. Isn’t she, Trevor?”

“Genius is a strong word.” Trevor lifts one burly shoulder in a shrug. “She’s not the worst.”

Jillian scowls at him. “You’ve added a hundred thousand followers this week, which is absolutely amazing by any measure, and not only that, you’ve tripled your engagement numbers, which is even more important than follower numbers.”

“I am aware. Keep it up,” he says, his tone cool. He glances at me. “I’ve got a meeting with the security team. Good luck with…” he waves his hands at the triplets. “These things.”

“Ice cream!” Manhattan shouts again. I look down at her.

“What about it?” I ask.

“I want some!”

“Lunch first.”

“Ice cream for lunch!” She screws her face up as if she’s crying, but no actual tears come out. “My mommy’s really, really sick,” she adds mournfully.

Nice try, kid. Never bullshit a bullshitter. “Your mommy is fine, she just had a little boo boo on her tummy and you’ll see her tomorrow.”

Oh my God. I actually just said the words “boo boo” and “tummy” in a completely unironic fashion. I send a silent prayer of thanks that Cameron isn’t here. He’d never, ever let me hear the end of it.

“You’re mean.” Manhattan glares at me.

“I am. I’m terrible. Do you want me to put you down?” I ask hopefully. Jillian narrows her eyes at me. I ignore her.

“No,” Manhattan sighs. “But I better get a really big ice cream sundae. With nuts and chocolate sauce and two kinds of ice cream.” She holds up two fingers to demonstrate that she knows how to count and she means business.

Then she rests her head on my shoulder, in the most trusting, innocent gesture I’ve ever seen. A wave of emotion threatens to choke me. Just like that, I realize that if anyone tried to hurt her, I’d eviscerate them with my bare hands. That scene in the Grinch movie, the one where his heart grows two sizes, suddenly flashes through my mind.

Jillian’s staring at me, her eyes shining like stars, and she quickly looks away. I think she’s seeing something new in me, something she likes a lot, and it’s scary and thrilling all at the same time—for both of us.

After lunch, and ice cream, we head over to the main street area with all the shops.

Photographers from various press outlets have been flooding the park for the last few days. As Jillian, Edith and I stroll through the park, they scurry up to us, snapping our pictures. I wave them off, annoyed.

“I don’t want to use the kids as props,” I say to Jillian.

“If we let you use us as props, can we get some toys at the souvenir store?” the boy asks hopefully. His real name is Michael, I’ve learned.

“You’re devious and manipulative. I like that in a person,” Edith says to him with a nod of approval.

“That’s going to be my name for tomorrow. Man-ip-you-lah-tiv,” Manhattan declares. “Because it starts with M. I know the alphabet.”

Awesome. Her parents will love me forever.

We’ve come to a stop in front of the souvenir store. I need to get back to the operations center. I’ve got meetings with all of the department heads and another security-run through. And as for the triplets, there are very few problems that can’t be solved with wads of cash.

I give Jillian a company credit card, point to the souvenir store, and tell her to go crazy.

“You did not actually just say that within their hearing range,” she says. It’s too late.

“Toys! Toys! Toys!” they scream. Then they swarm up a total stranger in their excitement, and Jillian and Edith barrel over and try to rescue them. Actually, the stranger is the one who probably needs rescuing. He looks terrified. I know the feeling.

It buys me the rest of the day off of babysitting so I can get back to my actual work. I get delighted texts from my mother, who drops not-so-subtle hints about how great I look with a kid in my arms, and the story hits the national press and lights up our social media stream.

Our PR department keeps sending me requests from media outlets who want to get the story. Why do I suddenly have triplets? In between meetings, I send back messages turning them down.

“I’m a jerk, sure, but not enough of a jerk to exploit a day of babysitting for publicity purposes,” I say to Trevor.

He shrugs. “Good to know you have limits. Now, who wants to ride on the Miner’s Delight one more time?”