Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
“Do you really want to be humiliated again? Especially after the pizza stain story Page Six published about you.” His voice slithered behind me, sinking into my skin like claws.
He was right. If I admitted my dress had burst, it could be leaked. Hera would have a fit, and my parents… God knew what they were going to do. Cut off my allowance. Force me to move to Texas.
I had no actual life skills, other than peeling tangerines in one long piece. Which was impressive, but not exactly the kind of stuff you put on your résumé.
I whipped around, sizing Wes up, still protecting my modesty by resting my arms over my chest.
“I don’t trust you.” I squinted.
He raised his palms up. “You should. You’re President Thorne’s daughter. A national hero. I’d never hurt you. Do you think I’m that dumb?”
The answer, unfortunately for Wes, was yes. But since he gave himself more credit, maybe I should do the same. Just for tonight.
Every bone in my body told me it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t exactly swimming in options.
“Promise me no funny business.”
“Promise me a photo-op, and you’ve got yourself a deal. I need to get back on the headlines before season five premieres.”
I closed my eyes, breathed hard. I was furious.
“Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to be seen with a curvy girl when your job is to make people thin?” I opened my eyes, smiling innocently.
“So, about that.” Wes let out an exaggerated sigh. “I might’ve gotten a rep as a fat phobic after one of my episodes went viral. Can you believe this woke bullshit?”
Great. So I was officially his “some-of-my-best-friends-are” token. I wanted to scream.
“One coffee on Rodeo Drive.” I raised my finger in warning. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Fine, but you can’t look like you’re revolted by me,” he bargained. “People need to think you’re having a good time.”
“If I had those kind of acting chops, I’d be winning Oscars, not advertising acne creams on Instagram.” I let out a sarcastic laugh.
“C’mon now, Hallie.”
I sighed. “I’ll be ordering a pastry.”
“I’ll tell the valet to get my car.” He winked and pointed at me. I, in return, flipped him the bird.
Wes ambled out of the lobby, swaggering like he owned the place. Minutes later, he returned to where I was standing tucked in a discreet alcove not too far from the entrance. It was a fairly secluded spot. My heart was racing, threatening to tear through my skin.
No one could know about my wardrobe malfunction.
“Goddamn, how much longer is it gonna take?” Wes craned his neck to see if his car had arrived. “My Tinder date is waiting down the street.”
My phone started buzzing in my fist. Keller, undoubtedly. I couldn’t answer, because I was firmly covering my breasts with my arms, and also because I was still riding the petty train of anger from him talking to Perry Cowen all the way to Beefville.
It was taking a long time—longer than it should—for Wes’ car to arrive. Every time he tried to start a conversation, I blocked it with, “Can we not?”
Finally, Wes announced that his car was waiting for us outside. He grabbed me by the elbow, ushering me to the entryway.
“Don’t touch me!” I whimpered, hating my voice, how lousy and whiny it sounded in my ears.
It all happened so fast from the moment we stepped out in the open. I let go of my boob, slapping his hand away. The flashes of the cameras hit me all at once. Instinctively, I raised my hand as a visor for my eyes. My right boob swung in the air and said hi to the dozen or so paparazzi photographers Wes had clearly invited here to catch us leaving together.
Oh, fuck.
I was so going to get shit about it from the forty-ninth president of the United States.
AKA, Dad.
Anthony John Thorne.
“I have something I need to ask you, and you can’t say no.”
Tom barreled into my office, tossing a glossy magazine onto my desk. The type you see in the waiting room of a B-grade dentist.
“No,” I drawled, not bothering to look up from my Apple screen.
Chuckling, my business partner fell into the seat across from me, loosening his collared shirt.
“Did I invite you to sit down?” I asked, still typing.
“It’s important,” he said mildly. Everything about the fucker was mild—his nature, his looks, his tone. I found his averageness appalling. Less so than the general population, but still annoying enough that I didn’t want his company unless I specifically asked for it. Which happened never.
This begged the question—why the fuck was he here?
“Out.” I crushed the end of my pen with my teeth.
“Not before we talk.”
“Talking is overrated. Silence is golden.” I spat the pen out onto my desk. It rolled and fell in Tom’s lap.
He probably wanted to invite me to a family dinner, or worse, golfing. For reasons beyond my grasp, my business partner did not understand the fact I gave zero fucks about socializing, and minus fifteen fucks about his beloved geriatric sport. My hobbies included CrossFit, pussy, and red meat. Above all—being left alone. I didn’t have a family, and I liked it that way. Trying to rope me into his didn’t win him any brownie points.