I dramatically slump against the plant.
Kayla shakes her head, brow furrowed. “There has to be something we can figure out.”
“I’m open to creative solutions, short of prostitution,” I say. My lips form an upside-down smile and I tilt my head, considering. At this point, even that’s not totally off the table. I’m already an accomplice to grand theft auto—it’s a slippery slope.
Before Kayla can respond, a cackle from Abigail interrupts. Our gazes dart to where the team is gathered.
“What’s got them so riled up?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Let’s see.”
“What’s everyone gawking at?” I ask, sidling up to the herd clustered around the lobby TV.
I crane my neck to see what celeb nonsense has them transfixed.
I suck in a sharp breath, stomach dropping out my ass with a wet splat. Instead of a D-lister, Connor Quinn’s handsome, brooding face fills the screen.
Oh, fuck.
Just the sight of those eyes behind aviators makes my knees wobble. Heat floods my veins, followed by icy dread.
His chiseled jaw is hard as granite, full lips pressed thin. The man looks like he’s stepped straight out of my filthiest fantasies.
Why the hell is he on CNN? Please, universe, do not say this is about his stolen car. That would take today from dismal to toss-myself-off-a-cliff bad.
Oh god, what if they trace the car back to me via my silk shawl with the lucky St. Joan medal Dad gave me? Maybe the cops will think I’m a saint, not a thief. The patron saint of hotwiring.
You’re spiraling.No way a stolen car makes national headlines.Breathe.
I spent hours researching car theft insurance, trying to salve my conscience a bit. I looked up Quinn’s net worth, his car collection—he’s got a Jay Leno–level stash. So I only kind of feel like human garbage now.
“What’s this about?” I ask Abigail casually, despite my pounding heart.
“Mmm, Connor Quinn,” she purrs. “So freakin’ hot.”
“Yeah, but why’s he in the news?”
Images flash up and— Oh god, it’s the hotel where we . . . met.
My stomach twists as Willow Madison’s polished, elegant face appears beside a broody Connor. They make a striking couple.
“Connor and Willow hooked up!” Abigail squeals. “Lucky freaking Willow. Someone caught it on audio. It’s bleeped out on TV but you can hear everything online, it’s so dirty.” She fans herself.
“Willow Madison, the senator’s daughter?”
“No, silly! Willow Madison, Miss USA!”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
Didn’t take him long to move on, did it?
Well, that was a stupid thought. Move on from what, exactly?
Be glad he’s found a new plaything.
I force my face into cool indifference, like I’m totally unfazed by this “news.” Which is ridiculous, since there’s no way anyone could guess what happened between me—Lexi Sullivan, lowly PR assistant—and Connor Quinn, billionaire playboy currently plastered across the CNN headlines.
“I better get to work,” I murmur to no one in particular.
