His presence is like gravity: unnecessary and impossible to ignore.
I spot the photographer near the catering table, the same one who took the angle-from-hell photo.
He’s scrolling his phone, looking far too pleased with himself.
Perfect.
Time for diplomacy.
Or… whatever my version of diplomacy is at this point.
I march toward him.
“Hey,” I say sharply.
He startles, looks up, and recognizes me instantly.
“Oh,” he says, grinning. “Mystery woman. Looking for a copy of the picture?”
“No,” I say sweetly, the kind of sweet that causes fear in small animals and hockey players. “You’re going to delete it.”
He laughs.
Like this is adorable flirtation and not the beginning of a legal war.
“Come on,” he says. “It's harmless publicity.”
I stare at him, slow and cold.
“Listen carefully,” I say. “That photo implies Bryce assaulted a woman. That’s not gossip. That’s defamation. So, unless you personally enjoy the idea of your bank account being medically declared deceased, remove it.”
His jaw drops a little. “Okay, wow…”
Footsteps approach behind me.
Bryce.
He doesn’t say a word.
He just stands there large, quiet, and radiatingdon’t screw with herenergy.
The photographer swallows.
“Deleting it now.”
“Good choice,” I say, and turn away before I choke him with his own lanyard.
***
“Alright,” Mason announces, clapping his hands. “Celebration continues at Jax & Company. Drinks, food, zero paparazzi allowed.”
“Zero?” Dex asks skeptically.
“Okay,” Mason adjusts, “three. Tops. Maybe five.”
We walk to the restaurant-bar which is filled with dim lights, leather booths, and music just loud enough to make eavesdropping difficult.
The host seats us in a long booth. I attempt to sit far from Bryce.
