“I mean a job that doesn’t grind you down until you no longer recognize yourself.”
Shots fired.
Direct hit.
But right now, it’s all I have, and if I don’t do what my boss asked of me, there’s a real threat I’ll slide into irrelevance.
If Rhiannon Morrigan is using me to clean up her image, maybe it’s only fair I use her too.
That’s how the game works, right?
God help me, I almost believe it.
CHAPTER 16
Rhiannon
It’s been seven days since I walked out on my wedding.
Six since the meeting at the PR manager’s office.
Five since Robert and I laid down the law over our new fake relationship.
Four since we decided not to go on what would have been my honeymoon with George.
Three since my dad hit the roof again—because bombarding me with texts about how big of a mistake I’m making seemingly wasn’t enough. I don’t think my family will ever get over that I’m going out with the man who trashed Dad in the press.
Two since we changed our minds and decided to flee the stress—and the country full of people who want a story on me right now—and pay the change fee so Robert can come with me instead of George.
Sitting in the departures lounge of Belfast International Airport, a hysterical laugh bubbles up in me. Am I really doing this? About to step onto a plane to Dubrovnik, Croatia with a near stranger?
Seems so.
I need out. Between the angry family, the prying public, and the ex who saw a picture of me necking with the sports journalist, sold his story, did a one-eighty and is now blowing up my phone, I’m spent. My nerve endings are raw as fuck, and I need a bloody break.
Plus, George’s mum couldn’t get the money back for the honeymoon. Waste not, want not, am I right? I think I might be right.
The PR manager lit up like a Christmas tree when I put the idea forward to her. “It sells the whirlwind romance story,” she’d said. “And shows that you’re intent on getting over that piece of shit by getting under…”
“Another one?” I’d offered. We’d both laughed.
I might hate Robert and everything he stands for, what he did to people I care about in the name ofjournalism, but outside of my own personal dealings with the sports journalist I’m now fake-dating, people on the internetlovehim.
Against all odds, they love the idea of us together. At least for the most part, there are always haters who want to watch you fail, who type out every single stray thought that crosses their mind in the moment. Sometimes they even send you letters about how disappointing your existence is to them.
That’s not what’s happening here. I don’t know what magic my PR manager is spinning, but so far, it’s largely positive. Maybe because the world saw me flame out on the back of an awful experience where I was betrayed by my nearest and well, not dearest, but I thought for a while that they were.
The internet isshippingme and Robert.
Not sure if that makes it better or worse to be honest.
Well, most of them.
Rugby royalty princess with the hero journalist who saved a bunch of athletes from potentially getting sucked into a whirlpool of doping and performance enhancing risks. When they put it like that, it’s hard to stay quite asmad at him as I was a week ago. But I’ll surely do my best to try.
The number of dick pics and propositions from men on the internet have slowed, but they’re still coming.
Some of the braver ones claim they could “dick me down better than the cripple.” Charming, really.
