9.5 million followers
Staring at the screen, I count out a minute and hit refresh.
10 million followers.
My sister is right.
Holy shit.
I spent the next hour in a state of shock,watchingmy social media following swell to nauseating proportions while trying to come to terms with the reason why.
Because someone—presumably a guest at my failed wedding—posted a video of me blasting Allister and Paige before running off with Paige’s boyfriend with the caption,we love a petty queen.
And instead of being angry about it, Dean seems to think it’s funny, and moreover, he wants torun with it.
You really want to make them pay, Princess—that’s how we do it.
Forehead scrunched, I shake my head because he can’t be suggesting what I think he is, can he? “You want to lie and tell people we’re…”
“Fucking?” He flashes me that Dean Mercer grin—the one that says he said it just to make me uncomfortable. “We don’t have totellthem anything, Macarena,” he says with a shrug. “All we have to do is post pictures of the two of us, having a good time—maybe a little PDA. People will draw their own conclusions.”
PDA?
Public displays of affection with Dean Mercer?
The thought makes me a little dizzy.
“Why?” I say, because I don’t get it. I don’t understand why Dean would want to help me. “What do you get out of it?”
“It’s pretty simple, Mills.” Dean gives me another shrug. “If being Paige Blackwell’s fuckboy was good for business, beingyourfuckboy will pretty much build me an empire.”
I remember what he told me in the limo, Friday night. That letting Paige reel him back in, time after time, was nothing more than a marketing strategy.
Being Paige Blackwell’s arm candy is good for business. Every time she posts a picture of us together on social media, my client list doubles.
“I certainly hope you don’t expect bathroom blowjobs as a bonus,” I tell him, forcing my tone to remain calm and cool when I’m suddenly feeling anything but.
Why’s that, Millie? Because you’re suddenly envisioning yourself on your knees in front Dean Mercer while he fucks your throat? Or maybe it’s the fact that the thought of it turns you on.
Like he can read my mind, Dean’s mouth curves into one of those infuriatingly knowing grins of his. “While blowjobs are never expected, Princess—they’realwaysappreciated.”
“You’re—” Insult bubbling on my lips, I swallow it when Dean cocks his head just enough to let me know he’s ready to pounce, the second I let it fly.
If this exercise in restraint has taught me anything, it’s that I insult Dean a hell of a lot more than he insults me.
“I’m what? Disgusting? Perverted? An asshole?” he asks innocently. “A disgusting, perverted asshole?”
Sighing, I incline my head. “You’re right.”
For s second, all Dean can do is sit thereand stare at me. “I’m sorry—” he says, leaning into me from across the table. “Say that again?”
“I said you’re right.” Nearly choking on the words, it takes just about everything I have to keep myself from jumping up and running through the jungle. “Pretending to…”
“Fuck.” That damnable smirk of his makes another appearance.
“Why do you keep saying that?” I gripe at him, suddenly irritated beyond reason.
“Saying what?” He looks at me like he’s confused by the question but I know he not. “Fuck?” When I blanch slightly at the curse, Dean shakes his head. “Why aren’tyousaying it?” he shoots back on an exasperated chuckle. “Seriously—there’s nobody else here. It’s just you and me. No one around to hear perfect Millie Blackwell say the wordfuck. No one but a guywithbig dick energyand a dirty mouth who hasdefinitelyheard you swear more than once and has the scorecard to prove it, so just say it already—” Dean sits back in his seat, with a smug smile. “you know you want to.”
