“Perfect. I’ll reach out to her directly.” She smiles. “Have a good night, Brody.”
She’s gone before I can respond.
I throw my gear bag in the Shelby’s trunk. Slide into the driver’s seat.
Just sit.
The leather is cold. Dashboard dark.
My phone buzzes.
Multiple texts.
Rick
Saw the party photos. Good work.
Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m good at this game.
Right. But Chloe makes it easy.
Another text.
Rick
Ashley Morrison’s lawyer sent another letter. Wants public apology and admission of wrongdoing. They’re threatening to file if you don’t comply. DO NOT apologize. It’ll just create more tabloid drama and make you look guilty. Keep the relationship with Chloe solid. That’s your best defense.
My chest tightens.
A public apology.
An admission of wrongdoing.
For something Ididn’t do.
If I apologize, it validates her lie. Makes me look guilty. The tabloids will destroy me.
If I don’t, she files suit. A lawsuit means depositions, discovery, media circus. She doesn’t have a case. But sometimes that doesn’t matter.
I let my head fall back against the seat.
I’ve got four hours until my date with Chloe. And I gotta make this one count.
I start the engine. Drive home through the gray January afternoon.
All I can think isDon’t screw this up.
CHLOE
This is a terrible idea.
I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at hangers holding approximately three outfits that could maybe pass for “date night,” and wondering what possessed me to agree to this.
Oh, right.
Twenty thousand dollars and crushing financial desperation.
Very romantic.
