"Thank God. I appreciate the help," he says, rubbing at his face.
"We should get back out there before the bartender thinks something is going on in here."
"I'm sure he's used to it," Wesley says.
"I'm not that kind of girl," I tell him, smirking for good measure. It's better to be mysterious.
"Hmm … Something tells me you are."
I shake my head and walk out of the bathroom, remembering he hasn't found out about the social media roasting, which I assume is next on the list for fun activities this evening.
Wesley follows me, and I feel the need to warn him before he sees the social media posts for himself. "So, there's something you should know," I begin.
"You arethatkind of girl?" he teases.
"That's not something you need to know, Wesley Moon."
"Fair enough, so what do I need to know, then?"
His gaze drops from my face as he reaches for his back pocket, pulling out his phone. "You should know that the photo—"
"Hey, Samantha, thanks for returning my call," he says. "I have a bit of an issue I need your help with." I take it Samantha is either his attorney or his publicist. One or both of them probably knows about the posts all over Instagram. "What are you talking about?" Wesley looks up at me with shock. His cheeks fade into a pale pallet, and his speckled green eyes look lost as he stares past me. "That's impossible—nothing can be final yet."
"I was trying to tell you," I whisper. I reach toward the bar and snatch his new drink. "I ordered this for you." He takes the glass from my hand, chugs, and continues listening to whatever he's hearing on the other end of the phone.
"Inner office sabotage? What does that even mean?" He inhales the ice too, and I turn to the bartender, gesturing for another drink. "So, an interoffice relationship between the reception and CEO turned into a public break-up, which will single-handedly take downmycareer?" I can see the shock is wearing off as his cheeks brighten to a shade of pink. "Wonderful, well, let me know what she says as soon as you know something." Wesley ends the call and reclaims his seat at the bar, then drops his head into his arm. "My life is over—Samantha, my publicist agrees.”
"I think that's a little dramatic. Your life isn't over. Shit happens to the best of us. Besides, she only called you a dick and a moron. People have been through worse. At least she didn't say what the ad was for, right?"
He twists his head to give me a glare that explains everything he's thinking. "She's clearly planning to say more according to her post."
"You just need Samantha to rebuttal and shut her down," I tell him.
"I didn't read the damn papers I was signing, and I agreed to work with a startup company full of eighteen-year-old shitheads."
"I'm not eighteen," I tell him.
"I wasn't talking about you."
The bartender places Wesley's next drink down in front of him. "I need you to keep your head up, bro. Bar rules."
"I'm not drunk. I'm angry," Wesley tells the bartender.
"Okay, well, be angry and keep your head up."
"How popular are you? I mean, have you been modeling throughout your adult life too or were you just into child modeling?"
"You can stop pretending you've never heard of me. Thanks for trying though," Wesley says. I hadn't heard of him before two days ago, so he's either super arrogant, or I've been living under a rock.
He's pretty much the worst model I've ever seen. He's hot, but the worst.
