The thought makes me smile despite myself. If nothing else, she keeps me on my toes.
My phone rings—it’s Levi’s agent. Time to get to work.
By the time I hang up, twenty minutes later, I have a plan. Levi wasn’t drunk—he swerved to avoid hitting a cat that darted into the road. He’s shaken but fine, and his “previously scheduled” trip to Scotland for his sister’s wedding will give him time to recover. And possibly dry out at a discreet rehab facility that none of us will ever mention.
I’m just finishing up my press statement when my phone buzzes with a text:
JESS
Any update on Levi? Sources saying he was spotted at Cedars. Call me.
I set my phone face down on the desk without responding. Let her stew a little. By the time I’m ready to release a statement, it’ll be on my terms, not hers.
three
. . .
Jess
I twiston the bar stool, scanning the crowded hotel bar for Lucas so that I can murder him when he arrives. The champagne in my hand is nearly empty, matching my patience level after waiting forty minutes for a response that never came.
Instead of a call or text, he’d sent me the same cookie-cutter press release that every other entertainment reporter received. Me, the one who’s known him since college. He’s friends with my brother! The dismissal stings more than it should.
“He swerved to avoid hitting a cat? Seriously?” I mutter, taking another sip of bubbly.
The press release landed in my inbox an hour ago, and it’s the most transparent PR spin I’ve ever seen. Levi Peterson, the Hollywood golden boy and star ofPink Slip, risking his life for a stray kitten is exactly the kind of saccharine story that makes the public swoon and reporters like me roll their eyes.
I spot Marcus Delgado entering the bar, his expensive suit and slicked-back hair making him stand out even in a sea of polished egos. The second our eyes meet, he flashes that signature smile that is too confident, too practiced.
My stomach flips, and not in a good way.
“Shit,” I mutter, sliding off the barstool and ducking down the hallway toward the bathrooms.
It’s not that I’m afraid of him. Marcus hasn’t done anything wrong, not exactly. He hasn’t crossed a line, but he’s been dancing on the edge of it for months. And I’ve let him, smiling when I didn’t want to, dodging when I should have said no. I told him to meet me here. Technically, I invited this, and now I feel trapped in a dance I never agreed to choreograph.
You’d think, after everything I’ve written, after helping expose some of the worst predators in this business, I’d know exactly how to handle a man like Marcus.
But I don’t. Because it’s different when you’re the one in it.
With those women, I was a champion. An advocate. I had perspective, power, and the distance to do something. But with Marcus? I’m too close. Too visible. Too aware of what one wrong word or accusation could cost me.
He’s not dangerous, but he is powerful. And in this town, sometimes, that’s just as terrifying.
I lean against the cool hallway wall and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. In again.
I hate that I’m hiding. I hate that I’m playing the game, but I also know what happens to women who don’t. I’ve reported on them, too.
“Please tell me you aren’t trying to follow me into the bathrooms now.”
My eyes fly open to find Lucas leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his infuriatingly broad chest, looking entirely too calm for someone who’s been ducking me the past hour. His navy blazer is still perfectly tailored, and his hair is infuriatingly intact. Of course he looks good. He probably doesn’t even sweat.
I roll my eyes, ready with a comeback, but then he tilts his head and really looks at me.
“You ok?” His tone shifts lower, less sarcastic. The question lands heavier than it should.
I blink, caught off guard. He’s studying me, like he can see straight through the sarcasm I usually weaponize.
“I’m fine.”
