My phone starts vibrating.
When I open it, there are messages from friends, acquaintances, people I hardly know, and even Clarice Sinclair, all asking about Pane Maddox.
And the messages keep pouring in.
Dread pools in my stomach. “What did you do?”
She cringes. “I may have posted about him on social.”
“Cristina!”
“What? How was I supposed to know? In the kitchen, he didn’t say anything aboutnotspreading the news. But don’t worry, I’ll take the post down right now. Hopefully that will stop this from traveling any farther than town. But I mean, hey, you put him in a plaid shirt and tight jeans, get him working around the farm, and women will pay to see that.I’llpay to see that.”
“Stop turning him into a sex object.”
She frowns. “It’s really hard not to. Impossible, actually. The man can’t help it. He oozes this whole sexy vibe. Really, Rowe. If you don’t jump on him while he’s here, I’m going to be very disappointed in you.”
“And you need to stop talking as if having sex with random men is something that I do.”
“That’s true. It’s not.”
As my phone continues to ding, panic scrambles up my throat, throwing me back into the problem at hand. Oh no. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.
Pane Maddox is going to be pissed.
Well ... what else is new?
