“Wait.” Drew stops the server before he leaves, a menacing grin overtaking her expression. She picks up the menu again and flips to the dessert section at the back.
Don’t you fucking dare.
“And my boyfriend has a sweet tooth, so I’ll just go ahead and order our desserts right now.”
The server looks bemused but complies.
When her eyes stop scanning, I know my low sugar diet is fucked.
“A slice of your strawberry cheesecake, please.” She snaps the menu shut and hands it to the server. “With extra cream.”
Silence falls between us before she simply smiles and picks her pen back up.
“Rule six: To add further to rule four, the client shall never order food on his publicist’s behalf. Not unless he wants to be diagnosed with early-onset diabetes, courtesy of desserts being forced down his throat.”
I grind my molars at the prospect of eating the first dessert I’ve had in years. Hell, I don’t even have an Advent calendar at Christmas.
“You can eat the cheesecake,” I tell her.
“Well, I guess you’re enjoying two filet mignons and a ridiculous number of sides then, aren’t you?” she volleys back.
More silence to go with our stalemate.
“My username is the email you sent the meeting invite to.” I begin speaking after a few beats. “And my password is”—I lean forward—“Will has a really nice ass that I want to Kiss twenty-five. CapitalizedWandK with the number expressed in numerals.”
Drew doesn’t even respond as she writes down my login details and pulls her phone from her bag, opening the Instagram app first. “Is that the password for all of your accounts?”
I nod once. “Yep. Apart from Facebook because I fucking hate that site and don’t use it.”
When she finishes entering the password, I hit Accept on a verification email, which grants her immediate access.
“Holy fucking shit,” she whispers, lips parting to form anO.“Will, you have over ten thousand notifications here. When was the last time you checked them?”
I shrug. “While you were getting changed. But I also have over a million followers, and I posted while I was waiting for you to get back home, so …”
She navigates to my profile grid and opens the post I made over an hour ago.
The first image is a picture of her white front door and nothing else.
“When you’re stood up for a date,” she reads the first line of the caption and swipes to the next image, which is a selfie I took of myself, smiling, “and you showed up, looking like this.”
To be fair, I look fucking hot, and that post one hundred percent warrants all the engagement it’s getting.
Slowly, Drew closes her eyes. “For the love of God, William, what if someone recognizes my door?” She tips her head across the room at our server. “Or a certain someone starts talking about you showing up with me tonight as your girlfriend.” She pokes her pointer finger at her chest. “We both have famous names in hockey.”
“No one is going to talk, and if people can decipher your white front door from millions of others in the world, then they deserve their five minutes of going viral for being a smart-ass.”
She grumbles something inaudible just before a private message notification drops down. I can’t see the whole thing, but it’s obviously from a girl, and it’s for sure a booty call. The kissing-face emojis and wet symbols give it away.
Drew drops the phone to the table with a clatter. Almost disgusted. “Are you hooking up via Instagram?!”
I shrug and act like I’m not a little embarrassed.
“It’s safer than me giving girls my number. If we hook up one night, then this is a better way to keep in touch for round two.”
All the blood drains from her face.
“Rule seven: Moving forward, the client will never ever share private messages with random members of the public, especially for hooking-up purposes.”
