And honestly, I probably shouldn’t send Troy a sexy selfie anyway.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
TROY
I sit at my desk, staring at the picture on my phone, still trying to process.
Orlando sent it last night. It’s blurry, but he’s in his underwear, gyrating his hips and throwing himself backward or something, his tongue half out of his mouth.
It’s not flattering.
Four hotel dates, and he’s already sending me half-naked pics.
The goddamn photo dinged my phone while I was walking out the office late again, and then nothing. No text after. No explanation.
Zilch.
The entire thing makes me uncomfortable. And that makes me frustrated. Push the line and send me a shirtless pic, but at least have the guts to follow up.
I grind my teeth, waiting impatiently. I’ve got half a mind to call him and lay down the law, explain that we aren’t going to be sending each other half-naked photos for a million reasons, including that he can’t even hold the camera straight.
But I don’t. His ass can come to me when he sobers up or whatever it is he needs to do.
With a grunt, I turn back to my office phone. “Dr. Torres,” I say. “Just making sure you’re set for tonight.”
I make some quick calls to our VIP invites to the Coach’s Gala, checking through half the list while Mel handles the rest of them. Every year, the Professional Coaching Association throws a lavish fundraiser, flush with coaches from the major teams, star players, owners, and anyone else you could imagine who has the money to throw around.
The agency buys a block of tickets and passes them out like goodies. It’s a smart investment, but this year, we’re shelling out extra.
I hate blowing money on luxury car transportation and gift baskets for business associates. But Marshall and Patel are taking their sweet time responding to the offer we put together, which keeps the agency under the spotlight. We need to project success and power tonight.
Mel strolls in without knocking and closes the door behind her. She turns and gives me an expectant look, a folder in her hand.
I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”
“Your boy toy,” she says. “Looks like he had quite a night last night.”
I frown. “What?” I ask again.
Mel pulls out her phone. “Take a look,” she says as she hands it to me. “Recognize anyone?”
When I look down, I see a video of Orlando. He’s in that same flashy underwear as in the photo he sent, and he’s running through a yard. It looks like he has his clothes in his hands, but it’s all a little shaky. At the end, he jumps over a fence and yells out, “Thank you.”
Texts flashes over the video in big pink letters.
Um, Is That Orlando Onassis Streaking In My Mom’s Backyard!?!?!
Wide-eyed emojis roll across the top and bottom of the screen. I watch the video several times before I hand the phone back to Mel.
Goddamn it.
Those same pink boxer briefs he was wearing in the picture he sent me.
What the fuck was he doing last night?
My brain races. I’m concerned for Orlando and mad at him at the same time. But this isn’t simply a personal issue. This is a professional problem that needs immediate attention.
“It’s not clear that it’s him from the video,” I point out.
