John Tennessee McCord and Rebecca Corday were seen canoodling at Director Felix Nicasio’s wedding in Napa this weekend while her lover of a year, Sir Anthony Underhill, films overseas, oblivious.
Good buddy Franco Francone confirms it. “They seem to be really happy together.”
No.
Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.
Thatson of abitch.
Franco had actually given them aquote?
J. T. was incandescent with anger. Of course someone had managed to take photos, even though the photographers had all signed confidentiality agreements and the wedding guests were Hollywood royalty and had nothing to gain from a photo like that. Paparazzi, like mosquitoes, really could manage to squeak in anywhere. Some waiter or staff member had been bribed, probably.
There he was with Rebecca’s head resting dreamily on his shoulder, as if she had every right to be there. Of course she looked dreamy. She never stopped acting, and she never stopped looking beautiful.
A split second before he’d all but flicked her off like an insect.
Worse was the second photo: the two of them, talking outside Rebecca’s guest cottage, Rebecca leaning into him, as though she’d just been kissed senseless.
When he was really trying to set her drunken self back up on her feet.
Two moments that meant less than nothing to him, but taken out of context were elevated to profundity. J. T. sat down hard on the hotel bed and dropped his head into his hands and growled savagely.
Then he stood up and paced the room.
Everyonehe knew would see those photos. And while the Hollywood community at large knew the drill and would take it with a grain of salt, except for maybe Sir Anthony Underhill—poor sap, his publicist was probably fielding a lot of phone calls this morning.
Britt would see those photos.
And if she was squirrelly before... well, that was nothing compared to how she’d feel now.
And in truth, he couldn’t blame her.
Because there was no way he’d insult her with a flurry of “I can explain!” texts. At a certain point he just sounded like a guy crying wolf. She wasn’t that stupid.
But he also couldn’t bear sending her texts that were ignored. Itreallywasn’t fun the first time.
He stared at his phone.
At the blue flower she’d given him that had sent his heart skyrocketing.
She probably felt like an ass for sending it now, and he wouldn’t blame her.
He vented by sending Franco a one-word text:
Asshole.
With a link to that website.
He got a text back immediately.
I thought you and Becks were working it out.
He frowned. Was Franco being a jerk, or was he actually contrite?
He texted back.
No.
