Ellery’s voice echoed in my head — I’m tired of being the thing that waits.
She wouldn’t wait this time. Not if I could help it.
I scrolled to the next contact, thumb hovering over the call button, and muttered to myself, “You really are losing it, Mason.”
Still, I hit dial.
Because the truth was, I’d rather deal with every PR rep in the country than see that look on her face again — the one that said she was holding everything together alone.
And if that meant playing the game for once, then fine. I’d play to win.
My phone had been buzzing all morning—calls, texts, follow-ups. Every time I thought I was done, another name popped up that I couldn’t ignore.
The price of keeping a promise, I guess.
Adam’s message came first:
You begging people for money now? Who are you and what did you do with Mason?
I rolled my eyes and typed back,
It’s for Ellery’s foundation. Keep it quiet.
He didn’t miss a beat.
Ohhhh. So it’s like that.
It’s not.
Sure, Saint Beckett. Keep telling yourself that.
I didn’t bother replying. The guy could sniff out subtext like a bloodhound, and the more I denied it, the more he’d dig.
A minute later, Derek texted.
Told a rival brand rep about your charity project. They’ll match whatever was lost. You owe me a bottle.
I stared at the message for a second, surprised. Then sent back:
You’ll get two.
So now, somehow, the guys were helping me do PR. That alone felt like a cosmic joke.
By mid-afternoon, I’d made more calls than I had in months. Three companies were on board—two pending paperwork, one already drafting a sponsorship letter. I could practically hear Cam’s stunned silence when those contracts hit his desk.
I typed out the email to Ellery, fingers drumming the keys while I figured out how to word it.
Subject: Possible Replacements
These might fill the gap.
Don’t ask how. Just take the win.
—B.
No explanation. No brag. Just results. I hit send before I could second-guess it.
Then I tossed the phone aside and leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slow circles.
