Normally, my first move would be to check the security cameras. But I took them down. She asked me to take them down at the beginning of our “fake dating” contract.
Of course she did.
Because she needed those photos to keep her job. We both knew the playful ones we took in the bedroom weren’t going to suffice. Not for Deborah. Whether Ashlyn took them herself or hiredsomeone else to do it. It hurts more than I can say. But it makes sense.
Chapter 37
Ashlyn
The upsideof not living in the olden days is that I don’t have to go job hunting in magazines and newspapers anymore. I can scroll on my phone while sitting at a coffee shop, sipping and swiping all at the same time. The downside is everyone in this coffee shop is scrolling on their phones too and most likely looking at gossip about me. People keep looking my way, and for a second, I get a taste of what people like Zane, Cal, and Demi have to deal with.
I sip my iced latte and ignore the stares and whispers. If anyone wants to know what’s going on, if they have the audacity to ask, I’ll tell them. I am an ex-paparazzi photographer who fell in love with the man I was being paid to photograph. I fell in love with his son, too. Now, after very personal photos of us have been leaked, I have to prove to him that I had nothing to do with it. Easy enough, right?
Except it’s not. The recap explains that. Because the first time we met was when he caught me red-handed photographing him from his pergola. After photos were taken of us getting hot and heavy that night by an unknown source, he needed to save hisreputation by saying he and I are a thing. In his mind, it was convenient for him…I move in, get cozy, take down cameras and deceive him. Bentley was the icing on the cake. In his mind.
But I guess that’s where I just don’t understand. Sure, if I was a terrible human being, those dots would connect nicely, solving the puzzle of deceit. But that’s the thing. I’m not that person. I don’t do things like that. I never have, and I never would. Of course Zane doesn’t know that, but he didn’t let me explain any of it.
Still. I’m out of a job. I walked away from Sigma, and even if I hadn’t, I’d probably be out of a job. Because someone out there is taking the photos Deborah actually wants. Someone is doing what I refused to do. So I keep scrolling JobSpot looking for anything that will get me money fast.
“Ashlyn?” The voice pulls me out of my self-pity speech, and I look up to see my old boss from the daycare center.
“Hannah,” I smile.
“Oh my gosh, I haven’t seen you in forever! How are you?” she asks, and I open my mouth to answer, but words don’t come out. Instead, I start sobbing, hard enough that I can’t seem to form words.
“Oh, honey,” she says, setting her coffee and purse down on the table and sitting next to me.
“My life is on fire,” I cry. “I am sure you know that. Everyone who reads the news knows that.”
“Well, I don’t read the news. Let’s get out of here. We can go somewhere else to talk if you’d like,” she suggests, and I look up at her through teary eyes.
“Somewhere with wine?” I sniff, and she lets out a small empathetic laugh.
“Absolutely,” she says, helping me to my feet.
* * *
“Oh. Wow,” Hannah says as she looks through the photos on my phone. She’s a sweet woman, so I am not surprised that she was unaware of celebrity gossip. She’s not naïve, though. That was one of the things I always loved about her: she was soft but strong. Contrary to what people might think, running a daycare is no joke. She deals with parents, state rules, and social workers, plus about fifty kids.
“Yeah,” I sigh.
I just told her everything. I knew I could talk to her. She already knew about my divorce, about Mitchell leaving because I was too focused on my infertility issues. She probably knows he’s with someone else now. Someone who can get pregnant at the snap of her fingers and it doesn’t consume their marriage. I tell her about the photography job and how I wanted to do celebrity journalism photography, but paparazzi was the only thing I could get starting out. I tell her about Zane and how we met, and she actually chuckles about it. Then I tell her everything else. The fake dating, the baby, falling for Zane, and the fight.
“Goodness,” she smiles, handing me a tissue when I am drained of both energy and words. “That is a lot.”
“It doesn’t feel real,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. We are at a little wine bar slash plant nursery that isn’t even open yet, butHannah knows the owner and she agreed to let us in early for a little privacy.
Between the chardonnay, plants, and the humidity, it’s perfect. Like a sigh of relief, or a warm hug on an otherwise dreadful day.
“So if you didn’t take the photos, which I know you didn’t, then who did?” she asks.
“That’s the thing. I don’t know,” I say.
“You don’t have any friends at Sigma?” she asks.
“No. Not really. I mean there’s Troy and Alice, but they aren’t photographers. They’re in different departments. And even if they wanted to, they couldn’t have gotten good photos. They don’t have the right cameras or the experience. They edit photos; they don’t take them.”
“And the photos are for sure from Sigma?” she asks.
