Page 62 of Have To Be Mine

I pulled up my phone and showed him the Instagram story I’d been monitoring for the last hour. A video of three models doing shots on what looked like a yacht.

His jaw tightened. “So they’re having fun. They’re allowed.”

“Keep scrolling.”

The next story showed two influencers stumbling through what appeared to be a club, knocking over a table. Someone in the background was shouting in Greek. The comments were already filling with angry locals.

“Shit,” Dash muttered.

“Yeah. Shit.” I locked my phone. “We’re going out there. Now.”

“It’s fine. They’re blowing off steam.”

“Dash, it’s eleven at night and they’re already wasted. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and we need to contain it before someone calls the PR team, or worse, the police.”

He finally looked at me. His eyes traveled over my sunburned face. I thought I saw guilt. Or concern. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The pub crawl was being hosted by a local company the Blackwells had contracted to keep the talent entertained. Personal drivers, VIP access to clubs, open bar at every stop. It sounded amazing on paper.

In reality, it was a disaster.

We found them at the third stop on the itinerary. It was a beachside bar that was packed wall-to-wall with tourists and locals. The music was deafening. The air smelled like sweat and spilled beer. Right in the center of it all were our models and influencers, dancing on tables, filming each other. They were making a spectacle that would have been fine in Vegas but was absolutely not fine here.

I spotted one of the models attempting to climb onto the bar. A very angry bartender was trying to pull her down while she laughed and waved her phone at him, filming the whole thing.

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

Dash was already moving toward them, but I grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” I said. “We need a plan.”

“The plan is to get them out of here before they get arrested.”

“And how exactly do you propose we do that? There are at least fifteen of them, they’re drunk, and they’re having the time of their lives. You think they’re going to just come quietly because you asked nicely?”

He looked at me. “What do you suggest?”

I scanned the room, my mind racing through options. We needed to shut this down without causing a bigger scene. Without making it worse.

“The driver,” I said. “Where’s the driver?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“You hired him. You should know.”

Dash pulled out his phone and held it to his ear. I watched a model start twerking on some poor guy who looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. His girlfriend or wife was glaring at him like she was going to dump his ass then and there. Or she was going to attack the model. Not good.

I pushed through the crowd toward the bar. The bartender saw me coming and immediately started speaking rapid Greek, gesturing wildly at some of the models who were now doing some kind of coordinated dance that involved a lot of hip thrusting.

“I’m so sorry,” I said loudly. “We’re handling it.”

My sunburn was screaming with every movement. The aloe had rubbed off and now I was just raw, angry skin wrapped in a tank top.

“Ladies, let’s go!” I shouted.

They looked at me bleary-eyed. “Hey! Aren’t you the assistant?”