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Her catty comment doesn’t warrant a response, so I’m surprised when I open my mouth. “You and your games… worry about your own life instead of ours,” I point out, throwing the towel into the basket.
She raises her perfectly shaped eyebrows, gliding her red lipstick on then pouts her lips while admiring herself in the mirror. “I’m the real star of this show. Everyone knows that. Let’s see if you make it to the next season,” she threatens.
“If by star you mean whore... then yes. Title’s all yours, Farrah.” I move past her, closing the door behind me and stopping just down the hall. I mute the sound on my cell, clicking play on the video. Fifteen seconds of Logan pulling his cock until he explodes all over his palm.
Fuck.
He got me.
I quickly respond, wanting to delete any trace of our naughty afternoon.
Me: We’re even. Well played, Carrington. Hopefully, I’ll get to see the LIVE version when you’re in “town.”
I hit delete and hide my cell in the base of my purse hoping he doesn’t respond. If Wes knew what went on he’d be livid. Despite our arrangement, he tries every day to make a move on me. I’ve just been lucky with being able to palm him off or make excuses.
Back outside, I sit down and get comfortable as dessert is served. It looks scrumptious—some flan dish with a syrup substance lying on top. As I push my spoon into the bowl, Farrah returns and acts as if nothing happened between us. “So, girls, London? Shopping… British men... are we in?”
Kelly smiles, not pleasing Kyle.
Poppy claps her hands, excited to visit home and spend time with her family. “Count me in.”
“I hope you meant for the shopping?” Wes asks seriously in front of everyone.
“What’s wrong with a little harmless flirting with a tall British man?” I tease, knocking his shoulder playfully.
In a decidedly odd tone, he says, “My woman doesn’t harmlessly flirt with anyone.”
“Oh, Wes, baby,” Poppy cries. “Stop being cheeky. She’s not an object.”
“Poppy,” Wes grits. “You know I love you, but stay out of this.”
One of the cameras zooms into Wes’ face, irritating him even more.
“Wesley Rich… get off your high horse and treat the woman with respect. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, Wesley Rich,” I say, not taking this argument seriously. “I have brains, too, you know. It’s not all about the looks.”
Everyone laughs, except Wesley. He sulks in his seat while we finish our conversation about London.
The cameras stop rolling and Cliff’s quick to interject, “Your itineraries will be emailed across tomorrow. We’ve known about this for months but only received the all-clear yesterday. A week from today… we’ll be leaving for five days.”
A few of us ask some questions, but no one really says anything else. We wrap up lunch by telling each other goodbye and making our own way home.
On the drive back, Wes is unusually quiet.
“Why did you take so long in the restroom?”
“You want a number?” I question, keeping the conversation light and my nerves at bay.
“Oh,” he mutters.
“I also ran into Farrah… she said some words, I said some words.”
“Right.”
His one-word responses make for an uninteresting conversation, so I lay my head against the window and watch the scenery until we reach home and park the car.
We go our separate ways as we walk inside. I head straight for the bathroom where I shower and change into something more comfortable. With no plans tonight, I decide to ditch work and lay on the couch, catch up on some television while responding to some fans. I posted a pic that Josie sent me of all of us posing at the table captioning the picture—Filming lunch with the gang.
