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“How are things with Xavier?” I asked. I needed a distraction or I’d spiral into a wasteland of productivity. Nothing blocked my creativity more than creeping self-doubt. “Is he still alive, or have you murdered him and stashed his body in the trunk of your car?”
“Alive for now, but ask me again in twenty-four hours,” Sloane muttered. “I’m one irreverent quip away from hacking him to pieces with a butcher’s knife. It’ll be bad PR for me, but I can spin it. He’s insufferable.”
The Lululemon-wearing blonde next to us glanced up and slowly inched toward the other side of the long, communal table.
“Why did you take him on as your client if you hate him so much?” Sloane had been complaining about him since the day she picked him up from the airport. I thought they would’ve learned to get along by now, but her irritation seemed to expand by the day.
“Favor to his father.” Her curt tone disinvited further probing. “Don’t worry. I can handle Xavier Castillo. His stupid smile and dimples and joke giftswill not”—she jabbed at her keyboard—“deter me from my duties.”
My eyebrows skyrocketed. I had never, in all the years I’d known her, seen Sloane so heated.
“Of course not.” I paused. “What are your duties again?”
“Being a professional—” She sucked in a deep breath, held, and released before smoothing a hand over her perfect bun. Her voice leveled off. “Repairing, cultivating, and maintaining his reputation as avaluablemember of society, not a spendthrift playboy with zero goals or ambition.”
“Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you,” I said cheerfully, wisely skipping over the reality that Xavier was, in fact, a spendthrift playboy with no discernible aspirations. “I have faith in you.”
“Thank you.”
Sloane and I lapsed into silence again.
I wasn’t sure whether my words were any good, but I kept typing.
Kai hadn’t said anything about the chapters I’d given him on Christmas, which didn’t help my anxiety. Had he read them yet? If yes, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Were theythatbad? If no, why not? Maybe he wasn’t actually interested in reading them. Maybe I put him in an awkward position by foisting a half-finished, unedited manuscript on him. Should I ask him about it, or would that make things even more awkward?
“Isa.” There was a strange note in Sloane’s voice.
“Hmm?”
Ugh, I should’ve stopped with the dinosaur erotica. What was I thinking?
“Have you looked at the news?”
“No, why? Did Asher Donovan crash another car?” I asked distractedly.
No response.
I looked up. A cold sensation crawled down my spine at Sloane’s neutral expression. She only wore that look when something was very, very wrong.
She silently turned her laptop around so I could see her screen.
TheNational Star’s distinctive red and black text splashed across its website. Lurid headlines and unflattering celebrity photos dominated the page, which wasn’t unusual. The trashy tabloid was famous for…
Wait.
My eye snagged on a familiar dress. Long sleeves, emerald-green cashmere, a hem that skimmed the tops of my thighs. A fifteen-dollar steal from the depths of the Looking Glass boutique’s basement.
I’d worn it on a date with Kai two weeks ago.
My stomach bottomed out.
They weren’t photos of celebrities. They were photos ofus.Kai and me on Coney Island. Us strolling through the New York Botanical Garden, our heads bent close in laughter. Him feeding me a custard tart at a dim sum restaurant in Queens. Me exiting his apartment building, looking thoroughly mussed and slightly guilty.
Dozens of photos capturing some of our most intimate moments. We thought no one we knew would be in such out-of-the-way places, but obviously, we were wrong.
My skin flushed hot and cold. The muffin I ate for breakfast threatened to climb up my throat and ruin Sloane’s pristine MacBook.
I’m so dead.
