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I’m yanked back into the room, the door is slammed shut and locked.
I stumble to the chaise and drop onto it.
Fuck.
Gabriel Sinclair, golden boy, says it out loud.
Chapter two
Gabe
CeliaFoleyisterrifying.
America’s Tipsy Kitchen Aunt cleared the venue of anyone who could be paparazzi with the efficiency of a general. For the last ten minutes, the TV chef has been pacing the empty Wisteria Bar and talking in a tense, shushed voice into her phone.
Her smoky blue pantsuit is the softest thing about her. The expression on her face is stormy as she pushes aside a stray lock of gray-streaked auburn hair.
She hasn’t glanced at me since she pointed at the chair I’m sitting in, though she’s cast more than a few Angry Parent looks at her niece.
I feel like I’ve been put in time-out.
My publicist and agent aren’t answering my calls, which is terrifying. I’ve never been touched by anything even a little scandalous, so this is a great time for my team to ignore me.
My phone sits on the table in front of me, but I don’t need to look to know those pictures are everywhere.
Little Miss Look-At-My-Tits is upset as she scrolls through her phone, though she’s trying to appear unaffected and bored. The subtle lift of her eyebrows and tightening of her lips give away her true feelings. As does her throat working to swallow before she remembers her cocktail.
Her cocktail is the same bright red as her lips. And her lingerie. The contrast against her creamy skin is seared into the lizard-part of my brain. I’m going to be seeing her curvy body in that damn lingerie in my dreams for weeks. She’s dressed to seduce in a little black number, not attend a family wedding. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone embody the blonde bombshell/femme fatale look the way she does.
Unfortunately for me, she’s exactly my type—hence my inability to run from the room as soon as I sensed danger.
The woman who sent me to Ashley’s trap is sitting next to her, teary-eyed. They haven’t spoken, so I doubt they’re friends. They don’t look enough alike to be family—this woman has a cloud of curly brown hair and a more angular face—but who knows? Family takes all forms.
My attention returns to Ashley, and I rub my jaw. There was a moment on the way to this room. A door opened and Nic and Jessie stumbled out, mussed and laughing, color on their cheeks. Far enough ahead of us that they didn’t notice our solemn march to the Wisteria Bar.
Ashley faltered. Her shoulders slumped. In an instant, she went from cool indifference to a palpable sadness.
I felt bad for her. Until I saw my face in a hallway mirror, lipstick smeared all over it.
The door opens and Celia spins around as my real personal assistant slides into the room. Thank god. If anyone can help me sort this mess—outside of my agent and publicist—it’s David.
“I’m Mr. Sinclair’s assistant,” he informs her. She motions for him to come in as she continues her hushed conversation.
David quickly makes his way to my side, shooting Ashley a glare that goes unnoticed as he drops into the chair next to me. He turns his back to her and leans closer to me, speaking in a hushed voice. “What happened?”
“I have no idea.”
It was a con. Obviously. But I can’t understand what she hoped to gain. She’d kissed me, hadn’t cared when I didn’t return her kiss, and told me she despised me on her way out the door. She panicked at the cameras like she didn’t want to be photographed with me. None of it makes sense.
“Well, she’s bad news,” David continues, dropping his voice lower. “She was on the last season ofLove on the Lineand she doesnothave a lot of fans. Check this out,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket, opening some gossip site calling her Reality TV’s Bad Girl. “No current boyfriend or girlfriend—she’s bisexual. Often photographed with the lower rung of professional athletes and musicians, the odd model or influencer, but nothing lasting more than a few weeks. She’s—”
“Still in the room, boys,” Ashley calls out in a dry voice, not looking up from her phone.
David tenses, then stands and motions for me to follow him over to the windows, about as far as we can get from Ashley’s table. The heavy curtains are drawn given…well.
“I’m sorry I interrupted your night,” I tell him in a hushed tone.
“Not your fault.”
