“That’s if the media doesn’t crucify you first.”
At this, he snorted with laughter—pressing a smile into his pillow.
“Never. They love me.” He twisted around in the blankets, cocooning himself in the center as his eyes fluttered open and shut. “Besides, we have a deal: no crucifixions.”
I returned with a glass of water, and perched on the edge of the bed.
“Sit up.” He did as I asked. “Now drink.” I watched him thoughtfully for a moment, my own hair dripping little streams of water down my chest. “And for the record, I’m the one who made that deal. I can revoke it at any time.”
He flashed me an adorable grin.
“But you won’t do that either. You love me too.”
I pressed an Advil into his hand and gestured to the cup.
“We’ll see.”
As he swallowed the pill, I wanted to lecture him. Wanted to give him my standard speech. The ‘fame is a fickle friend’ speech, and tell him to keep his damn head down for once.
But such speeches had never really worked on Nick. And to be honest, he was right.
The press did love him. They always had. They probably always would. He was their dream—a man who knew no limits. No boundaries. Every page—an open book.
Over the years, he’d become something of a folk hero. The crown prince of mayhem who couldn’t be tamed. A source of constant entertainment and levity for the masses.
But even by celebrity standards, Nick was a rare breed.
Because beneath that careless playboy persona, beneath all the money, and mischief, and that unquenchable sense of adventure...he had a genuinely good heart.
It was this ‘good heart’ his father’s company had hired me to promote. To protect. To shine a spotlight on all the good things—half to highlight them, half t
o keep that same spotlight off everything bad. By protecting his image, I was protecting their shareholders, and thus—doing my not inconsiderable part to contribute to the massive global conglomeration that was his father’s company. The Hunter Corporation. The family’s crowning achievement.
He handed back the empty glass and lay down on the pillows, gazing up in sleepy disorientation as I pulled the decadent comforter up to his chin. I was just tucking it around his shoulders, when he shot back up in sudden surprise—propping himself up on his elbows.
“Fuck Abby—you look really good tonight.”
My perfect coif might have spoiled, but the look had shifted in other ways. Wet hair sticking to my shoulders. Equally wet dress clinging to my slender frame. Bright red lips, puffy from me biting them so many times in frustration.
“Oh yeah?” I asked, leaning over to push him back down. “And why is that?”
He faltered, blinking several times as my hair dripped onto his cheeks.
“Is this a trick question?”
“Think, Nick. Break the stereotype.”
It took him a second. Then it all came rushing back.
“Your date!”
Bingo.
“That’s right,” I said dryly. “My date.”
He leaned back with a bright smile.
“How did it go?”