Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
I sat up. My head felt heavy as I dragged on my underwear and plopped onto the couch we had just defiled. I closed my eyes, wondering if I was about to pass out when it clicked, what we had just done.
I’d fucked my client.
Or…he had fucked me.
I’d asked him to fuck me.
My eyes flew open in a panic. I had… I had rules. This wasn’t supposed to happen! I’d wanted it to happen. I’d wanted to forget about Josh and what he’d done to me. And Court Kensington was hot, my type, and all too willing. But I still shouldn’t have broken my number one rule. Not for him. Not for anyone.
I scrambled back into my dress and reached for my purse when he came back out of the bathroom, completely nude.
His brows furrowed. “You’re dressed.”
“Yes. Well, I have to go home.”
“You don’t have to rush out of here. You can stay the night. I’m not a dick.”
I laughed once, sharp and unforgiving. “No, you misunderstand me. This is never happening again.”
“English…wait…”
“You’re a client. I don’t get involved with clients.”
“What the fuck do you think just happened?”
I shrugged one shoulder, compartmentalizing everything, like I had my entire life. “A mistake.”
Then before I could see his wounded expression, I turned and walked out of his apartment. I wondered who exactly I was trying to convince. Because it certainly hadn’t felt like a mistake to me.
Part II
Turn the Tables
7
English
I needed to tell someone.
But I couldn’t tell anyone.
Not even Lark. Not even Whitley or Katherine. No one could know about this. No one could find out what Court and I had done.
I’d most certainly lose my job as his publicist. And I’d fucking deserve it. But where I was with the press, it would be a field day. Fuck, I could not even imagine what would happen if it was leaked. My brain hurt too much to consider it.
I spent the next day cooped up in my apartment, ignoring my phone. The primary was about a week away. I needed to get on top of things. Figure out what Court could be doing to better his reputation and help his mother win the nomination. But I couldn’t bring myself to focus on it.
I needed to snap out of this really fucking quick or else… I wouldn’t have a job regardless.
The middle of the second day, I finally dragged myself out of bed and got myself together. I could do this. I could get Court a schedule. I could go to his place and see him and act just like we’d been acting toward each other for the last three months.
Yep, I could do it.
After I finished blow-drying my hair and pulling clothes over all the little bruises Court had given me, I reached for my phone to text Court and let him know I was coming over. But there was already a text on the screen. A text from Josh.
So, this is how you repay me?
I furrowed my brow and opened the link.
“Motherfucker!” I cried.
The picture of me and Court that bastard photographer Jeremiah had taken was in the fucking tabloids. I was in that ridiculously sexy pink dress. I’d just grabbed him to pull him into the cab. But the angle was perfect. It looked like I was hanging on his arm. As if I were his arm candy. My eyes were wide with alarm, as if we’d been caught. The headline read, Josh Hutch’s Wife Already Moving on with Mayor’s Son?
I didn’t even have a name in the headline. Motherfucking fucker.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I groaned.
I texted Winnie to ask her to look into who had the originals of this and how far it had gone. She knew enough people to see if we could have it retracted or clarified. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to track down that photographer and break his fucking legs. You did not go back on a deal with me.
After I took a deep breath, I decided that I would have to do immediate damage control with this. Which meant I’d have to give them something. It only took ten minutes after Winnie sent me the editor’s details before I was on the phone with the woman, Mandy, who had written the article. Fucking bloodsucking journalist.
“Mrs. Hutch, what a surprise,” Mandy, said.
“I’ll give you an exclusive if you take it down and print a retraction.”
“Right to business, I see.”
“You and only you. Take it down. Print a retraction, and you get a half hour with me in New York City. I’ll tell you my side.”
“I don’t see why I should print a retraction when you were obviously together.”
“A half hour,” I repeated, firm and unyielding.
She huffed. As if she had been waiting to catch me in an explanation. I had no intention of giving her something that she could twist.