Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 107639 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107639 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Until Nan’s tablet had buzzed with a salacious headline.
SLEEPING WITH THE HELP? NO, MARRYING THEM! LORD HAWLING GIVES HIS COMMONER SECRETARY A NEW TITLE—HUSBAND! BUT TOMA IS ALREADY CONSIDERING OTHER OPTIONS…
Under the headline was a photo of Kenji standing next to Jamie Winthrop, beaming up at him. Jamie’s face was creased in a grin, making it look for all the world like the two of them were flirting. Instead of the actual reason for their grins, which had been the fact the proffered cups of hot chocolate had featured soccer-ball-shaped mini marshmallows, for fuck’s sake.
Now, obviously, I needed to murder a few people.
“Nan, get the crisis management people on the phone. No, don’t tell me it’s too late at night,” I insisted when she opened her mouth to argue. “What’s the point of having gobs of money if you can’t get immediate response? I want this headline removed before the rest of the world wakes up, and I want a printed retraction and personal apology from this reporter, whoever they are. If they refuse, get our legal team involved. I will sue them so comprehensively their fate will become urban legend—”
“To be fair,” Cora said mildly, swirling her wineglass in the air, “You are sleeping with the help. And Jamie Winthrop is attractive and charming.”
I pierced her with a glare. “Kenji and I are not sleeping together.”
Cora lifted an accusatory eyebrow.
“Fine,” I gritted. “Technically, we’re sleeping together. But we’re not…”
Nan winced. “TMI, darling.” My father grunted his agreement.
I ignored them since my face was already on fire from anger. “Kenji Toma would no more cheat on me with Jamie Winthrop than… than…” I blew out a breath. “Than he’d be caught dead at an all-you-can-eat buffet, or cut in front of a little old lady in a queue at the market, or put mayonnaise on literally anything. Or be late for a meeting. Or wear acrylic knits. Or sleep on microfiber sheets. Or marry me for real.”
Now, it was Nan’s eyebrow of judgment that winged up.
I deflated. “He just wouldn’t. Not now. Not while he’s pretending to be my husband. Kenji Toma bleeds integrity. He deserves better than this disgusting gossip-mongering.”
Cora set her glass down with a plink. “You’re acting like it’s the first time any of us has been the subject of a disgusting headline.”
Nan nodded and patted Dad’s arm. “Cora’s right. I remember your father asking me what a ‘situationship’ was when there was a rumor about you dating that singer friend of yours a couple of years ago.”
If I wasn’t so angry, I would’ve laughed at the memory of those rumors. Zane and I had been arrested together for causing damage to a hotel room, and even though plenty of other people had been involved, someone had snapped a chance photo of me with my arm around Zane. My head had been turned—shouting an expletive at one of Zane’s misbehaving fans—causing the photo to look like I was kissing Zane’s head.
I’d given a framed copy of the photo to Zane for Christmas recently with the innocently stated hope he’d hang it in his new place in Majestic. His bodyguard boyfriend had growled and toed the photo under the sofa in Dev and Tully’s living room, and I’d laughed my ass off.
Now that Kenji was the one in the media’s crosshairs, though, I understood Ryan’s irrational anger and desire to salt the earth. It wasn’t funny at all.
“It’s more than one awful headline.” I tried to explain. “After having his face splashed all over the internet and gossip magazines, he’ll be recognized in public. Whispered about. He won’t be able to move on after this without long-term repercussions.”
Cora lifted her shoulders. “It’s part of being a Davencourt. He’ll get used to it.”
“But that’s just it—he’s not a Davencourt!” I reminded her.
Kenji had a life to get back to, and I didn’t want our fake marriage to ruin it.
My father leaned back in his chair, bringing his wineglass with him. “He could be. It’s clear the two of you have serious feelings for each other.”
I shook my head. “Not him. And he wouldn’t want to be an MP’s spouse or settle full-time in England anyway. Kenji has dreams that don’t involve living in the center of a three-ring media circus.”
My father tilted his head at me as if to understand. “Did I ever tell you how your mother and I met? Funny story, that. She was here on a school trip.”
There was a silent, collective groan of disappointment in the room as he began one of his favorite story repeats.
I tried to focus on a centering technique I’d overheard Kenji describing one time—Breathe in. Feel your feet. Exhale slowly—but all I could think about was that my feet felt hot and humid in my running shoes after my workout.
That was a shit centering technique.