He jutted out his lower lip.
“I’m ignoring the pout.” I closed my eyes so my treacherous body wouldn’t lean toward him.
“Holy shit,” Reid murmured. “They’re rocking my trailer.”
“It’s like a Justin Bieber concert gone wrong.” I nervously glanced around us as people started holding up their camera phones. The situation was going downhill fast. The girls were screaming, demanding that Reid return to their side of the trailer. Thankfully security was already standing in front of the women, keeping them from full on charging us. They would rip him to pieces if I tossed him out there, and even though that idea had merit, something told me he’d just make the situation worse by picking every last one of them and making my life even more of a living hell.
“Back off, bitch!” a girl wailed.
Reid gave me a panicked look. “Isn’t this what you do? Fix things?” His look went from panicked to doubtful.
Irritated that he was challenging me when I should have home court advantage, I thrust out my chin and marched around the trailer. If he wanted me to fix it, I was going to fix it, all right. “He’s made his choice!”
The girl first in line caught my eye. She was jumping up and down. At least her boobs moved. She’d do. And if she was nice instead of shrewlike, we’d simply tell everyone that she hardly needed any work and set her free. Problem solved.
Immediate silence.
I cleared my throat and pulled at my chocolate-stained collar. “He chooses—”
“The lovely . . .” Reid wrapped his arm tightly around me. What was he doing? Mind reading? Picking his own girl? “Jordan . . .” His eyes narrowed as his lips brushed my ear. “What’s your last name?”
“L-Litwright.” I stumbled over the word like I’d just learned how to spell out cat.
“Sorry, girls.” Reid hugged me closer. “But she’s the shrew for me.”
My lips trembled behind a suppressed moan. Dead. He was dead to me.
“But”—Reid released me—“how about some autographs and pictures for the road?”
The squealing continued.
And I was left standing by the trailer, wondering how the heck I was going to explain to Ren not only that I was fake dating my new client but that my new title was no longer just publicist.
But shrew.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JORDAN
“How the hell did this happen?” Ren fumed from behind his large mahogany desk. Normally his office with its private stash of Twizzlers and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city was somewhat of a sanctuary for me.
My hand twitched for some sugar.
His deep-brown eyes narrowed in on me as he brushed back some of his silver hair. “Jordan, this isn’t like you.”
Reid was silent next to me.
“Is this . . .” Ren held out his hands, bracing himself against the desk. “Is this some sort of midlife crisis?”
“Hardly!” I snorted.
While Reid said, “Maybe.”
I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself, but by defending myself I’d end up making Reid look bad, and the situation would appear even worse. I needed to either suck it up and make it look like it was all part of the plan or confess and take the chance that Ren didn’t think I could handle Reid.
Ren sighed. “Jordan? What happened?”
Swallowing my pride, I tried a different tactic. “Look, Ren, it wasn’t our fault.” He didn’t let me finish.
“Oh, good.” Ren nodded. “We’ll just tell that to the press. It wasn’t our fault. I’m sure they’ll be very understanding.”
“Great!” Reid rubbed his hands together.
I groaned. “He’s being sarcastic.” I pressed my fingertips to my temples and rubbed. “Look, Ren, give me some time. I’ll come up with something, I—”
Ren held up his hand, cutting me off, and turned his back on us to face the cityscape. For a few minutes I wondered if that meant we were excused. For some reason this reprimand in his office felt a heck of a lot like getting called into the principal’s office. Not that I would actually know, since the one time I did get called in after the senior prank the principal accused me of going to another school entirely.
I’d showed him my ID badge.
He said it was a fake.
I’d asked why the H-E-double-hockey-sticks (yes, I actually said it just like that, I wanted to be semipolite) would I make a fake student ID?
His answer? To steal the mascot.
Facepalm.
“You’ll do it.” Ren turned suddenly, his face glowing. “We can spin this in our favor.”
I sputtered, “You can’t be serious! I thought you’d have a better idea than this one!” I jabbed my finger in Reid’s direction, and he lifted his hands in surrender. Smart move, considering his idea was to smile and kiss for the camera. I’m pretty sure the final nail in my shrewlike coffin occurred a half hour later when I slapped him across the face in the middle of Times Square.
It had taken five minutes before we were trending news.