Colton tried to usher the paparazzi out of the private room.
And everything seemed to be dying down.
Until Max.
You’ll hear me say that a lot. Until Max. Because of Max. That’s my life. I’m used to it by now, or I should be.
But what he did in that moment was so unforgivable he’s lucky he’s not walking funny.
“Jordan!” he yelled. “How dare you! I’m to be married! Married!” he screeched, then dumped water on her hair. Immediately her hair started fighting against the constraints of whatever flimsy pins she’d put in it to fasten it down.
It popped out of its bun.
Cameras went crazy.
I rushed over to her, tripping over Jason, who was still on the floor rolling and smoking like a sausage.
My hands reached out to grab something to stabilize myself. That something just happened to be Jordan’s wrap dress.
I fell.
And took the dress down with me.
Leaving her exposed for the world to see.
“Huh.” Max knocked back another glass of wine. “Didn’t take her for the corset type of girl, but look at that—black!” He lifted his glass toward me. “Black lingerie for the win, bro!”
“Reid!” Jordan shrieked at the top of her lungs.
I slowly released her dress and winced as I used Jason’s head to help myself to my feet. Jordan’s cheeks bright red.
“Bravo!” Grandma shouted as she made her way out from under the table. “What a show!”
I groaned as Jordan hurriedly covered herself up and seethed in my direction. Body trembling, she looked like she was ready to burst into tears.
“Jordan, I’m—”
“Don’t!” she hissed.
“It’s not that bad,” I said helpfully as Jordan slammed a newspaper onto the breakfast bar a few days later. Quite honestly I’d thought the worst was over and Jordan had managed to do what she did best and spin the story into something that even I would believe—we were acting out a scene from the movie.
It was the only way to explain the craziness of the situation.
But, as luck would have it—or should I say, Jordan’s luck—it was leaked that there was no grandmother in the movie, with the help, I’m sure, of Max’s talking to reporters, and, well, suddenly all the pictures surfaced. I coughed into my coffee, the noise distracting me from Jordan’s seething. She’d been living with me for four days and already we’d stumbled into a routine. She made coffee, I made breakfast, and no words were spoken until both were consumed. It worked.
She cursed as she turned the paper over.
I winced. “I mean you look great naked, so . . .”
Jordan’s nostrils flared. “The headline says ‘Trouble in Shrewland’!”
I made a face behind my coffee cup. “Right. Let’s focus on the positive. Any publicity is good publicity, right?”
She slammed her hand onto the newspaper and pointed at the rest of the pictures. Grandma’s blouse was open, Jason was on fire, wine was taking flight midair along with Jordan’s hair, and I was on my knees—like either I was waiting to get knighted or my head was about to get chopped off. Then again, one could also argue that it looked like I was about to sexually please Jordan amid the chaos. That had to be good, right?
I took a sip of coffee. The silence in the kitchen was deafening. I’d woken up to Jordan pacing back and forth in my living room, coffee in hand, arguing with someone I could only assume was her boss on the phone.
The dark circles under her eyes screamed no sleep.
And I had to report to set in about a half hour.
Meaning, she was on her own as far as our publicity was concerned, which was kind of nice, if you asked me. Having Jordan was like having my own personal OnStar button. I pressed her, she dealt with the drama, and I was free to work without stress.
I cracked my neck and went to pour myself another cup of coffee while Jordan continued silently fuming, her fingernails making an irritating tap, tap noise against the granite.
She stopped tapping.
And for some reason, the hair on the back of my arms stood at full attention. “Jordan?” I asked without turning around. “Don’t do anything crazy, okay?”
“Reid . . .” Her voice was syrupy sweet. I’d always hated sweet things—candy, ice cream—and holy shit, this was why: because after you eat something sweet you always feel sick. My stomach rolled.
“Yes?” I said hoarsely.
“Your brother was on a reality show . . . yes?”
Dread pumped through my system. “Uh-huh.”
“And you were one of the producers, right? On Love Island?”
I backed away slowly. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean anything, right? Hey, Jordan, I need to go—”
“Stop!” she yelled in a low voice. “Right there.”
I did.
“Turn.”
Hanging my head, I slowly turned around. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not going to work! I’m a professional, I still have two more weeks of filming and—”
Her toothy grin was captivating albeit terrifying.