Because he was gorgeous.

And even though I was no longer invisible to him.

I’d turned into something else much worse.

A game.

A means to an end.

And I knew it would end. He’d walk away happy as a clam, successful, rich, even more famous. And I’d still be lonely, at home with my dog and my plant. I needed to stop focusing on what I’d be losing and think about what I’d be gaining.

More money.

I knocked back more wine.

A promotion.

Someone filled up my glass again.

An impeccable reputation!

More chugging.

“I like her,” Max whispered. “She drinks when she freaks out. Does she know any party tricks?”

I ignored his jab and met Reid’s stare. “We’ve got this.”

He reached for my hand and squeezed. “Of course we do.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

REID

Of course, as life—or the universe—would have it, the minute the words of course we do left my mouth, a few cameras went off.

Several screams followed.

And to save time and the embarrassment of retelling the story and suffering through it for a second time, I’ll condense.

Grandma’s shirt flew off, landing on Jason’s head.

Midtoss, the shirt grazed the candle, landing near Jason’s hand and causing second-degree burns.

Max, trying to be helpful, threw wine in Jason’s general direction.

Jason, before the wine could reach him, stopped, dropped, and rolled. This is where I pause the story and say, kids, Jason made the right choice in this situation, and at any other time we’d be talking about the importance of fire safety.

What Jason didn’t know was that Grandma had used the commotion as a way to slink under the table and make her way on all fours in my direction.

Jason landed on her.

Her wig covered her face.

She felt man.

And just went for it.

Let’s pause again. An on-fire Jason is being held down by a freakishly strong elderly woman with smeared lipstick and a thirst that can’t be quenched.

Oh, and there are cameras.

Somehow, Milo managed to grab Grandma before anything illegal and not very biblical took place.

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?