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.

“How do you seduce a woman?”

“Huh?” My jaw snapped shut, then opened. “Not what I was expecting, but okay . . . you give her compliments, buy her drinks, tell her she’s—” I stopped talking as fear trickled down my spine, leaving me a little shaky. I crossed my arms as her eyebrows shot higher and higher at my explanations. “What? What’s wrong?”

“They want a story.” Jordan bit down on her bottom lip. “So we’re going to be the ones to tell it.”

“I’m confused.”

“Two weeks of complete access . . .” Jordan clapped her hands. “It’s perfect! We’ll air little snippets of your”—she snorted—“advice on taming.”

I nodded. “That could work.”

“You have a YouTube channel?”

“No.”

“Oh, then we’ll just put it up on Twitter.”

I frowned.

“Facebook?”

“I’m never on.”

“Do you have the Internet?” she said slowly, her mouth enunciating each word like I was three years old and still couldn’t sound out cat.

I rolled my eyes. “Of course I have Internet.”

“Right, but do you use it?”

I shifted on my feet. “I’m busy, I don’t have time to tweet or get online and share pictures on the instogram!”

Her eyes widened in what I could only assume was horror as she covered her face. “Instagram, Reid, it’s Instagram!”

“Why does this matter?”

“Because!” She slammed her fist onto the table. “I refuse to let you take me down! I’m the best damn publicist in the business and you WILL be successful even if I have to hold your hand and kick you in the ass the entire time!”

“Violent,” Max yelled through the wall. “I can dig.”

She started pacing in front of me. “This is all my fault! Normally on the first day I grab all the passwords to your social media sites and start scheduling posts about whatever project you’re working on to get you to connect with your audience, but I’ve been so stressed with this shrew business and . . .” She placed her hands on her hips and huffed out a breath.

I set my coffee on the counter and leaned against it. “Jordan, it’s going to be fine. So, you hook me up with social media, and we—what?”

Jordan grinned, took a sip of coffee, and winked. It was a hell of a turn-on, that smoky look she was giving me, but I knew, in my gut, it meant bad things for me and all my male parts.

“Why, Reid,” she said in a low voice. “We give the people what they want.” She stalked toward me, then trailed her fingertips down my chest.

I shuddered out a strained breath as my eyes took in her button-down shirt. One more button and I could see her breasts. Two more and I could grab—

Jordan snapped her fingers. “Eyes up here, focus.”

“Huh?”

A soft finger tilted my chin, like I was getting inspected. “You gush about how you’re trying to seduce me, how you’re treating me, how all men should treat the women in their lives, even the difficult ones. We do a few videos for YouTube, post to Facebook, hell, we’ll even do a few exclusive interviews. We hit it hard for the next two weeks, and by the time I’m finished with you, every woman in America is going to want to have your love child.”

“Oh, good.” I gulped. “Because that’s what every little boy dreams of when they’re little. Forget being a firefighter, Mom. I want to be a whore!”

“Shh.” Jordan released my chin and slapped my chest. “How hard can it be? With eyes like that, you’re a natural. Just do what you normally do to get chicks: throw some poetry in the mix, some chocolate, and some personal advice from yours truly and we’re going to have the world eating out of your hand. Reid Emory.” She nodded slowly. “America’s newest heartthrob. So sweet it hurts.”