3. Three

Three

The good part about having a publicist who wouldn't have been fazed by anything shy of cannibalism—and maybe not even that—was that she didn't immediately fly into crisis-management mode or harangue him for his piss-poor decision making and phenomenally terrible timing.

The bad part was that it took her a good five minutes to stop laughing.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You want me to release a statement saying you weren't receiving sexual favors in a public space, but instead—and please, stop me if I have this wrong—instead, you demanded that your ex-girlfriend's sister get down on her knees and grovel before you in order to beg your forgiveness for revealing your use of unauthorized substances to the media."

A muscle in Whit's jaw twitched. "Well, when you put it like that, it does sound kind of bad."

"Try convoluted. Or better yet, insane ."

"It was a joke. I didn't think she'd actually do it!"

A miscalculation he had no intention of repeating. Ever.

"You're not really helping your case here," Rebecca replied. "At this point, we'd be better off going with the blowjob story." And then she started laughing again.

"So, what, you want me to apologize? "

"Of course not. Though that would certainly be the easiest way to take care of it."

"I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't even do. The whole thing was a fucking setup."

"First, you have no proof. Second… honestly, Whit, no one cares about your sex life. This isn't the calamity you think it is. Compared to what we've already been through? Please. The best thing to do now is not draw attention to it. We'll say the whole thing was taken out of context, you'll be the butt of a few jokes on social media and take some heat in the clubhouse. That's it. Just go to your dad's little shindig, try not to ruffle any feathers, and wait for the whole thing to blow over. No pun intended."

Except that the very mention of his dad's little shindig was already enough to make him break into a cold sweat. His sex life—or what the media had decided was his sex life—might not concern Rebecca or the greater sports community, but the hometown that had reviled him even before his PEDs scandal had validated their disdain? That was another story. The same people who had gloated over his failures were no doubt already whipping the small town gossip machine into a frenzy about his sordid extracurricular activities. The Bad Boy of Baseball had done it again. And he hadn't even done anything!

He wasn't about to breathe a word of that to Rebecca. That would really give her something to laugh about: All-Star ballplayer afraid to face a bunch of aging former jocks and armchair analysts who had peaked in high school. "Fine, if that's how you want to handle it."

"Trust me. You've already been to the World Series of scandals. This one isn't even college ball. But… bit of friendly advice? The next time you've got a woman on her knees—I don't care where, I don't care why— try to make sure you don't have an audience, okay?"

On that cheerful note, she promised to keep him apprised of any updates and ended the call. Whit stared at his phone, wondering how in the hell he'd gone to bed in a completely normal, rational universe and woken up in bizarro world.

Rebecca was right about one thing. A couple of his friends were already sending him lewd texts and idiotic memes, and another kept trying to offer advice on hiding affairs. His most recent girlfriend, Lilah, sent him half a dozen messages ranging from sympathetic to reproachful. Even his manager on the Blizzards had messaged him.

The early hour had granted Whit a reprieve from everyone he knew on the west coast, but his mother, who was out of the country and several time zones ahead, sent a quick message of support. Honey, I'm not going to judge, but please remember to be safe. Love you!

His dad was less understanding about the situation.

I think it's best you sit this week out.

That was the single text Whit received from his father on the subject. No demands—or opportunities—for explanation. Nothing but the word of Ryan "Skip" O'Rourke, meant to be obeyed without question by all sycophants and underlings, offspring included. Woe be to he who didn't heed it. Coming from Whit's father, the text was tantamount to a command. One that, despite the knots currently twisting in his stomach, Whit had absolutely no intention of following.

Part of him wanted to take the excuse and run. He could spend the next week relaxing, far away from the media, his father, and the vultures in Fallen Oaks who were waiting to swoop in and feed on his corpse. But that was the coward's way out, and Whit wasn't about to be a coward. Not this time.

There was going to be hell to pay, all right. And he was just going to have to pay it.

***

The slamming of the car door behind her sounded like a death knell.

Her death knell, to be specific.

You did this to yourself , Nell thought, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders as she gazed at the charming two-story stone house fringed with ivy that sat at the end of the block. A weathered cobblestone walkway wended its way through the frost-tipped grass to a sunny yellow door where a leftover jack-o-lantern was beginning to droop on the front step. In the side yard, a couple of overgrown lilac bushes were creeping their way toward the house, several thin, twisting birches were hung with bird feeders, and a wind chime dangling from an overhead window stirred in the breeze, sending a faint, clanging melody toward her. Not the sort of home she'd pictured belonging to Whit, but maybe he hadn't gotten around to upgrading to soulless suburban mansion yet.

Or maybe she had the wrong address. She could always hope, right?

Though that would only delay the inevitable. She had promised Paige that she'd apologize to Whit. She had come to Minnesota with the express purpose of doing precisely that.

Worse, she had the uncomfortable feeling that after last night, she might actually owe him one.

A thought that didn't make the prospect any more appealing.

Don't panic, she told herself . Don't think. Just get it over with and go home, and then you can forget this entire nightmare ever happened.

Nell's surge of triumph after leaving the bar had lasted just long enough for her to get checked into her hotel. Then reality had landed on her like a bucket of ice water. She had let Whit get under her skin, and instead of taking the high road, she'd gone nuclear. She might think Paige's PR-romance scheme was pointless, ridiculous, and doomed to failure, but she couldn't have done a better job of blowing it up if she'd used an actual torpedo. It didn't matter that Whit apparently hadn't informed Paige of the debacle. The look on his face as he'd turned away could have frozen every one of Minnesota's ten thousand lakes. He'd rather be tied to a rocket and shot into the sun than do anything to help her.

And the stupid thing was, it hadn't even been about him. Not completely. Nell had seen the hard, smirking twist to his lips, heard the disdain dripping from his every syllable, and something inside her had snapped. The carefully restrained part of her that had been cruising toward a meltdown ever since she'd lost her job at Bellwater had finally reached its boiling point. All the turmoil of the past two weeks had come rushing in at her, all the anger and frustration and helplessness, and for that one instant, he hadn't just been Whit .

He'd been Braden Gaskell, the swaggering, sneering, overgrown-fratboy who had gotten in her face and then gotten her fired when she wouldn't let him bully her the way his son bullied the sweetest, most sensitive kid in her classroom.

He'd been Frank Grantham, who had decided without ever meeting her that she was unfit to educate children, and robbed her of the only truly meaningful part of her life.

She might not believe in fairy tales, but she spent her share of time reading them, and in that moment, Whit had been her villain, the dragon she needed to slay, the giant she needed to topple. By some miracle, she had found the exact words she wanted to say exactly when she wanted to say them. And god, it had felt good.

Until she'd realized she'd screwed up. Colossally.

So here she was. Apology, Take Two. Less sarcasm, more penitence. She could manage that.

At least she was prepared this time. Sure, her stomach was currently doing enough somersaults to land her a job at a circus, but the flat tire on her rental had been replaced, her phone was fully charged, the weather had cleared into brisk blue November skies, and her hair was under control in a safe, if boring, ponytail. Thanks to a quick stop at Starbucks, she was coffee-fueled and clearheaded. All she had to do was somehow get through the next five minutes.

Steeling herself, she marched up the little stone walkway, forced her jaw to stop clenching and her fingers to unfurl, counted silently to ten, and rang the doorbell. Somewhere inside, the high tone chirped merrily and then fluttered into silence.

Nell waited. A few agonizingly slow seconds ticked past. Then a few more. She rolled back on her heels, hugging her arms against her, and closed her eyes, biting down on her lip as she ran through the script in her mind. She'd rehearsed it over and over again in her head during the drive from the hotel. As long as he didn't slam the door in her face—a probability she wasn't willing to discount—she could do this.

I know I'm probably the last person you want to see right now, but I wanted to tell you that I really am sorry. Whatever my own personal views of you might be …

No, wait. Scratch that last line.

You didn't deserve what I said last night. It was ungenerous and unkind. I'm sorry.

She opened her eyes again, her brow furrowing as she gazed at the cheerful yellow door. There hadn't been so much as a peep from inside the house. No slap of footsteps or creaking of floorboards, no muffled words. He probably had cameras, she realized. He probably wasn't even going to bother answering. He was just going to leave her out there, standing on his doorstep like an idiot. Or maybe he hadn't heard the doorbell. Maybe he wasn't home. Maybe he was still sleeping. Or on the toilet. Or on a call. Or—

Oh god, what if he wasn't alone?

Since that last possibility was fairly high on her list of nightmare scenarios, Nell was about to turn right back around and walk—okay, run—to her car, when she heard the click of the lock and the soft whine of hinges as the door was yanked open, bringing her face to face with a surly, scowling, and honestly kind of menacing Whit O'Rourke.

For half a second, they simply stared at each other, Nell in her thin blue windbreaker, the breeze tugging at her ponytail, her lips slightly parted, Whit barefoot and broody. He must have just gotten out of the shower. His dark brown hair was wet, sticking up in chaotic little spikes that curled at the tips, and his T-shirt was actually damp enough to cling to his chest. His eyes were narrowed on her, and the look of fury in them was so intense, Nell took a quick step back.

Nell gulped. She'd anticipated his irritation. She was more than half expecting him to just throw the door shut with a resounding crash. But she hadn't expected this cold-eyed, nostril-flaring, teeth-grinding rage. He looked ready to combust. Instinctively, she edged back another half step.

But Nell hadn't come here to retreat. Drawing in a quick breath, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Straightened her posture. Exhaled.

"I know I'm prob—"

That was as far as she got into her speech before he caught her by the arm and hauled her unceremoniously into the house, slamming the door behind them .

"Are you recording this?" he hissed, eyes flashing.

Then, to her utter outrage, he snaked his arm toward her purse, yanked the little clover-green bag off her shoulder, and started digging through it.

"What are you doing ?" she demanded, trying to wrench her purse out of his grasp. Since she was bound to come out the loser in any game of tug-of-war with this deranged jock, she slapped frantically at his hands—but that only jostled the bag, causing her wallet to go bouncing out of it toward some indeterminate spot down the hall. Next, her keys dropped directly onto her foot. Nell yelped. "Recording what?"

Whit tightened his grip on her purse, jerking it out of her reach. "Your next hit job."

Her what now?

Was he on something? Had he progressed from performance enhancing drugs to actual illegal ones?

"If you're trying to mug me, I don't carry cash," she said. "Or drugs. Or whatever it is you think you're going to find in there. Now—give—it—back!" She lunged forward, clutching at the side of her bag. As soon as her fingers found purchase, she stuck the heel of her free hand directly in the center of Whit's chest and shoved. As hard as she could.

Whit was caught off guard. His arms wheeled as he took a quick, stumbling step backward. Half of her purse went with him.

The other half didn't.

Nell could only watch in horror as lip gloss, hair ties, tampons, a bottle of Tylenol, and a couple of old gum wrappers went spilling onto the floor at their feet.

Her phone went the way of her wallet. It sailed into the air—up, up, up, in a high, heroic arc, followed by a rapid descent as it cracked to the ground with a sound like a gun going off.

Speechless, Nell stared. The brief flicker of hope that her phone had miraculously survived its flight was quickly extinguished. The back had popped off and the screen was shattered .

Righteous fury took over. She swung toward Whit, who had retreated from the entryway and stood a short distance from her, his arms folded, glaring.

"Nice going," he said, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

It took every last bit of self-control she possessed not to snatch up her broken phone and hurl it directly at him.

"You are so paying for that," she snarled.

Whit's lips twisted. "Just take it out of your cut from Meltdown . But hey, as a heads-up, you might want to do it soon, before I sue your ass."

Nell heard something that sounded suspiciously like a growl leave her throat. She could actually feel herself twitching. And since she didn't want to find out firsthand if blood boiling was really just a metaphor, she tried desperately to think of something calm and soothing. Like the color blue. Or a sailboat on placid waters.

Or Whit O'Rourke, skewered on a spike.

His eyes narrowed again. "You aren't mic'd, are you?"

"Why on earth would I be mic'd?" she retorted. "I swear to god, if you try to frisk me, I'm calling the cops." At least, she would if she still had a phone. Since she didn't, she dropped into a crouch and began gathering her scattered belongings and the remains of her purse. Her favorite purse, which, okay, was five years old and had definitely seen better days—but that didn't give him the right to rip it in two.

At least now she could return to Chicago with a clear conscience and tell Paige she had dodged a bullet, because there was no amount of public-relations goodwill that could make up for being saddled with a man who had blown right past asshole and settled firmly on sociopath.

Paranoid sociopath, if his rambling about Meltdown were any indication.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" the sociopath asked, rubbing his jaw as he looked her over. "Did you just come to gloat?"

"I was planning to apologize." She scooped up the hair ties and tampons and tucked them into her jacket pockets. "Against my better judgment. Now? Now I am going to drive to the airport, get on a plane, go home, and be eternally grateful for every single one of the four hundred miles between us. I'll send you a bill for the phone. "

"Yeah, I think I've had enough of your apologies." There was an edge to his tone she didn't understand—but then, she didn't understand half of what he'd been saying. He was leaning back against the wall, his arms still crossed, his brow more creased than an accordion.

Then, abruptly, the corners of his mouth tipped upward. Nell wouldn't have called it a smile. At least not a friendly one.

More like a cat getting ready to pounce.

"As long as you're here," he said, "you're going to set the record straight about last night."

Nell stuck her lip gloss in her pocket and paused to look at him as an uneasy feeling began to creep its way up the back of her neck. "Set the record straight about what exactly? What a tool you are?"

"Like you don't know."

"I hate to break it to you, but I don't exactly have you on my Google Alerts."

"So it's just a coincidence that Meltdown has a video of you down on your knees in front of me?"

It took a moment for his words to connect. Mainly because they didn't make any sense. " Meltdown has what?" She climbed back to her feet and mirrored his stance, arms folded, chin up. Then she frowned. "Why would Meltdown want a video of us?"

"Think about it."

Nell bit down on her lip, rolling his words over in her head. While she would have been perfectly happy to erase the past twenty-four hours from the whole of space-time, their encounter at the bar hadn't exactly been newsworthy. Unfortunate? Yes. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. But of national interest? Hardly. Except…

Meltdown has a video… of you down on your knees in front of me.

"No way," she said, eyes widening.

His eyebrow lifted again.

Heat scorched its way up her cheeks. "But I wasn't doing anything!"

"Believe me, I am well aware."

"But…" Nell stared at him, floundering. She was going to have to change her name, flee the country, and join some Buddhist monastery deep in the Himalayas. Or maybe hitch a ride with the next NASA rover on its way to Mars, because if she stayed anywhere in the vicinity of Earth, Paige was going to murder her. Nell was supposed to convince Whit to help handle one scandal, not stir up an entirely new one. Not to mention—

Sudden dread pooled in her belly. Her entire body went cold. She could actually feel the blood draining from her face. If Frank Grantham didn't turn out to be the end of her career, this definitely would. She'd just gone from unemployed to unemployable.

"Please, please, please tell me you're making this up," she breathed.

"Yeah, I wish."

Mars wasn't far enough. She was going to have to book a ticket straight to the sun.

She closed her eyes, trying to quell the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She just needed to think for a moment. Maybe it wasn't as bad as Whit was making it out to be. Maybe…

Her eyes snapped back open. Nell might not have Whit's name on her news alerts, but Paige definitely did. And if Paige had been able to recognize Nell in the video, there was zero chance she would have been silent about it. Nell's phone would have been blowing up from the second she rolled out of bed.

"Hold on," Nell said, a sudden, dizzying hope rising. "My face is in this video?"

Whit hesitated. "Your head is."

That meant no .

"So what you're saying is that they have a video of you with a woman. Not specifically with me."

"It is you."

"But we're the only ones who know that."

Whit's jaw tightened. If his scowl got any deeper, she thought, his face would actually be concave.

Nell couldn't help it. The high-speed rollercoaster her emotions had been on for the past two weeks finally derailed. Giddy relief washed through her, making her legs feel a bit like jelly. She backed toward the wall and sagged against it. A gurgle of laughter worked its way through her chest and out her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to squelch her giggle.

It was definitely not funny.

Except that it kind of was.

Whit stared daggers at her. "You're seriously telling me you had nothing to do with it? Who else would it have been?"

Nell fought back another laugh. "Anyone in the bar looking to make a quick buck?"

"Why would they bother?"

"Why would I?" she countered. "You're not my favorite person on the planet, but if you think I've been nurturing some deep-seated grudge against you for the past four years, just waiting for my chance at vengeance, you really need to examine that ego of yours."

"Fine." He cocked his head to the side as he looked at her. The corners of his mouth curled back into their cat-smile. "Then you won't have any problem helping me clear up this little misunderstanding. What time is your flight?"

She eyed him warily. "Why do you care?"

"Because we need to change it. You're not leaving tonight. You're coming with me."