Dangerous Exes (Page 12)

My mind whirled.

Everything pointed to a relationship.

Everything pointed to me basically doing the unthinkable.

“If we ignore each other, it just causes more speculation.” I drummed my fingertips on the table. “It looks like we’re hiding something.”

“Agreed.” Blaire handed me a piece of licorice, while Colin and Jessie shot each other worried glances.

“So we lie.” I straightened my shoulders. “And in the end, both of us get something out of it.”

“Come again?” Jessie stood and faced me. “How is lying supposed to help anyone?”

“Easy.” I spread my hands wide. “It helps because we get married.”

The room fell silent.

Jessie laughed, and then stopped. “You’re serious? How the hell did you get from lying to marriage?”

“I second that.” Colin’s expression narrowed in on me. “Is this normal for you? This behavior?”

Blaire smacked him on the chest. He winced.

I rolled my eyes. “Look, it’s easy, Jessie’s still pissed—”

“Rightfully so.” Jessie just had to interrupt.

“If people see that he’s in a committed, loving, noncheating relationship, doing all the things that a doting fiancé would do, it puts him in a good light because the very woman willing to put his ring on her finger is the very one who was hell-bent on exposing his cheating ways.”

Jessie’s jaw dropped as Colin did a slow clap.

I almost patted myself on the back when Blaire gave me a wink.

“You.” Jessie dragged out the word with more bite than necessary. “What do you get out of all of this? It seems to help me more than you.”

“Stop saying you.” I gritted my teeth. “And it helps because I’m able to tell our love story without people wrongfully assuming I’m the other woman.”

Jessie snorted. “So now we’re in love? And people are just going to believe that after having the”—he air quoted—“perfect marriage crumble, I’m just going to jump right back into the saddle? Or maybe you like the term ball and chain?”

“Technically the ball and chain both attach,” I pointed out. “Maybe that’s why the first one didn’t last, you were doing it wrong.”

Jessie took a menacing step toward me.

“Sore subject?” I said the minute we came chest to chest.

“Yeah,” Colin said slowly. “People are totally going to buy that love thing . . .”

Blaire separated us and then stood in the middle. “If this is going to work, you guys need to start looking like you love each other and not like you want to rip each other’s heads off.”

“Easy.” I pasted a sweet smile on my face. “Right, pumpkin?”

Jessie eyes narrowed. “How long?”

“Until it blows over. Until another celebrity shaves their head or cheats, or confesses to showering with clothes on because they’re afraid of their private parts. Got it?”

The room was silent.

“I don’t need to remind you guys what’s riding on this.” I had to say it, I needed him, I couldn’t lose this. He had money and fame to fall back on.

I had nothing but the business Blaire had helped me build.

It was my life.

It was literally all I had.

If I lost it, I’d be losing a part of my soul—and I remembered too well what it felt like to lose your identity and come out the other side questioning everything about yourself and your place in the world.

I controlled my world.

My destiny.

My damn business.

Jessie held out his hand.

I took it.

He pulled me to his chest. “I would say to get our terms in writing, but that’s just something else for them to find . . . I will say this, if you make things worse, I will shut you down.”

“So you’ve said.” My voice was wobbly as I released his hand and flashed Blaire a smile. “See, like I said, fixed.”

Jessie leveled me with a stare that went straight through to my soul. I shivered.

“We’ll see.”

Chapter Thirteen

JESSIE

Six hours since I left the office and my chest still burned, making me think I was either coming down with some sort of cold, or maybe feeling the effects of the strenuous workout followed by the almost-make-out session.

I told my cock to calm the hell down, but it was pointless, I’d probably die with images of her ass flashing before my line of vision.

Too bad I didn’t trust her.

Maybe it was my distrust of women in general, maybe it was the fact that her smile wasn’t as confident as it usually was—I wasn’t sure why I was so bothered, but it left me feeling chaotic.

And I did not perform well around chaos.

In any shape or form.

Straight lines.

Black and white.

Control.

And Isla, well, she was like a giant splotch of red paint on a fucking dalmatian. It didn’t do well for my anxiety that somehow the press was going to get wind of yet another character flaw on my end or worse—another bad decision with a woman—and fillet me alive.

I walked over to the kitchen and pulled out one of my favorite red-wine glasses from Saks, monogrammed with a J on the middle and thicker around the stem, making them more masculine.

It helped they were pure crystal.

The wine had been breathing for the past half hour while I stared out the window at the devil herself flicking on lights in my guesthouse only to turn them off again. Part of me wondered if she wasted electricity on purpose to see if I’d notice, or to see if she’d win this insane little war that she started back when she took on my ex-wife as a client and decided to screw up my perfect life.

I hesitated at the word perfect.

Stared at the white granite and winced.

It was the exact word Vanessa had uttered over and over to me, fucking hammered it into my world until I was sick of it, sick of pretending, sick of being what everyone expected all the time.

And yet.

I was caught between being fake and being afraid to be myself—because who wants that guy?

The guy who’d rather stay at home and watch old movies? The beer drinker who was more loner than socialite? The one who honestly didn’t give a shit if he wasn’t seen at parties and events?

I’d like to think the nonprofit was helping me in more ways than one. I was starting to become myself again, not the self my ex had fabricated for me.

But the one who actually went up to a bar and ordered a beer, even though in our circle it wasn’t as refined.

The guy who allowed himself to wear jeans instead of head-to-toe Prada.

The guy who wasn’t afraid to show emotion in public for fear someone would get a bad picture.

The guy with the permanent smile.

That was me.

The last time I was People’s Sexiest Man Alive, they captioned the cover story “The Man Who Has It All.”

I scowled harder then poured a full glass, just as my doorbell rang. I took two long gulps then walked to the door and opened it.

Isla’s hair was pulled into a knot on the top of her head, she was wearing Under Armour joggers and a black tank top that kept falling off her shoulder each time she crossed her arms.

And, thank God, a matching black sports bra.

And a pair of black Uggs that had my fingers twitching to grab and toss into the fireplace.

“Steal those?” I pointed at the boots.

She rolled her eyes and shoved her way past me.