Breaker pulls him to the side, and I stand to grab myself some more champagne. When I sway, I realize that maybe I’ve had a few too many glasses, but . . . then again, it’s a rehearsal dinner and the champagne is flowing. It’s time to celebrate!
JP
A sharp line etched on his brow, Breaker pulls me into the house, shuts the sliding glass door, then moves us into Huxley’s office.
“Do we really need this much privacy?” I ask when he shuts the door and turns to me, pinching the tension in his brow with his fingers. Worry starts to hit me. “What’s going on?”
His eyes flash to mine as he asks, “Remember the night you were talking about polar bears dying and donating to help the pigeons?”
“I remember the night, not the details.”
“Do you remember sending an email?”
“An email?” I shake my head. “No, why?”
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Can you open your email?”
I hand him my phone, and he clicks on the mail app.
“What the hell is going on?”
He taps away, and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, he presses his fist to his mouth. “That night, we spoke on the phone. You were extremely drunk, and I told you to get some food and not do anything stupid.”
“Okay . . .” I drag out.
“Well, I think you did something stupid, but I can’t find it.”
“What the fuck did I do?”
“You were upset about Kelsey and the wedding and needing a date, so you told me you were going to send a generic email to girls you knew, asking if they wanted to be your date.”
My stomach sinks. “Shit, I vaguely recall that.” I scour through my emails. “But I don’t see anything in my sent box.”
“I know.” Breaker pushes his hand through his hair. “I’m fucking confused.”
“Why? Why are you even bringing this up?”
“I was tipped off by Dave Toney. He said there’s an article coming out tomorrow about you sending an email to a bunch of women, asking if they want to be your date. But . . . but you didn’t send anything.”
“What?” I say, the cool, breezy attitude I had slowly shrinking away. “How the fuck would someone have known that? Is it a fake email?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. But I can’t be sure. Dave sent me the name of the person who tipped him off and I sent them a text, asking for more information.” His eyes meet mine. “I’m not worried about Huxley and Lottie. I’m worried about Kelsey.”
“Well, it’s fucking fake. I didn’t send anything out. The proof is in my email.”
Just then, Breaker’s phone beeps with a message. He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens the text message. He turns the screen toward me and asks, “Then what the fuck is this?”
I bring the phone closer to me and read the email.
Hey ladieeees,
Sending a big old cock of an email because, you know . . . I have a big cock, so this email has to match.
Here’s the thing. Hux is getting married to Lulu Lemon and they told me I need a plus-one. Looking for a willing candidate to escort me down the aisle.
All expenses paid. Promises of pleasure.
If interested, hit me up.
I wear condoms still.
K. Bye.
JP
“Fuck,” I say. “I don’t remember sending this. It’s not in my email. I don’t fucking understand.”
Breaker points to the top of the screen. “It’s not your work email . . . it’s your personal.”
At that moment, I feel all the color drain from my face as I realize he’s right. I never check my personal email, ever. I shove Breaker’s phone at him and open my personal email. I sift through promotional newsletters until I see several responses to my email.
McKayla.
Kenzie.
Hattie.
With every reply, it feels like a nail in my coffin as I try to figure out how to fucking deal with this.
I squeeze my hand over my forehead and say, “Fuck, this isn’t good. Do you know anything about the article?”
“All I know is this email is in it, it mentions the wedding, and, uh . . .” He winces.
“What?” I ask, a ball of twisted, tortured anxiety forming in my stomach.
“Uh, it talks about Kelsey and her business, and alludes to the girls using any means necessary to be successful, including hooking up with the Cane brothers.”
“Fuck,” I yell as I pace the office. “FUCK!” Hands on my hips, I say, “We need to kill it, man. We need to kill that fucking article.”