Natalie turned the monitor, showing me a social media post. The photo on the screen wasn’t from the wedding, though. My arms wrapped around Wes’s neck and his at my back. It was in the park after our first run together outside. “Someone posted this photo, and one of their followers recognized you from Body FTW.” I scrolled through the comments, my heart pounding.
KDRuple7: Did you see this? Someone claiming to be her friend said they’re sleeping together!
AmbreAmbre: “The coaching for FitMi is incredible.” Some might say he leaves you . . . breathless? Kudos, girl. I’d sleep with him if I had the chance, too!
Harper98Lions: Looks like Britta was more interested in another body. @FitMiFitness, how many of your other coaches are seducing lonely clients? Damn, this was back in spring! #MakeBrittaSweat
Lydia.Frank: Girl, you really are living your @BestLife.
Jfil48: That @FitMiFitness coach is fucking hot. Too bad I’m not thicc enough for him!
SPHunt: @FitMiFitness just posted a few minutes ago. Anyone want to read their policy on not screwing clients?
LittleHippoMom: @FitMiFitness must be struggling if they have to resort to this for clients. Whatever they pay that coach, it’s not enough. #MakeBrittaSweat
GGMikeXX: @BestLifeBritta, want to do a story on insurance agencies next? I’m just saying I’m available for an “interview.”
Shame, anger, frustration, and helplessness rose in me as the replies kept populating. That wasn’t even a careless moment—it was a beautiful moment, and I felt violated seeing it on the screen.
I looked up, panic-stricken, to meet Natalie’s gaze. “How did they know?”
“What were you thinking, Britta? And how could you not tell me?”
“It . . . it just happened this weekend.”
Natalie looked at me like I had two heads, both of which were shoved up my own butt. “So, it’s true? You’re sleeping with the coach whose company you’ve been reviewing and promoting for months?”
“Not until this weekend,” I clarified. “We were friends before. This picture is innocent.” At the time, I’d brushed off the notion that Wes wanted to kiss me, but seeing the photo now, even without seeing his face, I was sure he did.
Natalie stared at me, eyes like steel, and pointed to the screen. “Believe me. It does not look innocent.” Finally, she rubbed her temples. “This is a nightmare. Body FTW, which has been tremendously profitable for us, now looks like a sham, and the coach looks like a sleazy dick, which he probably is.”
“He’s not,” I insisted.
“You need to tell me everything so I can advise Maricela on how we’re handling this.”
I slapped my hand to my mouth. “Oh, God! My post from Saturday . . . it’s about sex.” My face burned at the memory of happily discovering sex was in the FitMi list of exercises and writing about it.
“I deleted it, but not before thousands of people viewed it.” The landline on her desk rang. “You screwed us here, Britta.” Natalie picked up the receiver and spoke without preamble. “Hey . . . she’s here.” She cut her eyes to me, and I dropped my gaze to stare intently at my hands.
I itched to text Wes. This couldn’t bode well for him, and the last thing I wanted was to be another woman who let him down. Over the weekend, we’d been lost in each other physically, but in those still moments, holding each other, he’d opened up. Wes had told me more about his mom and sister, about his ex and what had happened with them. He’d looked so relieved to talk about it, like he was releasing a pressure valve. My stomach sank at the idea of him closing that valve back off.
Natalie’s conversation continued. “Who’s the coach?”
I swallowed, realizing she didn’t know, that Wes’s identity wasn’t out there yet.
“Mason, your guy’s inability to keep his dick in his pants around a client got us into this mess. Give me a name,” she said, like I wasn’t in the room. “Yes, my reporter didn’t keep it in her pants, either. Do you really want to play semantics right now?” She was silent for a moment and cast me sideways glances.
She dropped the ear set into the cradle forcefully. “They’re closing ranks. Who is your coach?”
I swallowed. I needed to talk to Wes, to protect him from this. My name was tied to it, but his wasn’t. “Just . . . a coach. It doesn’t matter.”
“Why do I even bother?” she muttered under her breath. “Without a face for him, this is all on you. The public isn’t kind, and hashtag MakeBrittaSweat is only the beginning. FitMi wants to deny it, and I’m inclined to agree. But otherwise, you need to play up the he-took-advantage-of-me-when-I-felt-ugly angle or something. You’re a good writer, so I’m sure you could spin a convincing tale.”