Beau angles the phone so he can see it. “You have to click...” He clicks on the photo and it gets larger on the screen. The editing is good on this one, making the water and the moonlight look romantic as hell and more gorgeous than they looked that night. I scan over the photo and open my mouth to tell him to go sleep off whatever he’s high on when I see it.

Me.

In the corner of the photo.

My right shoulder is out of the frame, but you can still see my right hand. I’m standing tall, pulling my swim trunks on, looking at something to the left.

Beau’s right. My dick is on the internet. Full. Fucking. Display.

The secondary truth of this scenario hits me like a wrecking ball. There’s only one person who had access to these photos, and this account.

My brother clicks off the phone, shoves it into his pocket, and raises his glass. “I don’t know what to say in this situation, so...cheers.”

I woodenly clink my glass against his, then drain the whole thing. Beau sips from his glass.

Running footsteps sound outside the door, and Jenny catches herself on the frame.

She’s a mess. She’s wearing lounge pants and a camisole with no bra, and her hair is wild. The chalky white of her face tells me instantly that she did this.

“All right,” says Beau, nodding like we’ve just closed a deal. “This is—I’ll—” He rescues himself with another drink from his cocktail. “Hey, Jenny.” He gives her a half-bow, then scoots out the door behind her and hustles through the bullpen.

Her breath is ragged in the quiet of my office as she steps inside, hands spread in front of her. “It was a mistake.” Her green eyes glisten beneath a sheen of tears.

“Do you fucking think so?” I shove the empty beer glass down on my desk and run a hand through my hair. “How did you do this? You don’t double-check the images before you send them?”

“I do,” Jenny says, the words running close together. “I do. I do. This was really and truly a mistake. I was trying to do the right thing—”

“So you posted a nude picture of me on our company account?” I hiss the words to keep from shouting them. Then her words sink in. “What do you mean, you were trying to do the right thing? Are you saying that posting appropriate images was the wrong thing?”

Color flashes to her cheeks. “I might as well come clean, now that—oh, god.” She buries her faces in her hands.

“Jenny, tell me what’s going on before my brain shuts down.” The things she’s saying aren’t making sense. Coming clean? About what?