Me and Asher… we’re still in a weird place. Are we or aren’t we? We haven’t had time to have the conversation. We had a chaste kiss yesterday. He saw me in my underwear today. He basically invited me back to his apartment…

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to spend the night with him.

God, Olivia, you’re so weak.

A guy puts his mouth on your boobs one time and suddenly he’s all you can think about?

Even after said guy slammed your heart in his front door?

Start thinking with your head instead of your lady parts!

When I get to the office, the elevator crawls to the fourth floor. Will Asher be more excited to see me or the crêpes?

It better be me.

Because crêpes don’t kiss the way I do.

I’m stopped in front of his office when I realize the joke’s on me. Because apparently me and my crêpes don’t kiss as well as Bree does.

She has Asher pushed against the wall, her lips on his and her hands in his hair. She didn’t trip. His lips didn’t break her fall. They’re kissing.

Bree and Asher.

Kissing.

The plate shatters at my feet. There’s Nutella on my shoe. And Asher is raw-lipped when he pushes Bree away.

“Olivia,” he says.

Bree can’t even look me in the eyes.

It’s like she’s embarrassed or something.

But the only person who should be embarrassed is me. Because I put Asher on a pedestal when I shouldn’t have. And I trusted Bree when I was warned I shouldn’t.

“Ana’s looking for you,” I say and then I leave with what little dignity I have left.

Asher’s face is the last thing I see before the elevator closes.

* * *

I’m on the subway, drying my eyes with a napkin from McDonalds, when I get the notification from the New York Post.

The gasp I make wakes up the homeless man sleeping in the seat in front of me.

WHEN HOLLYWOOD’S TRIPLE THREAT, LEVI BOOKER, BECOMES AN ACTUAL THREAT: NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENTS, DRUGS, AND SEXUAL ASSAULT

Victim testimonies and how his team of accomplices worked to protect him.

—by Asher McGowan

17

I’m stress-eating stuffed French toast at a Cuban diner with Emanuel. We can’t refresh Twitter fast enough. It stalls and freezes, greeting us with an error message with every flick of a finger.

Asher broke the internet.

And my heart.

But that’s not really a top priority right now.

Because we can’t even get to our office building. Reporters have taken the entire block hostage. It’s all flashing cameras and journalists asking questions and demanding answers. It’s our PR firm’s living, breathing nightmare.