If you ask me, I had every right to go after the tortured poet. Every time I saw him with the weird silver-haired girl, they either looked like they were about to kill each other, or they actively tried to sabotage each other’s lives in one way or another. How was I to know there was more to them than just two professionals who weren’t getting along?

Oh, and don’t even try me with the whole sleeping-with-my-boss incident.

Yeah, yeah, I sleep with my single, available, generous, rock-star boss. The one with the huge dick and thirty-two million followers on Instagram. Who wouldn’t? He is effing Ashton Richards!

Besides, since when is it wrong to go after a single, hot man? And when the guy looks like Malachy Doherty, it is legit my duty to try to seduce him.

Also, let the record show that I’m not the worst, most dreadful person in the world.

Just ask my sister, Whitney, who works for Ryner.

She hooked me up with this job, and she knows better than to warn me off my gorgeous employer.

Because I might be sleeping with my boss (technically, I don’t, because I was hired by his manager), but she’s the one having a baby with an English banker who apparently has a girlfriend.

A fancy, hot, photographer girlfriend who has no freaking clue he’s been messing around for months behind her back.

The banker doesn’t even like Whit, but does she care? No. Because he’s going to pay her way through the next nineteen years.

Now that I think about it, Callum Brooks totally fits the bill.

I need to make a mental note to ask Whitney about this. Maybe when she isn’t so emotional and complaining about her sore breasts.

Oh, well. Back to the perfect-husband drawing board I go.

Chapter 17

Present

Rory

Mal conceded to two more days in Greece, but hell if he wasn’t Bitter Betty about it. We’re making the best of it by staying in bed all day, catching up on more sex, more seafood, and more of the sun on our balcony.

We talk about the songs he wrote about me (“How could you not know?” “How was I supposed to? You told me you were never going to sell them. Besides, listening to a hit song and assuming it’s about me? How bigheaded do you think I am?” “Well, your head is a little disproportionally large, but I’ve heard all movie stars are like that, so I suppose you’re in good company.”), listen to music, and use every napkin we get with the room service to sign more contracts between us.

In the unlikely event that we have a fight…we promise not to walk out on each other.