“I’m all for letting loose and frolicking and the like, but Natalia was saying how it looked a lot like those pictures from the Playboy Mansion way back when.”

“It wasn’t there,” I say without thinking, not realizing I just gave her a nugget to bite on.

“It was . . . you?” Confusion peppers her voice.

Welcome to the club, Mom.

“I’ll explain later. In the coming days, just remember what I told you the last time we talked.”

“That you’re okay?”

“Exactly.”

“This isn’t sitting well with me.”

“You’re talking to me. You hear that I’m fine. It’s a picture in a bikini in a friend’s backyard. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs.

“Now I do have to go as I have a potential client coming in and need to get ready.”

We end the call on my lie, but I’m so overwhelmed as I scramble to social media, search Gizmo, and see picture after grainy picture of Jase and me in his backyard.

The bottom I was worried about dropping out, does just that.

I can’t look away.

There are pictures of me standing and picking my swimsuit out of my ass. There’s another of Jase sitting beside me. One where he’s turned toward the pool with a huge grin on his face as if I said something funny. The last one is of him kissing me as my hands dive into his hair.

Oh. My.

The same types of pictures I’ve scrolled through and judged before.

“Jase?” I ask as I move through the house, grateful his house staff is gone for the day. “Jase?” This time my pitch escalates and I pick up my pace, almost feeling desperate to find him.

“Hendrix? What’s wrong?” he asks as he steps down the hall where his recording studio is and moves toward me. His brows are knit and tone is laced with concern.

“They know. The public knows.”

“Calm down.” He sounds like the voice of reason. “What are we talking about?”

I shove my phone at him and jab my finger from my free hand at its screen. “There. Right there.”

He purses his lips as he studies them before his lips crawl into a slow smile. “Perfect.”

“Perfect?”

“Yeah. I tried to position us so they’d get a good angle with it.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but the minute they do, I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “What do you mean that you tried to position us for a good angle?”

“My publicist set it up. The tip to a photographer that I had a woman at my house. Where to go to catch a good photo.” He shrugs. “And they did their job.”

“Of me in a bathing suit? You set it all up, planned a paparazzi shoot, and didn’t think to tell me?” I screech.