Chapter one
The PR Nightmare
IstrideintothePR firm, heels cracking against the marble like little whip snaps. Heads turn but don’t linger. Everyone’s used to this furious version of me, shoulders hunched and storming in like I own the place. I hold my tablet in a death grip, Jaxon Reid’s scandalous headlines marching across the screen like a hall of shame. A snarl starts in my chest but never makes it past my lips. I’m more of a grinder—slow, methodical, and persistent until every mess is crushed to powder. And I’ve got my sights set on this one.
This isn’t my first image rehab rodeo. Last week it was a diva pop star with a fondness for throwing microphones and insults. Before that, a reality TV trainwreck whose idea of privacy is yelling “no comment” into the nearest paparazzi camera. But Jaxon Reid? Star quarterback with a mouth as big as his ego? He’s a whole new species of trouble. Lucky for him, I’m the best. Lucky for me, I like a challenge.
I dodge a pair of assistants balancing stacks of press kits, one of them wobbling like a Jenga tower in its final moments. I don’t sprint. I don’t skip. I don’t even break stride. I’ve got tunnel vision, the finish line marked “Victory” and me as the gold medalist. The office is its usual chaos, buzzing with ring tones, caffeine jitters, and urgent whispers. But I’ve got a single focus: Mission Jaxon. I duck into my office, fingers flying across the tablet, taking in every cringe-worthy detail. Bar brawls. Nasty breakups. Questionable fashion choices that offend on a cellular level. The internet’s convinced he’s a walking scandal magnet, but I know better. He’s a client.
A deep breath fills my lungs with optimism and air conditioning. My eyes skim the tablet again, assembling a mental flowchart of disaster control. Public apology tour? Check. Sweet charity work with puppies and orphans? Double check. Most importantly: an iron-clad no-dating policy. Except maybe that last one isn’t as iron-clad as I’d like. My brain keeps snagging on it like a needle on a scratched record. The fake girlfriend angle? Yeah, that’s going to be a tough sell.
I reach the door to the meeting room, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of my suit. One last, calming exhale before I dive into the Jaxon-infested waters. He’s trouble wrapped in charm with a side of cheeky smile, but I’m not worried. The thing about chaos? I’m really good at taming it.
I open the door to the meeting room and there he is, Jaxon Reid, shirtless and looking like an open invitation to make poor life choices. His muscles are the “we’re all impressed” kind, sculpted and casually smug, and I force myself to keep my eyes on his. He leans back in his chair like it’s a throne and he’s the reigning monarch of arrogance. My inner professional rolls its eyes so hard, I think they almost make a full rotation. I set my briefcase down with a determination that borders on denial, knowing I’m about to serve him a big, unappetizing slice of PR reality.
“Nice to see you’re settling in,” I say, as sweetly as I can manage without choking on it.
Jaxon smirks, the kind of expression that would be irritating if it weren’t so goddamned charming. “Figured I’d get comfortable,” he says, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
Mind? Me? Never. I clear my throat and channel my most professional self. “Well, if you could put a shirt on before the next time you meet a sponsor, that would be great.” I click open my briefcase and start taking out the presentation materials, arranging them like little soldiers on the table, ready for battle.
He watches me, not the materials, and I’m not sure if that’s annoying or flattering. “Let’s get right to it,” I say. “We’ve got some serious work to do.” I launch into the presentation, my words clipped and efficient.
Jaxon listens, or at least does a decent job pretending. “We’re looking at a three-part plan. Not in order,” I say. “You’re going to get involved with some charity work. Genuine, camera-ready, heartwarming stuff. Think soup kitchens, youth programs.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe a bake sale? With cookies shaped like footballs?”
“If it helps,” I say, not taking the bait. “Then there’s community engagement. Show them you’re not just a quarterback, but a team player off the field, too.”
Jaxon nods, his expression half-amused, half-intrigued. “And the third part?”
This is where it gets sticky. I pause, just for a moment, before diving in. “To counteract the playboy reputation, we need a steady girlfriend in the public eye. Someone who can convincingly rein in the bad-boy image.” My voice doesn’t betray the skepticism I’m screaming internally.
He leans forward, catching me in the beam of his too-blue eyes. “A fake girlfriend, huh? And where do we find one of those?”
I shift in my seat, maintaining my composure. “That’s what you’re paying me to figure out.”
His smile is a slow, deliberate thing. “Seems like the simplest solution is right in front of us. You.”
The word hangs between us like an unanswered question. Or a bomb about to go off. “Me?” I keep my voice steady, my expression neutral. But inside, it’s chaos. My instincts shout “RUN!” while my professional brain goes, “Well, maybe...”
He doesn’t give me a chance to think it through, pushing on. “Who better? You know the plan. You won’t fall for my charms. It’ll be strictly business.”
His suggestion simmers in my head, bubbling over into a full-on stew of confusion and doubt. My lips form a tight line, my last defense against the whirlpool of thoughts. “This isn’t what I do, Jaxon. I’m a PR specialist, not a...a... performance artist.”
Jaxon’s grin only widens, as if he’s relishing the challenge. “Come on, Tori. Think about it. Who better to keep me in line than the woman who’s already got me on a tight leash?”
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, and I silently curse my traitorous body. This is not the time to get flustered, especially not by Jaxon Reid’s charms.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I manage to say. “But I really don’t think it’s appropriate. We need to find someone else, someone who can convincingly play the role without any...complications.”
“Complications?” Jaxon echoes, his brow arching. “Tori, you wound me. I thought we were better friends than that.”
I take a deep breath, trying to regain my composure. “Mr. Reid, I’m here to do a job. And that job does not include playing your girlfriend, fake or otherwise.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel him looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. I know he’s not going to let this go. He’s used to getting what he wants, and right now, what he wants is me.
His gaze never wavers. It’s as if he sees something I don’t, something beyond logic and caution and all the neat little lines I’ve drawn for myself. “Then maybe it’s time you expand your resume,” he says. His voice is playful, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes, an insistence that starts a tiny, treacherous spark of hope inside me.
