Page 77 of The Puck Contract

"Please," he gasps, all academic vocabulary abandoned. "Ansel..."

The sound of my name on his lips sends another jolt through me. I hook my fingers in the elastic, ready to finally, finally taste him.

That's when my fucking phone rings, splitting the charged atmosphere like a thunderclap.

"Ignore it," Mateo says immediately, hands tightening on my shoulders.

I fully intend to do just that, returning my attention to the task at hand, but the ringing stops only to start again ten seconds later.

"Fuck," I growl, pushing myself up. "They wouldn't call twice unless it's important."

Mateo yanks the blindfold up, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light. "At least hurry, then," he says, voice tight with frustration.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, checking the screen. Sophia. Because of course it is. The universe has a fucking vendetta against my sex life.

"This better be an actual emergency," I snap as I answer.

"It might be," Sophia replies, voice clipped and professional. "Jason Miles is writing an exposé on your relationship with Mateo."

Ice floods my veins. "What?"

"He's claiming he has sources confirming his suspicions."

I turn away from Mateo, lowering my voice. "What sources?"

"I don't know, but I've got the PR team working on it. We need to get ahead of this. Is Mateo with you?"

I glance over my shoulder. Mateo has pulled the sheet over his lap, watching me with concerned eyes. "Yes."

"Good. Keep him there for now. I'm sending over some talking points just in case. If Miles calls either of you, do not answer. Understand?"

"Yeah," I say, mind racing. "I understand."

"I'll call back if I have any updates. Groover?"

“Hm?”

“Try not to worry too much. He may be bluffing.”

She hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, trying to process what this means, what happens if the truth comes out. Everything we've built, the fragile whatever-this-is between us, could shatter.

"What's wrong?" Mateo asks, voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts.

I look at him—all tousled hair and worried eyes—and make a split-second decision I'll probably regret.

"Nothing important," I lie, setting the phone face down.

"Come on," he says flatly. "Your entire body just tensed up like you're heading into overtime of game seven."

I hesitate, caught between truth and protection. If I tell him, he might panic, might want to end things before they've really begun. But if I don't tell him, and he finds out tomorrow from some sleazy reporter's exposé...

My phone buzzes with a text. I glance down to see Sophia's message: "Might be fake news. Source unreliable. Sit tight."

That's all I need to make my decision.

"Just PR bullshit," I say, tossing the phone onto the nightstand with a decisive clatter. "And it can absolutely fucking wait."

Mateo narrows his eyes, clearly not buying it. "Ansel—"

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