Page 35 of Salvaged Hearts

It was a meticulously arranged image, made to look candid with grain and a slight blur, shot through a plant and patio table as we exited the limo. Me, in a sophisticated white dress, hair professionally styled—a girl could get used to the decadence of being pampered every day. Greyson wore a signature navyArmani suit, the jacket tossed over his arm, where he’d unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to the elbow. The top button of his shirt was undone, giving him a dashingly debonair yet disheveled vibe that generally came with being relaxed. Not that the man knew that word. He sure pulled it off for the camera well enough, though.

Greyson’s hand was at the small of my back, his eyes on the side of my face with deceptive endearment, lips subtly upturned in a cocky little smile. My left hand—now sporting the world’s most ridiculous sapphire and diamond engagement ring—was adjusting flashy sunglasses that concealed the anxiety eating my soul for dinner. Social media sites lost their mind, with speculations that the rock was larger than Kate Middleton’s.

Royal American wedding, indeed.

By the time Friday came back around, there wasn’t a gossip rag or newspaper worth their salt that hadn’t printed headlines about the illustrious Greyson Hart, speculating that he was the one who’d put the rock on my finger. However, we’d yet to confirm to any member of the mob of paparazzi now planting roots in the sidewalk outside our homes and office building.

The next step? An official announcement. Which was why I now had a posse of assistants working on my face and hair like a hive of freakishly proficient bees. Their mission? Wrangle my thick, two feet of hair into a posh updo I’d never electively don, paint my skin into the perfect vogue-worthy contour that would make me look more like a skeleton than a human female because pronounced cheekbones are a fashion requirement, not a sign of malnourishment. They’d also buffed away my dip nails because my usual bold fuchsia was too much of a statement, while French tips would supposedly tell the world this small-town Alaskan had some semblance ofclass.

I wanted to be mad as I was plucked, groomed, and tweezed within an inch of my life, but the publicists had been my idea, ashad the photo at the bistro. I’d been spinning the media for this man’s clients for years. Now, it was his turn.

The persistent buzz of my phone drew the first sigh from my lungs as my stylists—Lina and Sandra—leaned back to survey their handiwork. Lina arched a light ginger brow as she asked, “Need to get that?”

“No,” I breathed back. I knew who was calling, and she wasn’t about to stop.

“She’s just going to show up,” Leighton drawled ominously from where she was perched in one of two armchairs like an irritated cat. I was almost entirely certain she hadn’t turned the page in her thriller in at least thirty minutes.

She knew the bulk of Greyson’s proposal, though not the entirety. Whatever madehis extracurricularsworth hiding below mountains of code wasn’t likely something I wanted my baby sister involved in. Personally, I highly suspected some sort of mercenary operation, although what mission would twist Greyson Hart into such a tightly wound knot, he risked his family empire…I hadn’t figured out. Even as it was—mysterious operation aside—Leighton didn’t hide her disapproval, and I couldn’t blame her.

Lying to our family? That might just kill us both.

Worst of all? She was right.

“Maybe,” I amended apologetically. My eyes darted to Elora’s name, where a picture of us from her wedding illuminated my screen. Our big sister was a formidable force of nature—entrepreneur turned business coach, turned best-selling author, and soon-to-be reality television host. We usually talked almost daily.

Aweekof radio silence would have her foaming at the mouth. A week of radio silence while the media created a frenzy around my alleged engagement?

I blew every scrap of tense air from my lungs to my cheeks. The fact that the woman hadn’t flown across the country and barged in here in a gorgeous pencil skirt, three-inch heels, and a bold blazer was a freaking miracle.

“I know,” I mumbled, bracing myself. With a pained sigh, I swiped my phone, slid the answer button before I could talk myself out of it, and brought it to my ear.

“Alessandra Lennon Rhodes.Where have you been?”

“Right here, sissy.”

As if she didn’t hear me, she bulldozed on, “What in thehellis going on? Mom, James, Rhyett, and I have been calling you forfour days. Leighton only gives us one-word answers when she bothers to pop onto the thread and refuses to answer questions about this PR nightmare. So help me god, if that no good, narcissistic miscreant has had you in that office this whole week trying to cover up these bullshit rumors spurred on by his lecherous hand on your body, I will personally see to it that the fish are particularly well fed this week.”

The longer Elora snarled, the broader Leighton’s smirk inched up her face, making me think ofThe Grinch—you know, the cartoon version where his hair uncurls with his smile.

“Oh good,” I breathed when she finally took a beat to inhale. “So, you’ve seen.”

“The engagement fodder?Yeah. I think the entire country has seen—congratulations on the debut of your face on every news column in the nation, by the way. So much for keeping a low profile as his assistant. What the hell do these people get off on, anyway?” Before I could answer, she snorted, then scoffed, “Never mind. Nobody with a life worth living wastes their time following around people actually doing something. Pathetic batch of parasites. Now. Why didn’t you tell me Greyson’s been sexually harassing you for years? How have I not seen these photos?”

I grimaced but kept my voice even. “It’s not harassment if it’s consensual, sissy.”

“Consensual?!” she barked, voice reaching a decibel only dogs could hear as she pressed, “Those photos were from years ago—your hair was half a foot shorter. What business couldyour bosspossibly havetouchingyou? Holding your hand? Andgirl—the hand on the lower back thing all the time? What the fuck.”

As it turned out, we had multiple images to choose from in that department. I’d been so busy resenting the man I hadn’t noticed how often he guided me through crowds while I dug through folders in my case or hashed out details of a campaign with our admin. “He was helping me out of the car, Elly.”

“Helping you—” her protest was cut off by choking like she’d inhaled saliva, which honestly was probably close to the truth. This was all bad. What in the hell was I thinking, signing on to help him, much lessmarrythe bastard?

“Relax, sissy. Stress isn’t good for the baby.” Low blow to use my unborn nephew as a shield? Maybe. But he might be the only thing to get through to Elora Rhodes-Allen on a warpath.

Still coughing, she bit back, “Neither is an auntie that goes AWOL when the press has a field day spinning bullshit about her.”

Holding my hand up, I scrunched my face in a grimace, asking the girls for a minute. Lina and Sandra both walked away. Sighing, I responded, “It’s not bullshit, sissy.” The line went so suspiciously quiet that I double-checked to make sure it hadn’t disconnected. When her voice came through again, it was in the territory of a growl.

“What’s. Not. Bullshit. Alice?”

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