Page 32 of Worth the Scandal
“Now what’s news with you two?” Pointing between them as I down the rest of my Shiraz.
“Well, I may have my eye on a player myself” Shell lets out through a squeal.
Jen’s eyes round wide “Tell me it’s Collins”
“Nope”
Hmmm “Jace?” I guess, I did the see the way they were eyeing each other off at the Golden Sparrow.
Shell raises her finger up over her lips in a shh motion.
“I don’t kiss and tell”
I scoff and smile “oh but I’m expected to?”
“Okay okay fine you’ve twisted my arm, we haven’t kissed yet, but I know we will” We all break out in laughter and spend the next hour and a half catching up, eating delicious pasta, and trying the different red wines on the menu.
Chapter Twelve - Asher
I hate meetings. Especially ones where I’m about to tell the man who takes 20% of my brand deals that I’m considering signing with someone else. Withher.
I sit in the back booth of the protein bar across from the gym, hoodie pulled low, hat even lower, trying to look anonymous—which is hilarious in a town like Dawson’s Ridge. The café sighting really threw me and probably everyone in there too because it’s been a rare sighting to see me anywhere in public since all the crap went down.
Across from me, Darren Wexley is pretending to give a shit. Not that I expect much less from the man whose game plan during the fall out was—hide, relax, just switch off your phone it’ll blow over. Man knows nothing about small towns that’s for sure.
He’s on his phone, half-listening, tapping through Instagram stories he probably scheduled for my account. Ones of me shirtless in a Ridgebacks hoodie pulled up to one side with the caption: “Put in the work. Stay in the silence. Let the results speak.”
Cringe.
He’s been using my abs as a scandal scapegoat for what well over 12 months now.
I clear my throat.
“I’m thinking of switching agents.”
He looks up like I told him I was growing a second head. “What?”
“I haven’t made a decision yet. I just… wanted to be honest.”
His expression twists. “You can’t switch. You’re locked in with me for another six months minimum. There’s a clause in your brand management contract—we still have deliverables. Metrics. You break it, I get damages.”
Right. The clause. I remember the page. The legalese. The price of being too damn exhausted to read the fine print when your life is on fire and someone promises to “take care of everything.” Which we just discussed he did not.
“I’m not trying to break anything,” I say. “Just giving you a heads-up. You’ve been more focused on turning me into a thirst trap than building a long-term career.” I mimic Scarlett’s words. She’s so smart, she’s right she is good at her job.
“I’m not a protein-shilling influencer—I’m a footy player.”
He sighs. “And you’re hot. Stupid hot, you know how rare that combo is? You’ve got girls lining up for pictures outside the gym, man. You’re a brand. That’s what we do.”
I stand. He’s pissing me off, take out your headphones and listen you fucking tool.
“That’s not what I do.”
I leave him mid-sip of his overpriced matcha, pushing open the gym doors just in time to be swarmed by what feels like every woman in Dawson’s Ridge between the ages of sixteen and forty-five. Two outings to the strip in one day, they probably think it’s Christmas.
“Oh my god, it’s Kingston!”
“Can I get a pic? My sister’s obsessed with you!”
