Page 29 of Worth the Scandal
“You’re making a mistake,” he mutters. He gives his opinion loud and clear and I didn’t ask for it, don’t much care for it either.
I pause, turn to him. “Then maybe let me make it. It’s work and coffee, none of your business Cal.”
And I’m out before he can say another word.
Inside the café, two flat whites later…
Asher’s already sitting, black hoodie pulled over his curls, jaw clenched, arms crossed like he’s about to flee.
“Sorry,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. “Got held up just as I was leaving.” I can tell he is unimpressed by my driver this morning and I can’t say I’m stoked about Caleb’s timing either.
He shrugs. “I shouldn’t have asked you here.”
I blink. “Okay… weird opener, but I asked you remember.” Tapping the contract in my hand. The way he’s shrunk himself and is all moody and broody takes me back to the Asher I met after the balcony and the vodka water the one twisted in between my bed sheets who bared all and turned almost into a little boy when he spoke about his father and their difficult relationship. It makes me want to comfort him instantly.
“I’m serious,” he says. “You shouldn’t trust me. I’m not—”
“Stop,” I say, holding up a hand. “I know your reputation. I’ve read the articles about the Rugby leagues ladies’ man. Seen the speculation. Talked to people. I’m still here.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Why?”
“Because I remember the guy who cleaned my apartment while I was passed out from grief and tequila. The guy who held me while I told him my mum had just died. You think I forgot that?”
“Besides I work in PR you don’t think I know when someone is putting on a show, c’mon now—don’t insult me, I’m very good at my job.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you remember.”
“I remember everything,” I say softly. “And not just the good bits. I remember how you listened. I remember the way you looked at me like I wasn’t a project or a pity case. I remember the silence after, and how it didn’t feel awkward. It felt… safe.”
Asher’s eyes drop to the table.
“You told me that night,” I add, “that you didn’t even like football.”
He chuckles quietly. “It’s the truth, probably shouldn’t tell my potential agent that.”
“Oh, I know. But you meant it when you said you were good at it.”
He looks up at me then, really looks, and I feel the gravity between us settle again. Same way it did on that balcony. Like the world’s paused for just the two of us.
“I’m not just here for nostalgia, Asher,” I say, tapping my nails against my coffee cup and straightening in the booth—settling into cutthroat agent mode. “I’m here because I think you’re being mismanaged.”
His brows lift. I’m not sure he was actually expecting business today. Which is a good sign I’m sure, for our personal whatever we are but I’m actually here to help him and help me.
“Your agent has you posting thirst traps like you’re auditioning for Love Island,” I continue. “And maybe it’s working because you’ve got, what, two brand deals off it?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. Protein powder and a hydration brand.”
“Right. That’s the bare minimum for someone with your profile, your stats. You should have Nike, Under Armour, bigbrands. But instead, you’ve got a half-functioning highlight reel and no narrative control.”
I lean in. He shifts in his seat;oh, he likes that.
“I can fix that.”
A pause.
Then his voice drops.
“So, this was a pitch meeting the whole time?”
