Page 81 of Worth the Scandal
More than I should.
More than I can say.
7:12 PM – The Crab Claw Bar, The Rocks Sydney
He walks in like he owns the block, I expect nothing less.
Justin Moore, NBL star, walking headline, human flame. He’s the kind of man who turns a room into an audience. White tee, black bomber jacket, sneakers that probably retail for the price of a used car. He doesn’t just enter—he arrives. I know, I know what you’re thinking—Asher. But this is strictly business it only ever will be with Justin.
“You clean up alright, Scar,” he says, pulling me into a one-armed hug. “You tryna pitch me or distract me?”
“Both,” I smirk, sliding into the stool across from him. “We’ve got a brand to build.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, waving the server over. “Let me guess—tuna tartare, oysters, overpriced cocktails?”
He orders for both of us, of course. Spicy margaritas. Seafood. Something blackened and expensive. He’s charming in that exhausting, God-tier athlete way—quick to laugh, quicker to disarm. We’ve worked together for years, but this is the first time it’s just the two of us in the wild.
He already knows about Asher, “Mr Football” as he calls him. I didn’t hide it. He teases sometimes, flirts just to keep things interesting, but he’s never crossed a line. Tonight’s no different—he’s magnetic, but his eyes stay respectful. Mischievous, but safe.
Halfway through the meal, someone approaches our table.
“Mr. Moore?” A young guy, high school age, clutching a Kings cap like it’s holy. “Sorry—I’m a huge fan. Could I get a photo?”
Justin grins, stands up, signs the kid’s hat, and throws an arm around his shoulder. The camera flashes. Two other tables lift their phones to sneak pics, they probably don’t know who he is but know he must be famous.
When he sits down again, he shrugs like it’s nothing. “Man can’t even eat caviar without going viral.” He loves it, the smirk on his face says it all. Justin Moore was made for this life.
“You should be thanking them. That visibility’s what’s getting us the Underarmour deal.”
“Speaking of,” he says, wiping his mouth, “they want a commercial where I give a pair of custom sneakers to a CGI version of my younger self. I can’t.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Too forced. What if instead, you hand them out to real kids? From your old neighbourhood. No green screen. Real community. You’re from out west yeah?”
His brow lifts. “Damn. You’re good.”
“I’m building something real,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “It has to matter.”
He watches me. Not in a flirty way—just curious. “You always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Fire on the outside, heartbreak on the inside.”
I laugh, but it lands heavy. I lift my phone, trying to shake the feeling, and snap a quick picture of the table. Our drinks. The seafood. A soft glow from the candlelight. Justin’s hand is visible in the corner of the frame—tattoos, watch and casual power. It wasn’t intentional I swear, I’m sure there’s been photos of us circulating talking business since I’ve been back.
I post it. No caption. Just the vibe.
“Let me guess,” he says, watching me. “Part of the aesthetic?”
“You’re the illusion,” I reply. “The brand is curated chaos.”
“And what’s the truth?”
I hesitate. “The truth is I’m here trying not to fall apart. And hoping he notices.”
“He will,” Justin says, no doubt in his voice. “And when he does, he’s gonna lose his damn mind.”
11:44 PM – Scarlett’s Apartment, Bondi
