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CHAPTER 26
Brian
Are you trying to kill me?
I reread the text from Parker Adams, our head of PR.
For the record, I do not need this.
It’s been a week since Jules moved in, and she’s been avoiding me like roller food at a gas station. But, fuck me, she’s so close that no matter where I go or what I do, I can’t escape her.
Her light giggles hit me when I least expect it, and that scent—like peach blossoms and home with just a hint of citrus—follows her damn near everywhere she goes, lingering in every room she leaves just enough to taunt me.
And then there’s the constantclick-click-clickof her fingers on a keyboard, a relentless drumbeat she’s never without because she is always,alwaysworking on something. I swear, the way things are going, that laptop will get more hand action from her than I ever will.
But here’s the thing—that doesn’t actually bother me.
Jules has been chasing the dream of being a writer since eighth grade, starting with a blog about indie musicians and obscure bands she discovered before anyone else.
By fourteen, she’d scraped together enough money to swap pen and paper for a keyboard and never looked back.
And deep down, I know nothing makes her happier than pouring every last word onto the screen. It’s her obsession, her escape. Her passion.
So, I don’t complain. Not about any of it. But damn, every reminder of her—whether it’s the way she bites her lip while she types or her perpetual fascination with my vintage running tees, which I know she’s been stealing from the dryer to sleep in—the woman has me taking cold showers three times a day just to keep myself in check.
The truth? If I have her this close for much longer, every last ounce of my restraint and self-control will snap.
I step into my office. Instantly, Parker repeats her text, out loud. “Are you trying to kill me?”
I point a finger at her. “Attempted murder is a serious accusation, Parker.”
She crosses her arms, utterly unimpressed. Parker’s been with the company for years—a no-nonsense ball buster who takes no prisoners, ever. Her entire PR team is already gathered around my conference table, their faces drawn tight with stress.
I brace myself, expecting her to start with,“You got married?”
But instead, she flips open a stack of papers, revealing a tabloid with my face splashed across the front page.
The headline makes my head explode.
Brian Bishop:
Playboy Billionaire or Corporate Saboteur?
What the fuck?
Below it, there are pictures of me with Roxana Voss, looking way too cozy for comfort. It was taken at the restaurant, probably by a patron or one of the staff. The article insinuates everything from a love triangle to corporate espionage.
All I can think is thank God, none of the kids are in the shot. Harrison would have my balls hanging by a tight thread.
“This is bullshit,” I growl, feeling my temper rise. “We’re going to sue Roxie Voss and her entire company.”
Parker’s eyes flash with controlled fury. “There’s just one problem. Ms. Voss didn’t write this.”
“What?” I flip to the byline, my stomach dropping when I see the name: Sydney Sun. Next to it, that damn vixen image that’s practically seared into my brain.
First, she hero-worships me. Now, she vilifies me.
My blood simmers, rage bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. Because I’ve officially crossed the line from wanting to kiss her to wanting to crush her.
