Page 32 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

Authentic. And her followers know it. They comment on it, heart it, share it. Her life is viral. Contagiously so. It’s why she would be perfect for this job. If she can portray Bale Resorts with the same authenticity as she does her other endeavors, no amount of spitefully written anonymous articles will be able to touch our reputation.

No, it’s all very fortunate. Fortunate enough to seem ironic. Ironic enough to be suspicious.

Especially considering the article came out shortly after that night at the Sapphire. Of course, it’s entirely possible there was more than one journalist at the resort.

But a travel blogger?

The bucket list book should have made that much obvious.

Surely she wouldn’t write a review like that after a night like that. Right?

I wipe my hand down my face, trying to connect the dots when suddenly my office door flies open.

“Goddammit, Donovan, when are you going to learn how to knock?” I snap, bolting upright.

“You have a lock,” he says. “Use it if you want privacy. But when you hear what I have to tell you, I think you’re going to be glad I came in here.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions right now,” I tell him, rubbing the knot forming in the back of my neck.

But Donovan ignores me. He’s also lacking his usual salt in his tone, which tells me whatever he has to say is serious.

Awesome. Just what I need. More shit to deal with.

“Two things,” he says, handing me his tablet. “One. There’s another article.”

“Another article?” I echo. “About Bale?”

“Mostly about you.” He grimaces, pointing at the tablet with his eyes. Then he continues to talk as I read. “Apparently someone saw you leaving the Sapphire.”

“So what? I was alone,” I say, scrolling through the article. But then I come to a screeching halt on one of the photos.

“When you left, yes. But before you left, someone else left. A woman…”

I don’t need the narration at this point. It is a woman. It’s Scarlett. Leaving the executive suite not long before me.

“So what?” I ask. “Am I not allowed to have a personal life? In my own hotel?” I’m trying to brush it off as nothing, even though I know as well as he does that it doesn’t look like nothing. It looks bad.

“It looks bad,” he says what I am thinking. “It looks like you sleep around,” he says.

“Okay? A lot of rich CEOs sleep around,” I snap back.

Donovan sighs, taking his glasses off. “It looks like you’re fucking your guests, Morgan,” he states, and I bite my lips with a scowl. “Which, considering everything else right now, looks bad. Are you?”

“Am I what?” I spit out.

“Are you fucking your guests?”

“I don’t think that’s anybody’s business,” I state.

“And yet they’re going to talk,” he says.

“They don’t know the whole story,” I say. “Or who she is, or why she was there.”

“So they’re going to make up their own story, decide who she is, and assume why she was there. You know, it would look a lot better if you weren’t single.”

I scoff at that. “I’ve been single for a long time,” I say. Honestly, that’s an understatement. I haven’t been in a serious relationship since I was in my early twenties. And even then, it wasn’t all that serious. I mean, I was in my twenties. The idea of adding a permanent plus-one to my life sounds even more exhausting than all the shit I’ve already got on my plate.

“This girl,” Donovan goes on. “From the hotel. Who is she?”