Page 73 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Cheese and rice,” I say, lowering my sunglasses to look at the photos that people took while we were playing around in the water. “They waste no time posting things, do they?”

“Normally it would bother me,” he says, zooming in on one of them, on me in particular. “But considering how much this is probably burning Conrad up right now, they can take all the photos they want. Catch every side of us.”

“Ugh, but preferably not that side,” I say, shaking my head and looking away from the photo on the screen.

“What are you talking about?” Morgan asks, sounding slightly annoyed. “You post photos of yourself all day long. What’s wrong with these?”

“The problem is, I didn’t take them,” I tell him with a nonchalant laugh in an attempt to wave it off.

“Why does that matter?” he asks, the dreaded photo still displayed in all its imperfect glory on his phone screen.

“Because I take angle shots, that’s why,” I tell him, and Morgan shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“You shouldn’t,” he says.

I laugh at that. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really,” he insists.

“How do you figure?” I ask.

“Because you don’t have any bad angles,” he insists, but I just shake my head again and put my sunglasses back on.

“Whatever you say…”

Even though I am staring out at the ocean, I can feel him staring at me. And it’s not a good stare.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks.

“No offense, Morgan, but I have spent a lifetime fighting these curves and coming to terms with them. It’s kind of hard to deprogram that.”

“Well then, I guess I am just going to have to work harder, aren’t I?” he says and something about his tone tells me he means it.

“I guess so…” I say, trying to sound playful and casual.

Morgan shoves himself up from the chair and then stands over me for a moment. Then he bends down, his arms on either side of the chair, caging me in. Then he kisses me and as he does, his fingertips caress a few strands of my hair behind my ear before trailing down my neck, over my collarbone, over the swell of my breast and down my side until he palms my hip in his hand. The kiss goes momentarily deeper, as his tongue aggressively finds mine. Then he squeezes my ass in his hand and stands up again.

“I’m getting another drink,” he says. “And I thought I told you to call me Mr. Bale.”

I nod instinctively and swallow, a smirk tugging at my lips as butterflies swarm around my heart.

God, this man…

I take my phone out again and check up on things. He’s not wrong. The reviews and comments are great. I’ve actually gained ten thousand followers since the trip started! And while I am elated over that, there’s also a pang of something sharp in my chest. A sinking feeling that seems to grow with every post, every picture, every kiss.

Because none of this is real.

None of this is forever.

And at some point, all of it is going to end.

And the worst part is, I can’t talk to anyone about it. It’s not that I don’t have friends; I do. I make friends everywhere I go. But keeping in touch is hard when you’re never in the same place for long. And it’s not like I can vent about this to just anyone. If anyone is a true confidant in my life, it’s probably Claire. But I definitely can’t talk to her about this. Any of this.

As I scroll through the comments, hoping for the optimism to tug my spirits back up, I get a new DM that catches my eye. Because it’s a travel magazine. A name I know well.

Compass & Coast- Hello Miss Moore. We have been following your account for a while now, and your adventures with Bale Resorts have inspired us. We would like to offer you a travel journalist job if you are interested.

I speed-read the rest of it, mostly because it’s not every day I get job offers like this. I mean, yes, the offer from Bale was huge, but Compass & Coast is huge. They might just be the most popular travel journalism agency on the planet. And they want me?!