Chapter 20
KRISTA
Istood in the lobby of the Mykonos hotel, slathered in so much aloe vera I looked like I’d been dipped in slime. I was seriously contemplating whether murder could be justified under international law.
My skin was on fire. Not a sun-kissed glow. No, this was the kind of burn that came from rage-napping by a pool for three hours after being emotionally dismissed by an infuriating billionaire who couldn’t handle one moment of boundaries. He fed me two daiquiris and then left.
I’d waited for Dash to come back yesterday. Waited like an idiot. When he didn’t, I’d fallen asleep in the sun, and now I looked like a lobster wearing cargo pants. No one bothered to wake me up and let me know I was well done on the front.
The ferry ride to Mykonos had been silent. Dash sat on the opposite side of the deck, sunglasses on, scrolling through his phone. I sat with my laptop, pretending to work while my sunburn screamed and my brain replayed our pool conversation on an endless loop.
I’m not one of your pool models.
Why had I said that? Why had I pushed him away when all I’d wanted was for him to kiss me senseless in broad daylight and not care who saw?
Because I was terrified. That’s why. Terrified of being another conquest. Another name on a very long list. I didn’t want the crew to assume I was just the chick sleeping with the boss. I needed them to take me seriously, and if they thought I was his bed warmer, they wouldn’t.
“We need to go check on the talent,” I said when he strolled into the lobby. I had called him twenty minutes ago. He was clearly making me wait.
Dash barely looked up from his phone. “They’re fine. I’ve been in touch with them.”
“When was the last time you actually checked?”
“Yesterday. They said everything was great.”
I pulled up my phone and showed him the Instagram story I’d been monitoring for the last hour. A video of three models doing shots on what looked like a yacht.
His jaw tightened. “So they’re having fun. They’re allowed.”
“Keep scrolling.”
The next story showed two influencers stumbling through what appeared to be a club, knocking over a table. Someone in the background was shouting in Greek. The comments were already filling with angry locals.
“Shit,” Dash muttered.
“Yeah. Shit.” I locked my phone. “We’re going out there. Now.”
“It’s fine. They’re blowing off steam.”
“Dash, it’s eleven at night and they’re already wasted. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and we need to contain it before someone calls the PR team, or worse, the police.”
He finally looked at me. His eyes traveled over my sunburned face. I thought I saw guilt. Or concern. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s go.”
The pub crawl was being hosted by a local company the Blackwells had contracted to keep the talent entertained. Personal drivers, VIP access to clubs, open bar at every stop. It sounded amazing on paper.
In reality, it was a disaster.
We found them at the third stop on the itinerary.
It was a beachside bar that was packed wall-to-wall with tourists and locals.
The music was deafening. The air smelled like sweat and spilled beer.
Right in the center of it all were our models and influencers, dancing on tables, filming each other.
They were making a spectacle that would have been fine in Vegas but was absolutely not fine here.
I spotted one of the models attempting to climb onto the bar. A very angry bartender was trying to pull her down while she laughed and waved her phone at him, filming the whole thing.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
Dash was already moving toward them, but I grabbed his arm.
“Wait,” I said. “We need a plan.”
“The plan is to get them out of here before they get arrested.”
“And how exactly do you propose we do that? There are at least fifteen of them, they’re drunk, and they’re having the time of their lives. You think they’re going to just come quietly because you asked nicely?”
He looked at me. “What do you suggest?”
I scanned the room, my mind racing through options. We needed to shut this down without causing a bigger scene. Without making it worse.
“The driver,” I said. “Where’s the driver?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You hired him. You should know.”
Dash pulled out his phone and held it to his ear. I watched a model start twerking on some poor guy who looked like he wanted to be literally anywhere else. His girlfriend or wife was glaring at him like she was going to dump his ass then and there. Or she was going to attack the model. Not good.
I pushed through the crowd toward the bar. The bartender saw me coming and immediately started speaking rapid Greek, gesturing wildly at some of the models who were now doing some kind of coordinated dance that involved a lot of hip thrusting.
“I’m so sorry,” I said loudly. “We’re handling it.”
My sunburn was screaming with every movement. The aloe had rubbed off and now I was just raw, angry skin wrapped in a tank top.
“Ladies, let’s go!” I shouted.
They looked at me bleary-eyed. “Hey! Aren’t you the assistant?”
I clenched my teeth together. “Close enough. Let’s go, ladies.”
They didn’t move. Dash found me and touched my arm. I flinched and pulled away. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a driver waiting.”
“We need to shut down the crawl,” I said. “Cancel the rest of the stops. Get the driver to round them all up and take them back to the hotel.”
“They’re going to be pissed.”
“They’re going to be pissed when they get arrested for causing a public disturbance. At least this way they won’t end up in jail or going viral for all the wrong reasons. This looks bad for Blackwell. Negative publicity is not what you want.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, you guys, this place is amazing!” one of the influencers slurred into the camera her friend was holding. “Mykonos is literally the best! Thank you, Blackwell Couture, for this incredible experience!”
She spun around, lost her balance, and face-planted directly into a table.
Dash and I looked at each other.
“I’ll get the driver,” he said.
“I’ll start damage control.”
We split up. I went back inside and started the impossible task of herding drunk models and influencers toward the exit. It was like trying to herd cats. Drunk, beautiful, social media-obsessed cats who kept stopping to take selfies.
“Come on,” I said to one of them. “We need to go.”
“But we just got here!”
“No, you’ve been here for an hour. It’s time to move to the next location.”
That was a lie, but it worked. The promise of somewhere new got them moving. I managed to get about half of them outside before I realized the other half had migrated to the back patio where they’d discovered a hookah bar.
Somehow, I managed to get them to follow me to the door. Dash was loading a half-naked woman into the back of a van.
“I’ve got five more,” I said.
“Get them in,” he said. It took some doing, but we got them in the van. The driver had explicit instructions to get them to the hotel and to their rooms. Dash had given the guy a fat tip to do exactly that. I just hoped like hell they didn’t escape.
“The others are across the street,” I said.
We headed into the club. Our people were scattered throughout.
“Divide and conquer,” Dash said.
I grabbed the next influencer with pink hair and a crop top that barely qualified as clothing. I steered her toward the exit.
“But I haven’t finished my drink!” she whined.
“Leave it,” I snapped.
“You’re mean.”
“I’m aware. Move.”
The bass was so loud I felt it in my chest. Right there in the middle of the dance floor were four of our influencers bumping and grinding on each other. It wasn’t pretty.
I waded into the crowd, my skin screaming with every brush against another body. Someone’s drink sloshed onto my shoulder. I didn’t even care anymore.
“Time to go!” I shouted over the music.
They couldn’t hear me. Or they were ignoring me. Either way, they kept dancing.
I looked around for Dash and spotted him near the bar, trying to extract another model who’d apparently decided the bartender was her soulmate. She had her arms wrapped around his neck.
I turned back to the dancers and did the only thing I could think of. I stepped directly into their shot, blocking the camera.
“Hey!” one of them protested.
“Outside. Now. All of you.”
“We’re making content!”
“You’re making a lawsuit waiting to happen. Move your asses. That’s an order.”
Something in my tone must have triggered their survival instincts because they actually listened. They filed past me, grumbling, but they moved. I herded them toward the door like I was back at West Point dealing with recruits who couldn’t follow basic instructions.
The limo was waiting outside, engine running. The driver looked exhausted. I didn’t blame him.
“In,” I commanded, pointing at the open door.
They climbed in, still filming and laughing. One of them tried to convince me to do a shot with them. They were the most obnoxious humans I had the misfortune of meeting.
Dash emerged from the club with the sobbing model. He loaded them into the limo with impressive efficiency.
“One more stop,” he said to me, his voice tight.
“How many are left?”
“Three. Maybe four. The driver at the last place said they wandered off.”
“Of course they did.”
Twenty minutes later, we had them all rounded up. I watched the last limo pull away from the curb. Thank God.
My entire body was screaming. The sunburn had progressed from painful to unbearable.
Every movement felt like someone was taking sandpaper to my skin.
Sweat was running down my back, my face, pooling in places I didn’t want to think about.
I was dehydrated, exhausted, and so done with the entire situation.
I stumbled toward a lamp post and leaned against it, pressing my forehead to the cool metal. It provided about three seconds of relief before the heat radiating from my skin made even that uncomfortable. Dash had gone back into the club to pay any open tabs.
I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. My head was pounding. I needed water. I needed to get out of these clothes. A cool shower, a soft bed and a dark room with the air-conditioning cranked to arctic levels was the only cure I could think of.
“Krista.”
I looked toward him. “All taken care of?”
“Yep. No damage done. I gave some generous tips to buy their silence. Yes, I threw money at the problem. Please don’t yell at me again.”
He was throwing my words back at me. I deserved it. He stepped closer and scowled.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine. I’m getting a cab and going back to the hotel.”
“You’re really burned,” he said quietly.
“I’m aware.”
“And you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not going to pass out. I just need a minute.”
“Krista, you don’t look good.”
“Thank you. Be a gentleman and get me a cab please.”
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to will away the pounding headache.
He had his phone out. I hoped like hell he was getting me a ride. I was suddenly ready to drop. The dehydration was making my head spin. The exhaustion was making my legs shake. I closed my eyes and counted to ten.
I opened my eyes to find him standing in front of me holding two bottles of water. He twisted the cap off one and held it out to me.
“Drink,” he said.
“Did you get me a ride?”
“Yes. Drink the damn water.”
He sounded angry. I brought it to my lips and drank. I downed half the bottle in one go.
“Slow down,” Dash said, his hand coming up to gently push the bottle away from my lips. “Sip it.”
I wanted to argue and tell him I knew how to hydrate myself. I’d survived worse conditions than this. I didn’t need him playing nursemaid. But the truth was, I did need it. I was suddenly very aware I was not in a good way.