Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes this morning was Dean Mercer. His gorgeous face relaxed, inches from mine. His perpetually smirking mouth, soft and slightly parted. Dark brown hair tousled. Bare, tattooed chest brushing against mine with every slow, even breath.
Even though we fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed, we somehow managed to meet in the middle. His arm anchored around my waist. My leg thrown over his hip. Foreheads nearly touching on the pillow we’re sharing. Mouths so close, all I’d have to do is tilt my chin to feel his lips against mine.
Still want to kiss me, Millie?
Worried that he was going to open his eyes at any second, and catch me staring, I start the process of extricating myself from the bed, moving as slowly and carefully as possible until I managed to work myself to the edge of the bed.
Easing myself over it, I snagged my phone off the nightstand before making my way outside, desperate for some sort of distraction.
The first thing I see is a string of texts from Gwen, the last one sent last night, the time stamp telling me it was sent while I was busy perving out on Dean in the shower. Pushing the image out of my mind so I can function, I read her text.
Gwen: Okay… don’t freak out, but someone posted a video of your Paige and Allister smackdown from a burner account on TikTok a few days ago.
I knew that traditional media would pick up the story.
While I enjoy a certain amount of anonymity as Preston Blackwell’s boring daughter, Page Six is obsessed with Paige now that Delilah Hawthorne is no longer running naked through Central Park and setting nightclubs on fire.
I knew that news of her being involved in a cheating scandal—one that involved me of all people—would be too juicy for them to pass up—but it never occurred to me that one of my wedding guests would take a video of my bout of temporary insanity and post it on the internet.
Me: A video?!?! Who took a video?
Like she’s been glued to her phone for hours, waiting for me to reply, Gwen texts me back within seconds.
Gwen: I don’t know. But they caught almost everything. Aunt Renee is demanding that Uncle Andy launch an FCC investigation to find out who it was. She’s having a full-on meltdown. He told her to go fuck herself. LMFAO
That one makes me laugh. Imagine having the audacity to make demands on the Vice President of the United States. Even if Uncle Andy could do something like that, which I’m not sure he can, he wouldn’t. For our father, maybe—but not for my Aunt Renee.
Gwen: Now Paige is telling everyone that you and Dean have been going at it for years and that she and Allister only started seeing each other after they found out you two were doing it.
Like the texts between the two of them don’t go back for literal years, Besides, Dad asked Dean outright if you two have been sleeping together and he said no.
I guess that answers my question about what my father wanted when he demanded I put Dean on the phone Sunday afternoon.
Me: Dean and I can barely stand each other. I only asked him to come with me because—
Because why, exactly?
Because you went temporarily crazy?
Because you saw him standing there and thought it would be a good idea to mess up his life?
Before I figure it out, another text from Gwen comes through.
Gwen: Holy shit! Have you checked your IG account?!?!?
I’m on Instagram exactly one time a week—every Friday to be exact. I post a picture, usually of my breakfast or the view from my office with some stupid caption, because it’s either that or incur the wrath of Stacey, the family’s publicist.
I know you think it’s okay to let Gwen and Paige do the heavy lifting when it comes to social media but they appeal to a completely different demographic.
You’re smart. Career-focused. There are plenty of women out there who would love to hear what you have to say.
I need you to clock in and start pulling your weight.
After an embattled negotiation, I agreed to one post a week. I chose Fridays because statistically, it’s the best day for exposure and engagement.
It’s only Thursday, so no—I haven’t logged into Instagram and I didn’t plan to until tomorrow.
Backing out of my text messages, I tap the little camera icon on my phone screen and am instantly connected to my account. For a second, I have no idea what Gwen is so excited about. All I see is a picture of last Friday’s morning coffee with the caption rise and shine, attached to the bottom.
It has 950k likes and nearly fifty thousand comments, which has to be a mistake because my likes and comments have never been that high. I don’t even have that many—
Looking at my bio, I nearly choke on my own tongue.
9 million followers.
Last Friday, I didn’t even have one million followers.
Switching back to my texts, I delete the text I was going to send to Gwen and send another one.
Me: What’s happening?
My sister texts me back almost immediately.
Gwen: You’re a fucking ICON, that’s what’s happening. Refresh your account.
Toggling back to Instagram, I check my bio again.
9.5 million followers
Staring at the screen, I count out a minute and hit refresh.
10 million followers.
My sister is right.
Holy shit.
I spent the next hour in a state of shock, watching my social media following swell to nauseating proportions while trying to come to terms with the reason why.
Because someone—presumably a guest at my failed wedding—posted a video of me blasting Allister and Paige before running off with Paige’s boyfriend with the caption, we love a petty queen.
And instead of being angry about it, Dean seems to think it’s funny, and moreover, he wants to run with it.
You really want to make them pay, Princess—that’s how we do it.
Forehead scrunched, I shake my head because he can’t be suggesting what I think he is, can he? “You want to lie and tell people we’re…”
“Fucking?” He flashes me that Dean Mercer grin—the one that says he said it just to make me uncomfortable.
“We don’t have to tell them anything, Macarena,” he says with a shrug.
“All we have to do is post pictures of the two of us, having a good time—maybe a little PDA. People will draw their own conclusions.”
PDA?
Public displays of affection with Dean Mercer?
The thought makes me a little dizzy.
“Why?” I say, because I don’t get it. I don’t understand why Dean would want to help me. “What do you get out of it?”
“It’s pretty simple, Mills.” Dean gives me another shrug. “If being Paige Blackwell’s fuckboy was good for business, being your fuckboy will pretty much build me an empire.”
I remember what he told me in the limo, Friday night. That letting Paige reel him back in, time after time, was nothing more than a marketing strategy.
Being Paige Blackwell’s arm candy is good for business. Every time she posts a picture of us together on social media, my client list doubles.
“I certainly hope you don’t expect bathroom blowjobs as a bonus,” I tell him, forcing my tone to remain calm and cool when I’m suddenly feeling anything but.
Why’s that, Millie? Because you’re suddenly envisioning yourself on your knees in front Dean Mercer while he fucks your throat? Or maybe it’s the fact that the thought of it turns you on.
Like he can read my mind, Dean’s mouth curves into one of those infuriatingly knowing grins of his. “While blowjobs are never expected, Princess—they’re always appreciated.”
“You’re—” Insult bubbling on my lips, I swallow it when Dean cocks his head just enough to let me know he’s ready to pounce, the second I let it fly.
If this exercise in restraint has taught me anything, it’s that I insult Dean a hell of a lot more than he insults me.
“I’m what? Disgusting? Perverted? An asshole?” he asks innocently. “A disgusting, perverted asshole?”
Sighing, I incline my head. “You’re right.”
For s second, all Dean can do is sit there and stare at me. “I’m sorry—” he says, leaning into me from across the table. “Say that again?”
“I said you’re right.” Nearly choking on the words, it takes just about everything I have to keep myself from jumping up and running through the jungle. “Pretending to…”
“Fuck.” That damnable smirk of his makes another appearance.
“Why do you keep saying that?” I gripe at him, suddenly irritated beyond reason.
“Saying what?” He looks at me like he’s confused by the question but I know he not.
“Fuck?” When I blanch slightly at the curse, Dean shakes his head.
“Why aren’t you saying it?” he shoots back on an exasperated chuckle.
“Seriously—there’s nobody else here. It’s just you and me.
No one around to hear perfect Millie Blackwell say the word fuck.
No one but a guy with big dick energy and a dirty mouth who has definitely heard you swear more than once and has the scorecard to prove it, so just say it already—” Dean sits back in his seat, with a smug smile. “you know you want to.”
“You’re oddly invested in my choice of vocabulary,” I tell him, fighting the urge to squirm in my seat.
“No—” Shaking his head, the smirk curved against the corners of his mouth flatten out just enough to tell me he’s taking this more seriously than I’d like. “I’m oddly invested in encouraging you to do and say what you want without worrying about what people are going to think about you.”
“Why?” I ask quietly. “Why do you care?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe because I’ve spent the last two years watching you let just about everyone in your life pigeon-hole you into being someone I know you’re not and it’s finally starting to irritate me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, looking away with a haughty shrug of my own.
“Yes you do, Mills.” I catch movement in my peripheral, a second before I feel his fingers grip themselves around my chin. Using his hold on me, Dean turns my face toward his, forcing me to look at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He’s right.
My whole life, I’ve been obsessed with perception.
The way I’m seen.
The image I project.
As Preston Blackwell’s eldest daughter, I’ve been scrutinized my entire life and until very recently, I’ve been excruciatingly careful about the version of me I allow to be seen.
And maybe I don’t want to be careful anymore.
Maybe that’s why Dean is here.
Why I ran down that aisle, straight for him. Why I asked him to come with me.
Because when I’m around him, I don’t know how to be careful. Because when he’s pushing my buttons and driving me crazy, I forget who I am. Makes it easy for me to be someone else.
It’s not a big deal unless we make it a big deal…
“You’re right.” I admit quietly, my chin quivering slightly in his grip. “Pretending to fuck while we’re here would be mutually beneficial.”
“Fuck me, Milkmaid…” Letting go of my chin, Dean eases himself back in his seat, giving me a slow, sexy smile that almost certainly spells disaster. “But that just might be the dirtiest thing a woman has ever said to me.”