Chapter 8
sofía
My plunder is neatly folded on the desk in my hotel room, and I admire my treasure. A brand-new wardrobe, including a pair of hiking boots and sandals, was far too much for Jett to buy, but I love each piece. I skim my fingers along the cotton fabric of a flowy blouse.
I haven’t put the gremlin back into her cage yet, and she’s been a solid companion while I edit my sisters’ essays—they don’t know how to use a semicolon, but they love them—and create draft posts for Jett’s social media.
An undetermined but disgustingly long time later, I rip myself from my computer and call it quits for the night, starting my nightly wind-down ritual.
Once my pajamas are on, I slip into the bathroom and unpack my skincare, lining the bottles in order by step.
Oil-based cleanser to remove makeup. Water-based cleanser. Toner. Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream.
While I’m patting my face dry with the softest towel I’ve ever used—hotels over hostels was an incredible idea—Charlie’s contact photo appears on my phone. I answer the call and unscrew the cap to my toner, pouring the liquid onto my fingers, as Charlie’s voice filters through, loud and delighted.
“You’ve gone viral,” she screams, disregarding any greetings.
Huh?
“You’re famous,” she says with equal fervor. Wincing, I turn down the volume before Mateo’s head pops into view.
“Like ‘four million views and climbing’ kind of viral, Sofía.”
Shock courses through me. That’s a lot of people, but not unexpected traction for one of Jett’s videos. He has an incredible, supportive fan base. I pat the liquid into my skin, half paying attention.
I appreciate them bundling me with him—famous by association, I suppose.
“Which one of Jett’s videos is it?”
I know it won’t do much with my small following, but I should repost it anyway.
“It’s not his video,” Charlie says. “Someone recorded you and Jett at the mall while you were trying on clothes. His fan club found it—Did you know he has a freaking fan club? Anyway, people thought it was romantic, and now you’re famous.”
The small bottle of serum slips out of my grip and tumbles onto the porcelain counter. “What?”
She repeats herself, and the shock is as strong as the first time I heard her words. Pausing my skincare, I open Jett’s social media, and the notification section scrolls on forever. There are millions of likes and comments on old posts, and he’s gained thousands of followers.
My throat dries as I open the comment section of the video.
Is this his new girlfriend?
God, I wish I were her.
I tried to get tickets for his new series premiere, but it’s sold out.
The last two words snap the rubber band that is reality, and I bolt from the bathroom, scrambling to open my laptop.
Service was spotty all day, and I’ve spent all evening fixing Maria and Luisa’s egregious use of commas, but when I open the inbox, there are dozens of emails.
People begging for tickets. Superfans inquiring about the status of Jett’s love life and the identity of the mystery woman in the video.
I open the email from the venue I reached out to about hosting a premiere for the first episode of the docuseries. It was meant as a way to celebrate Jett and Doug’s hard work, and I hadn’t expected many people to attend outside of friends and family. I only reserved a single theater.
Sold out. Additional tickets. Multiple viewings.
Holy shit.
I open the event website. All one hundred tickets have been sold, and over two thousand people have added themselves to the waitlist. My head swims. All of this from one video? It’s not making any sense.
The girl from the store. She knew his name. She called him my boyfriend.
The video plays in a loop on my phone. Pushing back the mild discomfort of knowing she recorded us without our knowledge and posted it online, I can admit the video comes off as romantic.
If you closed one eye and squinted the other.
“Sofía, are you still there?” Mateo asks.
“Uh, yeah.”
The comment section is a nightmare of questions, comments, and a few thinly veiled insults aimed at me.
The most popular ones all have the same theme: They want to know who I am and what I mean to Jett.
There are hundreds asking if we’re dating and another hundred that complain that I’ve taken him off the market.
I snort, but then an idea hits me. An insane one, at that, but if we’re looking at it from a purely public relations and marketing standpoint, it might work in our favor.
“Have you read the comments? They’re hilarious,” Charlie says. “One woman said she would fight you in hand-to-hand combat for Jett.” She cackles, sucking in a breath. “Another asked if you had room for a third in your relationship.”
Mateo lets out a low laugh, but the wheels are turning in my mind, and the path leads to one conclusion: We need to use this to our advantage.
“We’re not dating,” I say, surprising myself with how defensive the words come out.
The pause on the other end of the line is loud.
“That doesn’t matter, anyway, not the point,” I continue, eager to fill the silence with chatter.
“Thanks for telling me. See you guys in Cairns. Talk to you later, bye!”
I hang up on them without another word. A message pops up at the top of my screen.
Charlie: Oh, we are definitely talking about whatever that was when I make it to Australia.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
I don’t believe it, not for a second.
That message goes unanswered while I race to Jett’s room. I belatedly realize I’m in my pajamas as I bang on the door.
It flies open, and my jaw slackens.
Jett also wears pajamas, and the soft, stretchy material leaves little to the imagination. Fuck. His shirt sticks to his torso, and when he lifts his arm, resting a palm on the doorframe, the fabric rises, offering a peek of the happy trail that disappears into the sleep pants.
As far as clothing goes, they do nothing to hide the outline of what lies beneath the waistband.
I’ve lost function of my tongue, and now I’m standing in the hallway in my silk set that can’t disguise the way my nipples harden from the cold air, holding my laptop and ogling my boss like an idiot.
The more time I spend with him, the more attractive he becomes. I need him to be ugly for my sanity.
“Sofía, is everything okay?”
I barrel into his room before I can think about the consequences of my actions. The lights are dimmed, and his bedsheets are rumpled and unmade. The consequences bulldoze into me, and nerves grip my chest and tighten.
Retreat!
Any attempt at a clean getaway and gaslighting him into thinking this was all a dream turns to ash when I slam into him, his hands bracketing my hips to steady me. I let out a small squeak, and he rips himself away, taking three steps back like I’ve burned him.
“Viral,” I scream, waving my laptop around like he’ll magically understand. His brow furrows, so I add, unhelpfully, “Sold out!”
Jett perches at the end of the mattress, his gaze roaming over my skin, causing goose bumps to break out along my flesh. I suppress a shiver, clutching the laptop to my chest to hide the effect of his focus on me.
After an eternity, he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you seem pumped about it, and for that alone, I’m in.”
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
“Whatever you want to do, I’m in. If it’s making you smile like that, then I’m down.”
I stumble back in surprise. What does my smile look like?
“I haven’t suggested anything yet.”
“Ah”—he grins like he’s won something—“but you were planning to.”
Like I’ve ignored every other emotion he drags to the surface, I brush aside the flutter in my chest his comment elicits.
Squished, rapid words fly out of my mouth, but he nods along as I explain how we went viral and about the boost in ticket sales for his episode premiere.
I offer him my phone so he can watch the video for himself, and I shift on my feet, waiting for his reaction.
The idea I have is wild, but I want to prove to him I can do this job well.
That I’m worth the salary he offered me and the opportunities to travel and have flexibility in my schedule.
And if it requires a bit of…acting to make the release of his docuseries even larger, then I’ll give an Oscar-worthy performance.
“This is invasive,” he says first, flicking his focus up, then returning to the screen. “I’m sorry this happened.”
“Read the comments,” I urge, before my mind screeches to a halt. “Wait—why are you apologizing?”
“This is a massive invasion of your privacy. I might put my life on social media and open myself up to this, but you did not.” He holds my gaze, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked. “So yes, I am sorry this happened.”
I clock the tight pinch of his brow and how he tracks his thumb along the lines of text. Some comments were highly suggestive about him. Even @Mrs.JettParks is in the mix, speculating and complaining about his potential relationship status.
“They think we’re dating,” he says, his voice like gravel.
“Yes.”
“I can release a statement to clear that up.” The words come out clipped. “They should leave you alone.”
“What? No, don’t do that,” I screech.
A stunned expression meets my reply. Screaming at him was not a logical response here. “You don’t want me to tell people we’re not dating?”
“I want to do the opposite.”
Jett stares at me like I’ve grown another head, and I can’t blame him. What I’m about to suggest could be downright stupid, but it could also lead to success for something he’s passionate about.
In the end, the potential benefits outweigh the costs.
“Sofía,” he mumbles, “I need you to explain.”
“Have you ever heard of a PR relationship?” I ask.
A strand of hair falls from his loose bun when he shakes his head, which is unsurprising.
He doesn’t seem the type. “They’re usually relationships between celebrities to help promote something.
Movie costars will participate in a PR relationship to build buzz around a new release. ”
“People do that?”
“All the time,” I confirm, pausing a beat before adding, “I want to do it, too.”
Jett’s head tips back in laughter, his chest heaving with the force of it. The rumpled covers slip from the bed as he flops back, an arm slung over his face while he gasps for air. His reaction only worsens when I kick his calf, and he rips his legs up and curls into a ball.
“You’re funny,” he chokes out. “Hilarious.”
I glare at him from the front of the mattress. “I wasn’t kidding,” I mumble.
His head snaps up at my tone. “Oh. Really?”
A small insecurity weasels through my defenses, and I find myself asking, “Is it that unbelievable that you would date me?”
The internet didn’t seem to think so.
I shouldn’t care—I shouldn’t—if he finds me up to par, but I can’t help it.
The laughter pressed a button I didn’t expect, drawing haunted memories from past relationships front and center.
Laughed at or dismissed for voicing something, especially if it was something they didn’t agree with.
His response exposed a vulnerability I’d rather hide.
Jett’s in front of me before I can register the movement. So close I can smell the scent of his soap from his shower and catalog the small nick on his jaw where he cut himself while shaving. Close enough that his foot brushes mine, and my skin lights on fire.
So fucking close I have to tilt my head back.
All signs of humor evaporate from his face. “Any man would be lucky to date you. Never question that.”
His finger reaches out, grazing the back of my hand, before he retreats to the desk, saving his work and shutting his laptop. My heart stops and restarts into a sharp, irregular beat before it settles to a pounding rhythm.
With his task complete, I become the object of his intense focus. The skin where he touched me blazes, and I flex my fingers, banishing the sensation.
Jett makes himself comfortable, fluffing pillows and patting the mattress for me to join him. I volley my focus between the empty space and the hem of his shirt bunching at his waist, offering me another rare peek of skin.
The temperature in the room spikes by ten degrees.
Why am I standing at the edge of the bed like an idiot? Say something, Sofía!
“What’s your plan, then? I know you’ve got one.”
I crack open my laptop, careful to keep the screen in front of my breasts.
“I was thinking we could feed into the debate and theories. Post short videos, photos, and stories on your page that could be interpreted as a relationship but don’t explicitly say so.
You have a passionate female fanbase”—a light way to put it—“and I think we can feed into that to drive ticket sales even more for a larger premiere venue and higher streams when you release the docuseries. We could also use it to promote some of your philanthropic work, guiding people to donate to charities you support. One video teasing them, followed by a post about a different organization.”
He absorbs the information, then asks the one question I feared he would. “And what type of things would we need to do to convince them?”
Another asinine idea appears, and I roll with it. Who says I can’t go with the flow? The rapids are dragging me down the river, and I’m lounging on the inner tube, albeit with a white-knuckle grip and a racing pulse.
“We can copy what Molly and Doug do but record it or take photos. They’re the most in-love couple I’ve ever met, so if we can mirror a fraction of that, I think we can sell it.”
Jett hums thoughtfully. “You think it will work?” He pauses, and I incline my head. “Okay, I trust you. Let’s do it.”
I trust you.
Well, if those words aren’t fodder for a perfectionist.
“Should we tell them the plan?” I ask. “See if they have input?”
“Absolutely not.” Jett shakes his head, frantic. “They do not need to know about this.”
“But won’t they figure it out? The video is viral.”
His conviction that they can’t know about the PR scheme sets me on edge. Is he embarrassed by me?
“They don’t have social media. Doug called it a ‘time sucker,’ and Molly kept starting fights in the comment section and got herself banned. Not by the app, but by me.”
Uh, all right.
Well, if he wants to keep it a secret, I can do that.
“You got it. Secret PR relationship.” Laptop glued to my chest, I bolt to the door. “Perfect. Great. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Words leave his mouth, but I’m too far to hear them, which is for the best because I need to annihilate every rogue emotion in my body in order to establish this PR relationship without it becoming weird.
But what I need to happen most expeditiously is for the ghost of his touch to disappear.