Page 62 of Mr. Wicked

When they found out the mystery man was Grayson Tanner, I suspected those keyboard warriors would remind me that he’d had a giant orgy with six women on a yacht. That he had a reputation for being Boston’s Biggest Bachelor and he’d never settle down, even with me. That I was just after his money and his clout.

And when the divorce came, I could only imagine what they would say then.

The thought made me sick to my stomach.

“Is that what you’re calling me? Mystery Man?”

I took out my phone and aimed it above his hand. “Or Dick. I’m happy to use that. Just tell me which you prefer.”

His head shook while he hissed out several beats of air.

I smiled even though he probably couldn’t see it. “Don’t move.” I pointed the phone at various angles, taking enough shots that I’d have plenty of options. “I’m good. You can have your hand back.”

I expected him to immediately leave my thigh. He needed his hand to shift, after all, so even if he wanted to keep it there, he couldn’t.

What I didn’t expect was for him to not be in a hurry, to hold me for a count of three, to squeeze before he pulled away, the heat from his palm building to the point of sweat.

Normally, I’d have a sassy comment that I’d shoot off in his direction.

But I said nothing, scrolling through the library of photos, trying to get my mind off the way he’d just made me feel, how my skin instantly missed him now that he was gone. Each picture showed his rolled-up sleeve, the pattern on the cuff of his shirt, the dark hair that peeked out on his forearm. And just enough of my lap so that the viewers could tell I was showing them my thigh and the important placement of his hand.

I chose the best one and added my usual set of filters.

Cropped.

I then created a post, typing the following: Him.

I debated over an emoji and went with the red heart.

Oh God.

I filled my lungs, holding the air in as I clicked the button to share the pic. “Done.” I exhaled.

His stare made me take another breath. “It’s posted?”

“Yep.”

“Are people responding already?”

My notifications were exploding, box after box appearing on my screen, an equal rotation of likes and comments. “Oh yeah. They’re freaking out aaand ...” I halted as I came across the first bit of nastiness, a woman telling me that my dress was far too short, and it was no wonder I’d landed a man. “Man, people can be ugly. I can’t read any more.”

“What did they say?”

“It was about me. Not you.”

“Do you normally get a lot of hate?”

“I get a lot of everything. It comes with the territory.” I slipped my phone back into my clutch.

“You should probably send the post to Laura.” He turned at the light. “I’m sure she’s keeping a folder on everything that’s aired and she’ll want—”

“Laura’s one of my followers. I guarantee she set up notifications and just got alerted that I posted.”

He chuckled. “Of course she is.”

“You should be, too, you know.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t sound convinced. “And why’s that?”

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