Page 6 of Forbidden Game

Every day, I wonder why we had to hire such an attractive publicist.

Sydney Lake is the biggest distraction known to man. Even in this room filled with people running back and forth and shouting directions, she stands out like a golden star.

Her cherry-red lips purse as her delicate fingers flick deftly over the tablet teetering on her knee. She’s a fraction too short for the stool, her heels dangling in the air.

The benefit to wearing my mask during this shoot is that no one can tell that I’ve spent the last ten minutes watching her screw her nose up at her phone before huffing so heavily that her curtain bangs lift off her forehead.

“That’s it. Like that. Perfect, English, you’re perfect, a natural.”

I can imagine Sydney rolling her eyes at the photographer’s words. She’s barely even spared me a glance since the shoot started.

I should be a little more insulted that she isn’t paying attention to me, but it’s nothing different. Ever since That Night, Sydney has been the picture of professionalism. She treats the lads and me equally and keeps our friendship at arm’s length.

“Yes, the camera loves you!”

This time, I see Sydney roll her eyes at the photographer, and a small laugh rumbles in my chest.

While the camera might love me, these lights do not.

I’m unbearably hot right now, and sweat is beading around the edges of the mask. One of the advantages of revealing our identities was to prevent situations like this, and yet other than the first hour of the shoot, I’ve been stuck in the mask breathing in hot air. But they wanted EnglishCoffee, not Parker Covington, so who am I to complain?

“All right, English. Just a few more and we’re done.”

Thank God.

While I’m stoked for the Wyreless collaboration—they’re one of the top gaming software companies, and they are creating a limited edition The System line, complete with headphones, gaming chairs, and even laptops—it’s been hard to get my head in the game with all the rumors floating in the background.

It’s a load of bullshit. My Covington inheritance isn’t going anywhere. Martin and his son are just trying to stir up more drama around me. Even if they smeared my name in the mud, it’s not like either of them would be next in line for CEO anyway.

It’s so stupid. This is a far reach, even for them.

So why are they?

My head aches as I try to put together the puzzle pieces without even knowing the final picture.

“Can I have you hold onto the mic for the next couple of shots, like you’re speaking into the headphones?”

I position the mic down and do as the photographer instructs.

I have to give Wyreless credit for creating headphones that actually fit comfortably with our masks on, but I guess that’s the point of a collab.

The lights flash a few more times before he calls out, “That’s a wrap. Great job, English.”

I give a small bow and thank everyone before stepping off set and ripping my mask off.

Fresh air enters my lungs, and my shoulders relax. One of the makeup artists holds out a damp towel, and I accept it with a wink, pressing it into my hot skin.

The relief is instant.

There’s no way Aleks is going to be able to sit through this. He’ll throw a fit and walk out. I’d bet my Ferrari on it.

“Come on, hotshot. I need to get you home.” Sydney holds out my phone and a bottle of water.

I unscrew the cap and chug the cold liquid. My phone screen lights up with a million notifications, and the rock in my gut begins to harden, but I ignore it, stashing my phone in my front pocket.

“I had Francis park around back. It seems there are a few reporters out front.”

“Always looking out for me.” I grin, slinging my arm around her shoulders as she weaves us around the set.

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