Page 62 of Ruthless Wars

“Really,” Evie cries out. “Is video footage of the two of you in an elevator from weeks ago speculation?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, knowing that I need the bad publicity and Evie’s nagging about as much as I need a urinary tract infection.

Pacing back and forth, Evie spits out, “You’ve got that right,” as if responding to my innermost thoughts.

Jean calmly stands by, holding herself together with the sophistication and polish she always does. She’s the polar opposite of Evie, who continues her unfiltered freak-out on me.

“Hey, have yourself a hot piece of man-candy like Liam Cooper Byrne. You go, girl. But take it from the girl whose family owns the media, you’re about to get fucked by the press. And let me tell you, they don’t hold back, and they don’t use lube.”

I look to Jean, nearly begging. “Jean, help me out here.”

“Well,” she says, lowering herself to one of the leather chairs. “Evie’s description might be colorful and vulgar, but she’s not wrong. The press loves this. The more vulgar, the better.”

I dread asking, but I have to. “Have you seen the footage?”

Strangely enough, neither has, and both shake their heads.

Jean offers what she has. “None of my sources have a copy.”

“Mine either,” Evie says with obvious disappointment.

Skeptical, I ask, “And exactly what sources do you have, Evie?”

“The usual. Google. YouTube. TikTok. Twitter. And I found nothing.” She shrugs. “I even tried a few hashtags. ElevatorLove. ElevatorPlumber. DallasPoundTown. PenthousePussyGalore. MoreMargot. CoopsCock—about fourteen variations on CoopsCock. Lots of really hot videos, but not of you. At least, I don’t think it was you. And you’ll have to check the footage yourself because in a lot of them, the man’s face is out of frame, but I’m confident you could spot Coop’s dick a mile away.”

Already exhausted from her ramblings, I say, “Trust me. None of them are him.”

Evie shoves her phone at me, live-action video rolling on her Twitter feed. “But—”

“It’s not him,” I say, cocking my head to catch the tail end of the mind-blowing X-rated footage in front of me—fairly certain that these sex moves should come with a reenactment warning and be reserved exclusively for Chinese gymnasts. I return her phone to her, sliding it across the desk.

Thankfully, my phone comes to the rescue with a familiar chime.

“I need to take this,” I say, using my businesswoman tone.

The expressions Evie and Jean exchange mean, one—they know it’s Coop. And two—they half suspect I’m going to use this critically important moment for phone sex. I let it roll off my back because, let’s face it, they know me.

And knowing me means they trust me to do whatever I have to do to protect the company and all the people associated with it. Even Evie.

The ladies quietly file out of my office and close my door, giving me the privacy I need to have this painfully awkward discussion with Coop.

“Hi,” I say into the phone, my voice coming out nervous.

“Hey,” he says, and his deep tone resonates through me, making me feel better just from the sound of his voice. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”

“Um ...” I stall, realizing I’ll be the one breaking the news to Coop. “Preparing for a press conference tomorrow. About us.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have dinner?”

“Coop ...” Worried I’m about to hurt him—or us—with what I’m about to say, I speak softly. “There’s a headline about to hit—”

“Oh. You mean hashtag LoveInAnElevator? That one?”

I can’t decide which is more of a shock. That he knows and is taking this so calmly. Or that Evie was totally on the right track, and nearly nailed it.

“And here I was worried you’d be concerned.”

“Not even remotely,” he says with a confidence known to both the geniuses of the world, and the insane.

---