Page 18 of Butterfly Effect

Oops.

“What’re you waiting for?” Mel claps. “Let’s go.”

My head splits as I struggle to balance and push my legs through the appropriate holes in the joggers. “Ouch. You’re being too loud.”

“Come on, come on. We gotta put this fire out ASAP.”

“What? There’s a fire?” The ringing in my ears continues as we enter the elevator. “Are we allowed to be in here? Shouldn’t we be taking the stairs or something?”

“It’s not afire-fire.” Jordan gives me a once over and frowns, retracting her hand from the half of my hair that resembles a rat’s nest. “But otherwise, it’s real and will grow unless we take control.”

I clench my eyes shut. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Reopening them is a serious wake-up call. They’ve led me into a conference space on the lobby level of the hotel.

Wade Boehner, flanked by Jules Tryon—the Regents’ GM—and the team’s PR guy, Elliott-something, waits at the far end of a long table.

The four staffers huddle upon meeting, leaving Boehner and I to fend for ourselves. My vision isn’t blurry enough to ignore how the sleeves of his black tee hug his bulky, defined arms.

Oof. Something in my belly twists.

Stop it, Finch. Get yourself together.

“What are you doing here?” I say under my breath.

“No idea. Why do you smell like you crawled out of a whiskey barrel?” he whispers back.

“Shut up.”

“Ladies first.”

“You two,” Tryon commands. “Sit.”

We do as we’re told and drop our asses into the empty chairs.

My head throbs harder as Jules flips through a carousel of pictures from the night before on his tablet. The Daily Times site is one tab of fifty on the open browser.

Double shit.

It’s all there. Wade and Kurt’s near-fight in the club. His arm around my waist. Me practically hanging from his neck while leaving. And why was I snuggled close and smiling all googly-eyed like that?

More photographs show us getting in a cab together. A few zoom in on our interlaced hands while entering the Fairmont.

Oh,ew. I held his hand?

I have never been so embarrassed in my life. It’s never a good time to be in the tabloids, but at least the last time was bearable, with them vilifying Kurt while I hid away. But this? After throwing myself at the NHL’s resident playboy in a drunk, desperate stupor? Humiliating.

And the hangover is making everything worse.

“Anything to say for yourselves?” Jules raises an eyebrow. “The paps are having the time of their lives.”

Boehner sniffs and chews at a nail.

“From him, this is expected.” My boss points to the unbothered dope to my right.

“Hey,” Wade whines out his defense.

“But you? I’m shocked. You don’t do this sort of thing.”

“You’re right. I didn’tdoanything because nothing happened.”

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