Page 87 of Devoured By You

“What?” I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I until I did a bit of hunting around. It turns out a journalist has got the inside track on what happened on the cruise, and the rub of the story puts the blame for what happened at the feet of your guy.”

Oh God. Poor Blay.

“But… I don’t understand. What’s that got to do with me?”

“Guilty by association, Jill. Happens too fucking often. You were mentioned in the article, albeit briefly, but you know what social media is like. It only takes a spark, and the next thing you know, you’ve got a forest fire on your hands.”

“Shit.” I rubbed my forehead. “So what do we do?”

“I’ve contacted our publicity department, and they’re making damage control their top priority. I think you should make a statement on all your socials, but we’ll provide the wording. You can just Jill it up.”

I smiled despite the complete disaster facing me and Blay. “Jill it up?”

“I just thought of it. Works, though, right? Look, I meant what I said about not panicking. These things are often a storm in a teacup. Hang in there. It’ll pass. I’ll be in touch.”

She hung up. I dropped my head to the steering wheel. If my publishing house wasn’t thinking of dropping me for failing to meet an important deadline, I couldn’t blame them if this latest disaster gave them cause for reconsideration. Who wanted a client that brought nothing but trouble to the table?

I went to Google and typed in a few keywords. Less than a second later, the article Samantha had referred to appeared at the top of the search. I scanned it enough to get the gist. There, laid out in black and white, were Blay’s worst fears. The article was so heavily skewed toward blaming him, even when none of it was his fault. The written word had so much power to sway people’s opinions, especially in this day and age. Blay must be going out of his mind.

On purpose, I avoided looking up anything about myself. My confidence was already on a knife-edge. The last thing I needed was to see my life’s work trashed by a bunch of noisy and powerful online keyboard warriors. Careers were ended for less. I hoped my publishers could quash this, although I didn’t see how. Once something was online, it was there forever. The best I could hope for was, as Samantha had said, to make a single statement, then keep quiet and pray it all went away.

It didn’t sound like a solid strategy to me, but what else could I do?

Putting my foot down, I raced back to Blay’s house. I left the car at the front rather than take the time to drive round to the garages at the rear of the property. I sprinted inside.

“Blay? Blay, where are you?”

I poked my head into his study. Empty. His bedroom was, too, as was the kitchen and the living room. Where the hell was he?

I found him sitting out by the pool, his brows pulled into a deep V, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair.

“There you are.” I hurried across, dropping to a crouch. “My editor called me. I’m so sorry. But it’ll be okay. Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper.”

I didn’t believe a word of it, not with a story as big as this one, but I had to keep his spirits up no matter what I thought.

“Tomorrow’s fish and chip paper?” He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Are you fucking kidding me? My business is ruined.” He jabbed a finger at me. “And so is yours. Because of me.”

“Nothing is forever. People have short memories. They’ll move on as soon as another scandal grabs their attention, which, let’s face it, in the world we live in, we won’t have long to wait.”

“You don’t get it,” he said through clenched teeth. “You don’t fucking understand how big business works. I run a multibillion-dollar company that tens of thousands of people rely on to pay their mortgages and feed their families. You make shit up for a living. They’re not the same thing at all.”

I winced, rising to my feet. “That was unnecessary.”

“But true.” He stared at me with flat eyes and a stony expression.

“I know you’re hurting, but lashing out at me is not cool. I’m not your whipping post.”

He grabbed his crutches, hauling himself out of his chair. I went to put my arm out to steady him. He glared at me with abject disdain. I yanked my arm back.

“Go, Jill. Leave. I don’t want you here anymore.”

I gaped at him. “You don’t mean that.”

“I fucking do mean it,” he roared, his face turning red. “I’m no good for you, and you’re no good for me.”

He took two steps, lost his balance, and fell. I rushed to him, hooking my forearm under his armpit. “Let me help you up.”

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