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JACK

Iwake up to the sound of chaos pounding through my penthouse door. Again.

“Jack! Open up!” Brody’s voice slices through my half-sleep like a knife through silk sheets.

I groan, dragging my hand across my face. My head is pounding—not from alcohol, surprisingly—but from the weight of whatever fresh trouble this is. I squint at the clock. It’s not even nine.

“Jack!” Brody bangs harder. “She’s on her way up!”

I sit up, the sheets pooling at my waist. “Who’s she?”

Brody bursts in without waiting for an answer, eyes wide with panic. His tie is crooked, his hair sticking up like he sprinted through a hurricane. “Nova. Nova’s on her way. And she is?—”

A soft groan cuts through the room. I glance over my shoulder.

Right. There’s a woman in my bed. Blonde. Naked. I think her name starts with a V. Or maybe an L. I don’t know. She’s wrapped in my sheets like a burrito of regret.

Brody just points, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

“You were saying?” I say dryly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and reaching for the robe draped over the chair. “Nova’s mad? Must be Tuesday.”

“Jack,” Brody hisses, rushing to close the bedroom door behind him. “This is different. You’re trending. Everywhere. She’s going to kill you.”

“I’m always trending,” I mutter, yawning. “And Nova always says she’ll kill me but never follows through.”

“It’s different,” Brody hisses, but before he can say anymore, the elevator dings, and I hear the unmistakable staccato of Louboutin heels slicing across my marble floor.

Nova’s here.

“Jack Calloway!” she roars before I even see her.

“Speak of the devil,” I murmur.

She storms in, power-suited and fire-eyed, holding a tablet like it’s a weapon of mass destruction. Her hair is pulled back in a bun so tight I’m surprised she can blink.

Her eyes lock on the blonde still tangled in my bed.

“Oh, fantastic,” she snaps. “Another one? You really don’t care anymore, do you?”

I slip my arms into the robe, sauntering over. “Nova, you know I never care before coffee.”

She doesn’t laugh. She never does.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she says, jabbing the tablet toward my face.

The screen flashes with headlines and blurry paparazzi shots—me getting into a car with a woman, her face half-hidden behind her designer bag. Oh, this woman, I recognize. Met her backstage two nights ago after the StarLight charity gala. She said her name was Yvette and that she was terrific in the sheets. I still remember how warm and eager she was for me. I scrambled out of her bed the morning after and haven’t seen her since.

“So what?” I hide another yawn. “It’s not the first time paparazzi has caught me with a woman. What’s the big deal? Don’t they have something else to report these days? Like the political unrest in Afghanistan or something?”

Nova’s frown deepens. “Read.The.Headline.Jack. For goodness’ sake!”

“Relax, ugh.” I squint at the headline. “‘Heartthrob Homewrecker: Jack Calloway Caught with Married Billionaire’s Wife’?”

I frown. “Wait. Married?”

Nova throws her hands in the air. “You didn’t even know?”

I blink. “I don’t do married women. You know that.”