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My eyes closed, and I exhaled sharply through the pit of dread in my gut. I fought the urge to throw myself in front of a car—not haltingly—rather than deal with whatever headache was about to be dropped at my feet. “What Tripp Carter situation?”

Short of spotting him at the Gilded auction—where I’d been too preoccupied to say hello—I’d barely seen my friend. He’d been just as busy, wrapped up in the media circuit for an upcoming movie. It sounded like hell to me, but that was his happy place. And since the romantic thriller was a big step outside of his usual action or comedic roles, he would undoubtedly be loving that added attention.

My money is on him fucking the wrong reporter.

With a side bet that it was on camera.

It was a good thing that I didn’t say it out loud because I would’ve lost the wager, and June would’ve made me pay up.

“In typical Tripp fashion,” she said, “he partied too hardy. Pictures of him with women and white powder are top of the trending list right now.”

Fucking Tripp.

I tossed my glasses onto the desk and pinched the bridge of my nose. “And I’m guessing said pictures do not take place in a kitchen.”

I couldn’t see June’s face with my eyes closed, but I heard her confusion. “A kitchen?”

“That way his spokesperson could say that it was cream of tartar for the egg whites he was whipping.”

“You missed your calling as a defense attorney with your knack for reasonable doubt. But nope. No meringue defense in the nightclub. And that’s not the worst of it.”

My lids shot open. “What else?”

“When Tripp saw the dickhead taking pictures, he stood at the same time as one of his companions. She toppled on her heels. He reached for her and missed. One blurry and unfortunately timed photo later, it looks like he shoved her. And that’s how that fucker sold it.”

Oh shit.

“To the woman’s credit, she’s using her two minutes of fame to come to Tripp’s defense.”

“Only two minutes of it? What happened to fifteen?”

June broadly gestured around. “In this day and age? Anyway, she made some posts and went on live last night.”

“She got onto a show already?” I asked, wondering which live news program got the breaking story since that would give me an idea of how they were spinning it.

“She went live on social media,” June said, giving me a look that said I was an old, out of touch fucker—and she wasn’t wrong. Despite being more than a decade older, June was usually the one to explain current trends to me. “She insists Tripp was just hanging out. Coke wasn’t theirs. He’s so nice. The photographer was the instigator. Blah, blah, blah. The typical when it comes to Tripp’s woman du jour.”

Tripp might’ve been a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t a dick. Like old Hollywood playboys, his antics came across as charming and endearing.

Usually.

“When you left on Saturday and then were a no-show yesterday, I figured he’d already called you,” June said.

I was surprised he hadn’t. I might not be his agent or PR rep, but I’d still put out a lot of fires for Tripp. More than that, we were friends.

“Reach out to his agent, see what they know,” I told June.

“On it.” She started out into the hall before walking backward. Leaning into the doorway, she said, “So about that aquarium…”

“Yes.”

She pushed her luck. “What about a different animal? Lots of businesses have fish. We could be the ones with a hamster mascot.”

“I don’t want my firm synonymous with rodents.”

“What about?—”

“Don’t push your luck. Take the win before the plea deal is off the table.”