Page 67 of Perfect Assumption

Twenty-Five

Angela

Jack Daniels or Cristal? Rumors of a party at Beckett Miller’s are surfacing, but the details are unclear. All I know is I wish I was invited regardless of what was served.

— Viego Martinez, Celebrity Blogger

“So you went on a date with Ward?”

I glance around furtively. “Shut up, Becks.”

“Why? Is it some kind of top secret knowledge? It’s about time you enjoyed life even if I expect your name is going to be in the newspapers again.”

“No. He knows I have an aversion to it. Just not why.”

Dawning comprehension flits across his face. His regal nose dips down at me, the light catching off his nose ring. “He hasn’t put it all together?”

I run my fingers through my hair. “Becks, think about it. I was a freshman. Ward was what? A senior in college?”

“Actually, if I remember from dating Carrie, he was in law school by then. I have little doubt this was being talked about, but it’s likely due to what happened to them,” he muses.

“What do you mean?”

“Nuh-uh. Welcome to the world of mature dating, darling. We don’t pass notes in class. If you want to know something about him, ask him yourself.”

I crumple up a piece of paper on my desk and pelt him between his light-colored eyes.

“I’m wounded.”

“Could you try to do more damage, Angie? It might help keep this a slow week where we could catch up.” Ward’s amusement over our antics is evident at the smile he shoots our way. He stops at my desk to drop off a fresh cup of coffee that’s riddled with hand-drawn warnings symbols marked with “HAWT” in the middle.

I can’t resist turning the cup in Ward’s direction. I ask innocently, “Is this a temperature warning?”

He flushes. “Apparently some rag got a picture of me out running yesterday and another coming out of Sweom Studios.”

Becks slaps his hand on his desk. “Well, that will certainly be interesting for Angie to look at later.”

Ward scoffs. “Angie doesn’t look at that garbage.”

I hide my chuckle beneath a sip of perfectly brewed coffee. Then Carys storms out to join the fray.

“What on earth was Z thinking, Angie. He can’t declare a preference on his favorite brand of pickles and not expect that crap not to be picked up by social media.”

“This is why I cleared your schedule,” I reply calmly.

“Now, I have a freaking pickle crisis on my hands. CEOs of pickle companies are screaming at his agent, who is in turn calling me asking if there’s anything we can do.” Her eyes narrow at Becks. “Tell me you’re just here to give me your normal daily crap and you haven’t pulled some shit that’s going to make my day worse.”

He backs away, appropriately wary. “Nothing. I swear it.”

Not taking his word for it, Carys demands, “Angie?”

“Nothing in the feeds, Carys. For once, Becks is clean.” I knock on wood as the words pop out of my mouth.

“Thank God for small miracles,” Ward mutters.

Carys turns on him like a dog with a new chew toy. “You. Come with me. Just because you’re the press’s darling with that picture of you shaking your ass near Summit Rock in Central Park yesterday doesn’t mean you didn’t cause your own hashtag to trend on how many news sites?”

“Two hundred and eighteen,” I pipe up.