Page 1 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies (Men of Medford #4)

RILEY

The rooftop glittered, all golden light and designer excess, like someone had bottled an Instagram filter and poured it over the skyline.

LA stretched beneath me, sprawling and indifferent, a city that loved you until it didn’t.

But tonight?

Tonight, it loved me.

“Babe, hold the flute higher. Light hits better that way.”

I adjusted my grip on the delicate stem of my glass as Carmen, my stylist slash occasional photographer, tilted her phone for another Boomerang.

The caption wrote itself: Champagne kisses and six-figure wishes.

Because that’s what this was… the moment I had worked, posted, and strategically networked for.

My pending sponsorship deal wasn’t just money. It was status.

Credibility.

The difference between being a passing internet girl and becoming a brand .

The rooftop was a fever dream of influencers, executives, and Hollywood-adjacent types who all spoke in hashtags and PR soundbites.

The theme was Decadence and Debauchery . Not exactly suitable for Halloween, more Gatsby, but make it content , but hey, that was LA.

I had chosen my outfit accordingly: a beaded, barely-there flapper dress that screamed Old Hollywood while whispering I’m hot and I know it, with dark curls and even darker smoky eyes.

And then, just what I needed—an aesthetic disruption to my carefully curated feed. Ava Sinclair slinked into my periphery.

Or staggered a little.

She’d definitely been enjoying the free drinks a little too much.

“Riley! Babe! You look insane tonight!” She air-kissed both of my cheeks, her gloss barely grazing my skin. “Like, actually illegal. But in a good way.”

I smiled, the kind I used for photos and people I didn’t trust. “Ava, stop. You’re making me blush.”

“No, seriously. It’s like, who even knew small-town girls could pull off big-league couture?” She laughed, all perfect white teeth and subtle malice. “ Such a glow up.”

I ignored the jab because rule number one of surviving in this world? Never let them see you flinch. “Well, some of us had to glow up. Others had good surgeons.”

Her smile tightened, just for a second, before she tossed her hair and took a sip of her drink. “Oh my god, stop . You’re so bad. But like, iconic bad. Hey, where’s Jasper?”

She pivoted effortlessly, not even waiting for me to answer the question about my dreaded ex, who, of course, wasn’t here, before draping an arm around me as her boyfriend, Tyler—an actor in the way that a guy with one IMDb credit is an actor— joined us.

“So, tell me everything. The deal. The contract. The bag .”

I shrugged, casual but calculated. “Major health and wellness brand. Multi-year. Six figures. You know, a little something to keep the lights on.”

Ava blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then she let out the kind of laugh that belonged in a podcast ad for teeth whitening strips. “Shut. Up. That’s insane!”

I took a sip of my champagne, let the bubbles fizzle on my tongue. “Yeah. People love an underdog, right?”

She held my stare just long enough for it to be a power move, then giggled and leaned into me. “Babe, you kill me. Let’s get a picture before we’re too drunk to FaceTune.”

I smiled for the camera, the perfect picture of success.

Ava tried to emulate me, but truth be told, the drink was hitting her hard.

“You know, I was just telling Mr. Cartwright how close we are.” She hiccuped, swaying against me. “Oh, where is he?”

I gritted my teeth. Why was she talking to the man I was doing business with?

I blinked slowly. “Ava. Maybe you should sit.”

“Oh, babe. Don’t be mad.” She pouted. “We can all be famous, right? We don’t need to… to bring each other down. We can lift one another up.”

Carmen shifted beside me, her hand lightly brushing my back in warning.

“Not tonight,” she whispered. “Don’t give her a soundbite.”

But Ava was on one now. She stepped back, loud enough for the surrounding circle of influencers to turn toward us, drawn by the scent of scandal like sharks to blood.

She spun in a little circle, nearly knocking into a server.

“Mr. Cartwright!” she called out, slurring enough to make my stomach twist. “Where did he go? He was so nice. I told him we go way back… like, way back. That I basically discovered you. Isn’t that true?”

The air around me crystallized. My fingers curled tight around the stem of my champagne flute.

“No,” I said sharply. “It’s not.”

She blinked, swaying. “Oh, semantics. Come on.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this at my event when you’re this drunk.”

Again, Carmen’s fingers gently pressed against the small of my back. Her silent not here, not now warning.

But Ava was just getting started.

“I’m being supportive ,” she protested, wobbling as she stepped back into center stage. Her voice rose a little too loudly, drawing the attention of moths to an influencer flame. “Like, I told him you were incredible. I said we’re practically sisters. I helped you, Riles.”

The crowd around us shifted. People leaned in. Phones hovered.

I felt heat rush up my neck.

“You helped me?” I repeated, voice cool.

Ava threw up her hands, swaying slightly. “I mean, yeah! I introduced you to everyone . Got you invites. Styled you for your first major shoot! Don’t act like you did it all yourself.”

I stared at her. “You mean the shoot where you bailed last minute and left me scrambling for backup glam?”

She gasped as if I’d slapped her. “Wow. Okay. That’s how it is?”

“You’re the one who just tried to rewrite history in front of my future sponsor.”

“I was only being nice,” she shot back. “You always make everything so serious. Dang, no wonder you’re stressed all the time. You’re, like, addicted to control.”

“And you’re addicted to attention,” I snapped, stepping forward. “That’s why you inserted yourself into my meeting, Ava. Because you saw someone important talking to me and couldn’t stand not being the center of it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You really think you’re that relevant? Please. You’re not a disruptor. You’re just another internet girl with a filter pack and a fake story.”

I froze.

The crowd did, too.

Carmen inhaled sharply, a barely-there sound behind me.

My voice dropped to a dangerous hush. “Say that again.”

Ava smirked, teetering on her heels, eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “You heard me. The ‘poor little small-town girl’ narrative? It’s tired. People talk, Riley. And some of us remember who you were before the glow up.”

And just like that, something snapped.

I stepped forward, every word sharp as a blade.

“You want to talk fake?” I hissed. “You’ve been lying about who you are since your first sponsored teeth whitening post. You reinvent yourself every six months based on whatever gets the most clicks.

One day you’re a recovery warrior, the next you’re a girlboss, now it’s crystal baths and moon journaling. When’s the real Ava gonna show up?”

Gasps. A phone flash. A nervous titter of laughter somewhere in the crowd.

But I wasn’t done.

“You talk about lifting other women up, but the second someone starts doing better than you, you insert yourself. You sabotage. And then you wrap it up in some performative feminism like it’s brand strategy. You don’t support women. You compete with them.”

Ava’s mouth fell open. Her face flushed, either from the alcohol or the fury. “You bitch.”

I smiled. Cold. Final. “You said it, not me.”

And that’s when it happened.

A single voice from behind us, too gleeful, too late:

“I got that whole thing. Holy shit .”

Phones everywhere. Red recording lights blinking. Carmen’s hand gripped my arm tight, too tight, as if she could physically hold back the consequences.

Too late. The clip would be online in minutes.

And my carefully curated empire?

Cracking wide open.

It didn’t take hours. It took minutes .

The clip, edited down to thirty vicious, contextless seconds, spread like digital wildfire. The soundbite? Crystal clear:

“You don’t support women… You compete with them. ”

Cut to Ava’s hurt face. Cue gasps. Add captions, bold and brutal:

Riley Brooks EXPOSED as a fake feminist???

#MeanGirlEnergy #ToxicQueen #CancelRiley

By the time I made it home—with my makeup smudged and hair falling out of its perfect curls—the damage was done.

I sat on my couch, still in the beaded dress, staring at the bomb my phone had become.

The comments were endless. Brutal.

She really thinks she’s better than everyone.

Another influencer built on lies.

This is why you don’t trust small-town girls who blow up too fast.

Imagine biting the hand that fed you. Ava made her.

By midnight, two sponsors had pulled out, one with a Notes-app apology tagged publicly, like I was a PR disease they needed to quarantine from.

By morning, three more followed.

By noon, my manager called. Then texted. Then ghosted.

My inbox? Dead.

Brand collabs? Paused indefinitely.

Follows? Down by the thousands per hour.

And Ava?

She posted a blurry, mascara-streaked selfie with the caption:

I never wanted this. I still believe in forgiveness. But we need to hold each other accountable. #BeKind

The comments were flooded with heart emojis and cries of We love you for speaking out!! and You didn’t deserve that, queen.

I didn’t post. I couldn’t.

Anything I said would be twisted.

Anything I didn’t say was already being used as proof of guilt.

I paced the apartment, trying to breathe around the pressure in my chest. Everything I’d built, every connection, every deal, every drop of validation I’d worked tooth and nail for, was slipping through my fingers.

And the worst part?

No one wanted to hear my side.

Because outrage is louder than truth.

And takedowns? Takedowns go viral.

The phone buzzed again. Another news alert. Another YouTube commentary video. Another DM from someone I used to know, pretending to “check in” while secretly hunting for gossip.

I pulled a hoodie over my head, shoved my phone in a drawer, and collapsed onto my bed, the weight of it all pressing down as heavy as a second skin.

This wasn’t just bad—it was the end of everything I’d built.

And the internet was still hungry for more.