The Fastest Way to Fall(84)

I stared at the replies under the main comment—there were many—and instantly my head started to pound. “How did anyone know?”


TbirdNicole_7836: Are you serious? I chose #TeamBritta because I like an underdog, but she was screwing the coach the whole time? #TeamClaire #TeamHottrYou


AugustusGloopLover: @FitMiFitness has been great for me, but I didn’t know sex with the coach was an option. How much extra does that cost?


AnnieApple: You should be ashamed of yourself.


Burt_the_destroyer: I like my girls with a little extra meat. Want more “exercise”?


RosieEarl: I loved this because you seemed so real. I’ll never believe another word you write. This is so disappointing.



I couldn’t hear anything over the pounding in my ears, and I pushed the tablet back across the desk, looking up to meet Cord’s and Mason’s expectant faces.

“Well?” Mason said. “It’s true? You asked me not to intervene on assigning the coach, so I left well enough alone. Then this morning, when I asked Pearl to look up the coach’s information, imagine my surprise when it was your fucking name!” Mason’s voice rose, and he began pacing again.

“Look, it’s not like that,” I said. “It’s . . . she’s special.”

“Wes, you hired me to manage how this company is viewed. I don’t care if she’s the reincarnation of Eleanor Roosevelt with candy cane– flavored nipples, and the cure for the common cold is between her legs. This looks bad.” He jammed his thumb into the printout.

“I knew you liked a client, but I didn’t know she was the reviewer,” Cord said, looking back at the comments.

“She never—” I pulled at my hair. “She told me this weekend she was a journalist, but I thought it was for the mentoring thing . . .” It had seemed so easy. Apparently, too easy. I kicked myself for not asking more questions, for not clarifying where she worked.

“For starters—and I can’t believe I need to tell you this—don’t sleep with any journalists writing about the company. None of them. Writers for newspapers, magazines, and PTA monthly newsletters are officially off your booty call list. Second, I’ve been sending you posts for months. You read none of them?”

“I fucked up, okay? Just let me think for a minute.”

Mason huffed and sat down in the chair next to Cord. “You need to be straight with me. No bullshit. What is going on?”

“I’ll tell you, but I need to warn her first,” I said, pulling my phone from my pocket to text Britta. “She’s going to be completely caught off guard by this.”

“Good luck. Natalie called me to see what the hell was going on, because your girl isn’t answering her phone or responding to texts, either.”

I remembered Britta’s phone pinging the night before. We’d been on the bed, things heating up, and she’d set it to do not disturb.

“Believe me when I say she knew as soon as she got within fifty feet of her office. Tell us what’s going on so I can get in front of this.”

Mason motioned for me to keep going.

Cord said nothing, and his silence was damning.

“We were friends until this weekend.”

Mason eyed me skeptically, and Cord raised an eyebrow, his lips twisted to the side.

“I swear,” I repeated. “We never slept together before this weekend.”

“It doesn’t matter. Best Life has a huge following, and this is out there on social media already. It’s garnered a ton of engagement, and there’s . . . a hashtag.”

“What do you mean?” Cord pulled out his phone and tapped something into his search engine, and his features contorted as the results populated. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

This morning had gone from the best day of my life to me wanting to sink into the floor. I looked at the results on Cord’s phone under #MakeBrittaSweat. Post after post shared the comment and memes using her headshot. They nauseated me. “Who are these people and why do they care so much?”

“Because people like a scandal,” Mason said. “Are there more pictures of you two?”

“Not those kinds of photos.”

Fuck, I need to text Felicia to make sure no one posted anything from the wedding.

Mason nodded and made notes on the tablet he’d pulled from my desk. “I think we need to deny it, share a link to our nonfraternization policies, and remind the public we hold”—he let out a mirthless laugh—“hold ourselves to a higher ethical standard.”

“What about Britta?”

“What about her? Forget her for a few minutes and think about you. Your face is obscured, and other than being identified as a coach, you’re not mentioned. If there aren’t pictures . . .” Mason was noting something else on his tablet. “This might work.”

I interrupted. “There shouldn’t be pictures.”

“Fine. Then she can deny, too. What else do I need to know? You were together this weekend. Was that the first time meeting in person? Push comes to shove, it was a slow buildup to love while you chatted, blah, blah.”

Cord shot me a look across the desk, and I shook my head, my face heating because his disappointed expression made my stomach drop. She hasn’t been lying to me for a few weeks about her job; she’s been keeping it a secret for months, knowing who I was. My stomach roiled. “We’ve been hanging out for a few months.”