Dillon slapped the paper down on the blotter. Dread sank Cory’s stomach as he realized that he was gracing the gossip column. And he was not alone. “Good thing you’ve been saving your dimes, bro, since I think you’re going to need to ante up for damage control.”
Chapter Two
Cory gripped the arm of his chair and locked his jaw to keep from cursing. Loudly. Neither he nor Dillon looked away from the startlingly clear black-and-white photos happily situated dead center in Miss Haven’s “community” column, aka the gossip section. Under an aptly stated, wince-worthy headline: Helping hands? Oh yes, sir!
Guess he wouldn’t be getting his deposit back from the photographer after all. He’d wanted to “get the gala in the papers,” hadn’t he? Perhaps he should’ve been more specific.
He nearly tossed a response at Dillon, but he held his tongue. Nope, sorry, no cash for damage control. He’d already spent money on photographers. Who obviously preferred hanging in trees to take pictures of him dry-humping Victoria like a horny teenager, instead of snapping pix of plaques and smiling benefactors.
At least the man didn’t know that Cory was the one who’d enlisted his services in the first place. Nor did Dillon, who publicized the charity to spur donations and community involvement, but put the annual benefit on a de facto news lockdown every year to keep the focus on the charity and discourage showboating.
Or in this case, public lewdness.
“I notice you’re not yelling,” Dillon commented, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk. “Did you know about these?”
“No, of course not.” Cory couldn’t take his eyes off the photos. His instant of outrage at his privacy being violated had melted into something else entirely, and he didn’t like it one bit. So what if one of the pictures showed Victoria with her head turned toward the camera, her eyes slit and her plump lips open on a moan? Or that his lips were very clearly on a part of her below the neck, one that jutted into his mouth as if it belonged there? Or that the other photo showed him looming over her and her staring up at him as if they were communicating on another level—one facilitated by the obvious bump of his pelvis into hers?
Irrelevant information.
“That’s Vicky, isn’t it? Sure looks like her, even though the photo’s a little blurry. Did you spike her drink or something? Or maybe she spiked your drink. I suspected she had the hots for you, but this is fucking—”
Cory’s head snapped up, his eyes already aching to return to where they’d been fixed. “Yes, thank you for that clarification. I think it’s obvious what Victoria and I were doing.” As realization of the full scope of the situation dawned, he jerked back from his desk as if the thing had suddenly caught on fire. “Oh, shit.”
This wasn’t just an inappropriate moment caught on camera. He and Victoria worked together, and Value Hardware was a family business. He hadn’t ever had so much as a whiff of scandal around him, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Despite having already started—without finishing. Goddammit.
Then there was Victoria’s reputation. She’d had to fight to gain respectability for her fledgling design business in an old-fashioned town where small minds often prevailed, followed by even smaller paychecks. This would hurt her rep, if nothing else. How could she claim she’d gotten the magazine job on her own merits, though she had, while he had his tongue on her nipple? She’d be labeled some unfair names by the town biddies, and he would be labeled—
“Dude, you’re a frigging stud. People can’t stop talking about the two of you. Even at the bank, for God’s sake. Everyone thought you were the guy no woman would ever collar, and here you are, caught with your pants down with Vicky, your sworn enemy.”
“That’s overstating things a bit,” Cory said, his chest still a little too full at the stud comment. Rare praise indeed for a man who hadn’t made time for anything approximating a relationship or sex in an entire year.
Simulated versions notwithstanding.
“They’re hot pictures.” Dillon flipped the paper around to face him. “Seriously, Vicky looks so—”
“Can it. You have a woman. Stop poaching on mine.” Hearing himself, Cory moved back even farther. Twice in two days he’d said or done things that made no sense. She wasn’t his, and he’d never had designs on her as such. Other than the occasional fantasy when she wore thigh-high boots, which was to be expected. She rarely wore those now but he remembered when she had. Vividly.
“Ah ha! I figured as much. You must have fucking Spidey sense, because the hammer was about to come down on you.”