She's a disgraced socialite; he's a rodeo star on the rise. When they're forced to fake a relationship, what happens when the sparks feel a little too real?
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Sophia Huntington is a socialite. She likes rooftop cocktails, perusing copies of Vogue...
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Sophia's day started the same as always.
Lemon water. Six-kilometre run. Yoga. Shower. Cleanse, moisturize, sunscreen. She'd been doing the same routine for so long that some of her Instagram followers would do it with her, posting stories of their downward dogs. It was, Sophia reflected, one of the best parts of being an influencer: connecting with people you would have never met otherwise.
She towel-dried her hair, padding towards the kitchen. Eggs for breakfast? No; her stomach lurched. She was still feeling a bit hungover from last night. Toast. Definitely. And then she could try a banana to see—
She stopped dead.
The sickly-sweet tang of maple syrup and fried batter drifted into the hall, making her stomach churn. Someone was in her kitchen cooking pancakes. Oh, god. That was a bad sign.
Firstly, her mother never came to her apartment. Like, ever.
And secondly, Jenna Huntington never made breakfast — and when she did, it was always egg whites and roasted tomatoes. Her mother had only made pancakes twice in Sophia's life: once, when Sophia had a nasty fever, and then again after her father died.
This was bad.
Sophia wrapped her black silk dressing gown around herself, treading cautiously towards the kitchen. Jenna was dressed in a navy suit, her red hair swept into a sleek chignon. A spatula hovered in one hand.
"Sophia," she said, without turning. "How did you sleep?"
"Fine."
"No headache?"
Her voice was so breezy that Sophia winced. "Just a small one." She fumbled for the medicine cabinet. "You could have called."
"It was urgent."
"Oh?" Sophia popped an Advil. "What about?"
"You," Jenna said. "Making international headlines."
Sophia almost choked. "I—what?"
"The paper's there," her mother said, nodding toward the counter. "Why don't you read it for yourself?"
Sophia swallowed. She moved toward the counter, picking up the newspaper gingerly. It was the front page of The Toronto Times— a notoriously trashy tabloid — but there was no mistaking her face, staring up at Kit, a gram of ketamine clutched in her hand.
The words over her lacy black bra read, Good girl gone bad? Sophia does drugs with notorious playboy.
"Oh, god," she whispered. "Mom, I can explain—"
"Really?" Jenna set down the spatula. "Drugs, Sophia?"
She didn't sound disappointed; just wary. She was using what Sophia privately referred to as the Jenna Huntington Special ™, which her mother reserved for bankrupt actors and hockey players busted for coke addictions. Jenna was a senior PR manager, and one of the best. Sophia admired her for it.
