Finding Mr. Perfect
“Still, he wouldn’t budge.”
“So I stooped lower,” Kyle went on. “I told him I’d leak his childhood photos and videos to the press—especially the one where he tried to twerk at six years old, or the one where he sobbed uncontrollably over a goldfish funeral at seven. Didn’t move him an inch.”
Alistair, seated at the same table, choked on his drink. Kenneth frowned. “You wouldn’t.”
“I was desperate,” Kyle said. “Some of those were empty threats, but he didn’t have to know that.”