AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Tonight, my weapon was missing.
All through the welcome cocktail hour, he’d been a ghost, standing slightly apart from me while wearing an insipid smile that held no warmth whatsoever. He nodded politely when spoken to and replied with as few bland words as possible. The only thing that differentiated him from the silent and efficient Newport Grille waitstaff was the luxury brand name and tailored fit of his clothing. And I was pretty sure it was because of today’s clusterfuck with Chris Acton.
The interview itself had been no worse than I’d expected. The guy had tried digging for dirt, but I hadn’t been surprised, and I’d managed to stick to the prepared responses Reagan and the rest of the team had provided. But from the moment I’d set eyes on Chris—from the moment he’d set his greedy little eyes on Reagan—I’d felt the nearly irresistible urge to commit violence. Every innuendo-laden word out of the asshole’s mouth had only fueled the fire, and when he’d taken a lingering look at Reagan’s ass as Reagan leaned over the table to hand me a water bottle, I’d come closer to laying hands on someone than I had in decades.
Worst of all, I was pretty sure the reporter had caught a glimpse of my anger before I locked it down.
It was inexcusable.
So what if Reagan and the reporter had history? Reagan was no shrinking virgin, and I wouldn’t want him to be. Moreover, I had no claim on Reagan, which meant he was free—absolutely, perfectly, entirely free—to hook up with Chris Acton or any other man with a come-hither smirk and a sexy gleam in his tiny, beady, vulture eyes.
The problem here was me. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about the tattoo hidden under Reagan’s tailored pants, shouldn’t see a flash of bright aquamarine even when I closed my eyes, shouldn’t want my hands on Reagan so badly that imagining Chris touching him made me stalk out of the interview and all the way back to the damn bus before I could trust myself to speak. I shouldn’t want Reagan at all… and I couldn’t fucking stop.
I had to assume Reagan was pissed that I hadn’t taken his very good advice and made nice with the reporter. Or maybe he was upset because he’d noticed the possessiveness—the jealousy—I had absolutely no right to feel. I wasn’t sure why any of that would make Reagan go radio silent rather than shedding his polite mask and calling me out for it, but I needed to figure it out. Because of all the versions of Reagan I’d seen so far—provoking, sexy, earnest, thoughtful, and ridiculous—this silent, cowed Reagan was the only one I couldn’t handle.
I excused myself from a conversation and turned to him. “Come with me.”
He looked surprised but nodded with a robotic politeness that made me want to growl. He followed me out of the private dining room and into a quiet nook off the main foyer.
“Tell me what the hell is going on with you,” I demanded without preamble.
Reagan opened his mouth and then shut it. He tilted his head and then frowned. “Pardon?”
“Are you sick? Would you like to go back to the bus? Are you… Did I… If you’re pissed off, say so.” I folded my arms over my chest. “I’ve told you to speak freely with me often enough, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but…” He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I’m letting you do the talking. You’re the boss, and this is your show. I’m being polite. Respectful.”
“Fuck politeness. You’re polite with them.” I jabbed a finger toward the dining room. “Not with me.”
Reagan stared at me like I was speaking gibberish… which, okay, was a fair assessment.
“Have I ever asked you to be polite and respectful with me?” I clarified, leaning in to pin his gaze. “Since when have I given you the impression that I want you to stand back meekly like a good little foot soldier?”
His nostrils flared, and his lips tightened. “You didn’t, exactly. I just realized…” His voice trailed off.
I grabbed his upper arms. “What?”
The scent of his soap and aftershave swirled between us, clean and crisp. It brought a wave of sensory memories with it from New Year’s Eve. I could almost taste this scent on his skin.
“I fucked up, and I know it, okay?” he said at last. “You were angry with me, or annoyed, or… whatever, and I get it. I told you not to worry about Chris. I told you it’d be all softball questions. I told you to smile and be friendly. And then he came after you. He tried to gotcha you. He tried to get you to comment on your personal life.” The outrage on Reagan’s face burned nearly as hot as my earlier jealousy had… and made me feel far better than it reasonably should have. “I was wrong. And I’m sorry.”
“That’s what’s bothering you? You… think I’m angry?”
Reagan lifted his chin. “Obviously. You’ve barely spoken to me since then. And I get it. You knew better than I did. I fucked up, as usual. I need to learn when to keep my big mouth shut and remember I’m better at smiling for the cameras.”
It was said in his voice, but those were his parents’ words. I’d heard Patricia and Trent talk about Reagan as an irresponsible kid, a directionless young man who didn’t take things seriously enough, all the while plastering his handsome, youthful face all over Trent’s campaign.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to say, and in that silence, Reagan looked away and shuffled his feet, revealing insecurity miles deeper than I’d ever suspected in a man who usually glowed as brightly as he did.
It was shocking.
It was infuriating.
And then, suddenly, I knew exactly what needed to be said. Exactly what he needed to hear.
I leaned even closer. “You listen to me, Reagan Wellbridge,” I said in a voice too low to be overheard. “Whatever the fuck voice you have right now in your head? It’s wrong. Do you understand? Dead. Ass. Wrong.”
His gaze flew to my face.
