“Good.” The word was a snarl.
Alex brushed Lauren’s tumbled hair back from her forehead in a surprisingly gentle stroke, then spat out a vicious, abruptfuckand got up on his knees.
“Where the hell is Desiree?” he bellowed, and then the publicist was running toward them both, wide-eyed and frantic. “Lauren needs medical attention. I’ll help you take her—”
“No,” Lauren said.
He swung on her, jaw jutting and bunched, and again. Thatsound.
“I’ll see a medic.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it, desperate for him to hear her. “But I’m really fine. You need to stay here and give your interviews.”
He dismissed that with a violent shake of his head. “I don’t give afuckabout interviews.”
“Charity.” She kept her voice calm and low, her hand tight around his. “This is for charity, Alex. Women and children who need help. You’re the host. The big star.”
He dropped his chin to his chest, his upper body still heaving with every breath.
“I’ll personally take care of her,” Desiree assured him. “One of my assistants can guide you to the right media outlets along the carpet and at the step and repeat. And as soon as she’s been checked out, Lauren can rejoin you inside the ballroom.”
A minute passed, and they waited for him to calm. To decide what to do.
At long last, Alex raised his head and met her gaze. “Lauren? Do you want me with you?”
Yes. Shockingly …
Yes.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine on my own. You go ahead. Desiree will take good care of me.”
With a chidingtsk tsk,he bent close to her ear again.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he breathed, then moved far enough away to help ease her to her feet. His hands on her were firm but gentle, supportive as she locked her shaky knees beneath her and found her balance.
She thanked him with one more squeeze of his hand before letting go. “Don’t say anything we’ll all regret.”
He grunted in response. Then, after a final, stern look at Desiree, its message clear—do what you said you’d do, or else—he followed a hovering young man with a headset to the next interviewer.
Desiree guided Lauren down the peon side of the carpet and into the hotel, and Alex disappeared from sight. Her bruises began to throb in time with each heartbeat, each step away from him.
“Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?” she asked the event publicist.
“If I don’t, I’ll find some.” Desiree’s lips quirked. “Otherwise, Mr. Woodroe is likely to feed me to the lions as tonight’s grand finale.”
Dazed and hurting, Lauren didn’t respond to the other woman’s wry remark.
But she thought about it as the medic examined her. She thought about all of it.
Desiree’s words. Alex’s volcanic fury at Lauren and for Lauren. Her own response to such fierce protectiveness.
In that moment, in his enraged concern, he’d put her first. Even above his own charity, his own professional obligations.
It felt … odd. Disorienting.
No one ever put her first.
Not even her.
Not until now.
