And for seven years, he’d dressed up and played pretend on a show that told viewers they couldn’t escape from abusive relationships. Not for good. Not even after years of trying.
He was nothing compared to her. She needed to know that, so she never risked her safety for him again.
“I see,” she said, her gaze steady on him.
“I hope you do,” he told her, and meant it.
Then, without another word, he led her back to the ballroom.
11
RON WAS AN ASS ABOUT THE ENTIRE INCIDENT, OF COURSE.
Alex hadn’t expected better, which was fortunate, as he didn’t receive it, and neither did Lauren. The email he got early the next morning simply read,Congrats on effectively distracting the media from your drunken bar brawl.Ron had included a laughing-to-tears emoji and exactly zero inquiries about his cousin’s health or post-attack well-being.
After that message landed in his inbox, Alex stomped to the exercise room and worked out almost to the point of vomiting, because if he didn’t, he would write something he’d regret in response to his boss. Although, honestly, he wasn’t even sure hewouldregret it, despite the legal and financial ramifications.
For days afterward, he and Lauren mostly hung around the parts of his property hidden from public view, waiting for media interest in the story to die down. With predictable, gag-inducing discipline, she stayed offline and didn’t google herself even once, as far as he knew. And apparently, the paparazzi couldn’t manage to locate her number or email address, so she wasn’t getting phone calls or messages from randos. His lawyer kept him updated on the asshole who’d knocked Lauren down, and that seemed to be proceeding as predicted too.
Everything was calm. There was nothing to do, really, except hang out with his minder. By all rights, he should be bored out of his goddamn skull.
It was fucking awesome.
Months and months ago, dimly aware he was nearing total physical and emotional exhaustion, he’d ignored his agent’s hectoring messages and refused to schedule new jobs for this odd stretch of time, the gap between the end ofGates’s filming and the press junket that would accompany the airing of the final season. More work awaited him after the series finale had come and gone, but for now: nothing.
He had no call times. No auditions. No need to set three separate alarms.
Mostly, he just slept and read and worked out and browbeat Lauren into binge-watching baking competition shows with him and eating all their meals together.
To his shock, it didn’t even take a lot of convincing.
Something had changed between them during that hotel-hallway confrontation. She talked more. Smiled more. Snapped at him more. She seemedpresentmore.
And somewhere in that lazy stretch of time after the auction, she started laughing too. Not by accident. Not because the world became a significantly more amusing place over the course of a week or two.
No, she started laughing because he’d formulated a new goal to define his days: He wanted to make her laugh as often as he frustrated her. Which was to say, frequently.
Both outcomes were equally enjoyable.Veryenjoyable.
When she laughed, it was loud, her face turned pink, and she covered that face with her hands as she made little snorty sounds through her crooked nose, and it wasthe best. Sometimes, watching her laugh made him laugh too, for no fucking reason.
Today, he intended to earn her laughter by showing her Ian’s photos. In fact, when he’d first received the pictures, he’d walked halfway to the stables before realizing it was after two in the morning, and Lauren might not appreciate his waking her up for updates on Ian.
She probably looked cute, though, all rumpled in bed.
“Hey, Lauren,” he said as she approached their normal breakfast spot outside. “Ian sent the cast all-new pics of his home reno efforts last night.”
No doubt spotting the glee in his expression, she plopped down into her usual chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do, Woodroe?”
“I might have mentioned something about my dungeon.”
Her brow crinkled. “You have a dungeon?”
He sent her a chiding look. “If I didn’t, how could it have been on the cover ofModern Dungeons Monthlyfor their annual ‘Most Beautiful Dungeons’ issue? Last year, it was only number thirty-three on their ‘100 Oubliettes to Watch’ list, so this is a real triumph for me. And so I told Ian, shortly before he decided to do some home renovations.”
At that point, she bent forward and preemptively covered her face. “Please say he didn’t.”
He scratched his bearded chin reflectively. “I might or might not have had someone mock up an issue of the magazine. My dungeon had vaulted ceilings.”
