I tried to glare. Failed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Sure am.” He squeezed my leg. “Best morning I’ve had in weeks.”
I didn’t say anything. Just covered his hand with mine for a second. Pressed down. Told him in the only language I knew that Iwantedthis. Him. Us. All of it.
We were turning onto his street when I saw them.
Parked SUVs. Long lenses glinted in the sun. Someone pretending to tie their shoe for a full two minutes while snapping photos from their phone.
“Oh no,” I muttered.
“Oh yes,” Ansel said.
He didn’t even look fazed.
“They’re gonna think I’myourcriminal mastermind girlfriend,” I hissed.
“I mean… would they be wrong?” He shrugged as if he weren’t mad about it. “Could be worse. You could be on Joel’s arm.”
I shoved him, sticking my tongue out. But he just laughed, squeezing my thigh again as he pulled into the driveway.
The flashes started almost immediately. The moment the car stopped. Brutal, bright, a thousand white-hot sparks across the windshield.
“Smile for the cameras, sweetheart,” he said under his breath.
“If I flip them off, is that considered bad PR?”
“Only if you’re not wearing my jacket while you do it.”
He was already climbing out. Circling around to open my door like this was a red carpet.
And maybe it was.
He reached for me. Not my hand — my waist. His fingers curling there, hot and steady.
“C’mon, June Bug,” he murmured, voice soft and low and just for me. “Let’s give them something to write about.”
And the second our feet hit the pavement, it waschaos.
“Ansel, did you really assault Joel Forrester?”
“Is it true that Haddock is Forrester’s ex-fiancée?”
“Did she bail you out?”
“Is this a PR stunt or a breakdown?”
“ANSWERS, ANSEL — OVER HERE — LOOK THIS WAY!”
He kept walking. Calm. Unbothered.
And he didn’t let go of my hand.
We were almost there. It was almost over…
Whack.
One swung too close. The hard plastic edge of a lens smacked into my shoulder, jarring enough that I stumbled with a soft gasp, pain blooming sharp and immediate.
