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“What time is it?” she murmurs, sitting up and pushing her long, dark braid over her shoulder.
I glance at the digital alarm clock on her bedside table, grateful to have someplace else to look. “Five past five.”
“In the morning?” She stretches her arms overheard. “Which dog gave you this idea?”
“It wasn’t the dogs. Well, the walk was their idea, or demand. But I’ve been up for an hour reading the news online.”
Her eyes are open and she’s fully alert now. “Leave my pants on the bed and give me a few minutes to wash my face. Then we’ll take a sunrise walk.”
“It’s almost November. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two.”
“They need a lot of exercise this morning.” She points to the door. “Now get out and start the coffee. If you want to have a coherent conversation about what you read, I need caffeine.”
By five thirty, I’m being pulled in four different directions down Park Drive. Street lights illuminate the walk. Thankfully cars are no longer allowed on this former Central Park roadway. And there are very few cyclists on the path at this hour.
While I herd the dogs, Kayla sips her coffee and reads the articles Margaret forwarded to us. She looks up from the screen as two of the dogs stop to sniff a bush. “I can’t believe legitimate media outlets are covering a story about your ex-girlfriend’s Twitter feed. That’s not even news.”
“It’s human interest,” I point out. “It’s the same reason I endorse products. People will read about my latest ad campaign for an expensive watch before they will dive into an article about my software. If I can get my company’s work mentioned in the piece about the watch, then I’ve expanded my advertising reach.”
The dogs drag me farther down the path. And Kayla follows, her attention still fixed on her phone.
“I haven’t seen a single article linking Alexandra’s accusations to the news of our engagement yet.” She looks up. “I think they need another day to put the pieces together. Especially the site that ran the picture from the Twitter rant below an article about aliens.”
“Yeah, but they better make the connection soon,” I mutter. “I hate that Alexandra claims she dumped me.”
“Like you would ever give her that much control over your relationship,” Kayla says.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I admit.
She takes Luna’s leash from my left hand and pulls the cone-headed dog away from Rocky, who was starting to look annoyed by the circumference of his walking partner’s head.
“The coverage of the gala isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty close,” she says.
“I want perfection.”
“Hmm, this writer makes your proposal sound like a fairy tale,” she continues. “Especially this bit about how you dropped to one knee the instant you realized that you couldn’t live without me.”
“I can’t live without you. The reporter is right about that.”
“And the picture really sells the happy-ever-after.” She stops by the side of the path and stares at the screen. “That kiss …” She glances up at me. “Combine this picture with the rumors that we skipped the salad course for some ‘private’ time together, and the story of our relationship will drown out Alexandra’s attempt to cause a scandal.”
“Yeah,” I say, my tone low and serious. I owe her an apology. “About last night, in the bathroom—”
“I’m sorry,” Kayla interjects, stealing my line as she walks ahead of me. “I shouldn’t have pulled you into that bathroom. I knew it would excite you.”
“Kayla.” I stop in the middle of the path even though the three dogs are pulling in different directions, eager to reach the grass. She turns and looks back at me, her charge sitting quietly by her side despite the cone of shame. “My excitement doesn’t suddenly take over and dictate my actions. I kissed you because I’m attracted to you, not the situation.”
“The why doesn’t matter—”
“It sure as hell does,” I interrupt her, needing to drive this point home. Kayla’s fallen for the “I couldn’t help myself” line before. Mr. Mistake used it the mornings after he unleashed verbal tirades on her, criticizing her looks, or her behavior at a particular event. Sometimes Kayla would sneak away to call me, crying over the phone. I could tell that Mr. Mistake’s words were breaking her. Hell, I heard versions of it when I was a kid too, the few times I went to adults about the bullies who attacked me at school.
They are just boys being boys.
“Last night, I was desperate to taste you, but I will always ask first. I will never take from you. Do you understand?”
She nods, but shit, I’m not sure if she believes me. Maybe looking at this situation, at the lengths I’ll go to hold my image—hell, hold my entire identity together—leaves her wondering if one day I might take something she can’t give.
Like her independence.
