“This is private property. Now, fuck off,” Miles yells back. He puts his foot down again, and we speed through the gates.
One photographer squeezes through before security can close them, but he’s not fast enough to catch us as Miles races around the driveway and screeches to a halt beside the stable block.
Before I can even unbuckle my seat belt, Miles is out of the car and sprinting back toward the entrance.
What the hell just happened?
I’m still shaking when I reach for my phone, and a slew of messages flash up. After the incident this morning, I totally forgot to check it.
The first message contains links.
HAS MILES BURLINGTON JUMPED INTO HIS FINAL BED?
There’s a picture of the two of us hugging beside the trophy. Other photos show us during practice before yesterday’s match. Then there are old photos of me in Aspen—photos that could only have come from Scott McTavish’s yard.
I didn’t think it was possible for my stomach to drop any further than it does.
How did they even get these?
MEG: OMG, Ruby, what the hell?
She adds another link, which I click on. I’m expecting another gossip magazine, but it’s not that. It’sThe Daily Polo News, whicheveryoneI know reads.
MEG: Holy shit, this is amazing!
MEG: Congratulations. Also, call me because I need to know how this happened. I knew you guys were hot for each other . . . but wow!
My hands are shaking too much to type back. I also don’t know what I would say even if they weren’t. My nerves are so shot that when the door is yanked open, I can’t stop the screech.
Miles holds his hand out to me. “Ruby, come on.”
There’s urgency in his tone, but instead of spurring me on, it glues me in place, and I shake my head.
“No, Miles, what’s going on?” I hold my phone up. “Why is there an old picture of me?”
He twists so his body is positioned between the open Range Rover door and my seat.
Picking up my hand, he slides his finger over my ruby like he always does. “Because the press love to write gossip about me?—”
“But this isn’t gossip. This is my life.”
“I know.” His head drops, and he looks genuinely remorseful.
“There were like twenty photographers outside.”
He nods. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“Miles.” I can barely form the words as a thought occurs to me. “What if they can tell we’re lying? What if they find out about the visa?Us. That we’re not really married . . .”
His hands cup my face, his eyes bore into me, and all the tension of the morning vanishes. I feel the scratch of his calluses against my cheek. “Ruby, they’re not going to find out about us. No one knows except you, my family, and me. They’re not getting in here, and they can’t get near the practice arena. They’ll get bored soon, I promise. Please trust me.”
He holds his hand out again to me, and I take it.
I do trust him—somewhere in the last few weeks, he’s earned that—but for the first time, I get the sinking sensation I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
CHAPTER 17
Miles
