Page 55 of The Mood Board

Chapter 20

Liam

––––––––

I COULD SEE THE CROWDof reporters by my house, trampling my lawn and the flowers and blocking traffic up and down the block with their news vans and cars.

Someone must have tipped them off that I was out of prison. Or maybe they’d been there all along—Bailey had explicitly said she was leaving because she couldn’t stand the media pressure.

The closer I got to home, the more agitated I became until I wanted to jump out of the car and run home. I wanted to see her. I had to see her, to hold her in my arms and tell her she couldn’t go, that I needed her, that all this would go away soon, and we could live in peace.

“Do you want me to find another way, Mr. Bradford?”

The car’s driver looked over his shoulder for an answer. I thought for a moment—it would be much better to sneak in the back. The yard next to ours had a gate, and from there, I could easily scale a wall—I’d done it countless times as a child to play with the neighbor kids.

But it would take time to get access if the neighbors were even home and willing to let me in after all that had happened. No, it would be better to go in the front. I would just have to push through the crowd. Hopefully, in a few days, with the case dropped, I would be old news, and they would go back to ignoring me for the most part.

I had never been one of the tech billionaires who loved the spotlight. I didn’t mind it, but I didn’t crave it, either. The spotlight had never been something I had understood, anyway. I was a regular guy who had invented something to help people. Then again, I knew it wasn’t about the invention or even my company but the money I represented, which I had never been about, anyway. It was nice to have when I needed it, and I was grateful I had it for charitable endeavors and to help my family, but other than that, I didn’t have a use for it.

Until Bailey had come along, anyway. I enjoyed spoiling her. She didn’t let me do it too often, but I loved seeing the way her face lit up when we went out to eat at a once-in-a-lifetime restaurant, or we touched down in a new country she had never seen before, or when she opened up a package with something I knew she had wanted.

Damn, I wanted to see her, hold her, kiss her. That was the only thing I wanted. I was entirely sure that she hadn’t broken up with me. There was no way she would let something as ridiculous as a mob of reporters scare her away, even if it were annoying. And she’d lost clients before—we all had.

It must have been a moment of weakness—that’s what I had been telling myself since she had come to visit and dropped her bomb. Bailey had been dealing with everything alone, and I can’t imagine how difficult it had been for her. It had been difficult for me, and very little ever got me down like this situation.

When my mother died and Bailey broke up with me the first time. That was it.

“Are you sure, Mr. Bradford?”

The driver was eying the crowd milling around the house as he inched the car down the street—someone would notice us soon, and then it would be too late.

“I’m sure.”

I had to get to Bailey. I had to help her see that what she was feeling was temporary, that all this was temporary. Especially since I was free, all charges dropped.

Like animals on the Savannah, a paparazzo was the first to notice the black car. He began snapping pictures, which alerted the others, who came running to the curb. The driver had to slow down and inch his way forward to be able to pull into the driveway.

“Thanks for the ride,” I told him.

“Of course, Mr. Bradford,” he replied, looking back over his shoulder at me again. I could read his thoughts from his pinched expression—he didn’t understand why I hadn’t accepted his offer to go around the back, especially as the reporters and cameras surrounded the car, the flashes echoing through the interior.

Steeling myself, one hand braced on the front seat, I told him, “Take care of yourself” and opened the door.

I wasn’t a big movie star or some playboy billionaire. I had been on the red carpets of charity events and had even had to hire someone to help me learn to look more natural in photos because it was “good for the company.” But I didn’t have photographers following me everywhere, hiding in pushes to get a candid shot, or waiting outside of my home just to try to catch me in some compromising position that would make them rich.

The wall of sound, people, and questions that hit me almost knocked me back. I was glad I was taller than half the people there, and I shouldered my way through, ignoring the requests for comment thrown at me as I grew flustered, just trying to make my way to the door.

“Why did they release you?”

“Are you actually innocent of the charges?”

“Liam, is there new evidence in your case?”

“Mr. Bradford, why did your fiancée move out?”

I was at the front porch and nearly fell up the step at the last question. Whipping around, I surveyed the faces around me, even as the sound of shutters clicking continued around me. I didn’t know who had asked the question.

“What?”