Page 103 of My Fallen Saint

Chapter Thirty-One

Is SoCal’s Most Reclusive & Eligible Bachelor Off the Market?

That headline and a dozen variations on the theme scream at us from the screens of our phones as we land at the executive airport. And if that’s not bad enough, each and every headline is accompanied by a photo. Devlin and I in front of the RV with his hand between my legs. Devlin and I in front of the RV with his hand on my breast and our lips locked together. Some clever posters even turned the two photos into a gif, and one even has us burst into flames before the video starts over again.

Most posts identify me as an unknown woman. But one names me and identifies me as a reporter for The Spall Monthly. Which not only makes me queasy, but also makes me want to punch someone.

The only saving grace is that the airport near Laguna Cortez is private. Which means that we’re able to get in the car Anna has sent for us—one with nicely tinted windows—and get hurried past the crowd that has gathered outside the gates, cell phones in hand.

As soon as we’re past them, Devlin lashes out, kicking the back of the empty passenger seat in front of him. There’s a soundproof barrier between us and the driver, but I have a feeling the driver’s not at all surprised by the soundless outburst.

I take his hand, and he squeezes hard. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so damn sorry.”

“What on earth for? For kissing me? Because I’m not sorry at all.”

“For this. All of this bullshit. And for the fact that I took us there.”

“This bullshit sucks, but it’s part of your life. It’s not like I didn’t know that. Hell, I tried to research you before I came. It wasn’t easy.”

“Ellie…”

“And it’ll blow over. You’ve been photographed with women before, right? I’m just one of the crowd.”

His head whips around, and he faces me, his expression fiercer than I’ve ever seen.

“I am,” I insist. “You said yourself I’m going back, right? Whether I want to or not,” My voice is low. Intentionally steady. “You said last night you won’t be with me.”

He doesn’t answer, but he turns slowly forward, then bends at the waist and buries his face in his hands.

I watch him, grappling for something to say, but I can’t find the words. Thousands upon thousands of words in print, and I can’t even conjure one that fits this moment.

For a moment I just sit there feeling helpless, then jump as my phone rings. It’s Roger, and though I consider letting it go to voicemail, I answer it.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “Hell of a day, huh?”

I bite my lip. Apparently he’s seen the posts. “I’ve had better,” I admit.

“Yeah, well, I hope it was worth it, because I’m about to make it worse. I’m killing the profile.”

I wince, my entire body pulling inward in a full body cringe. “Roger, please. Just let me—”

“Not even open for discussion,” he said. “It’s dead. Come on, Ellie. What else can I do?”

“Let me rewrite it. Take out the references to Devlin. Focus on The Beyond Project and not the DSF. Hell, take my byline off. Those women, those kids. They deserve to have their stories told.”

“Yeah,” he says. “They do. And I’m still killing the story.”

Devlin’s looking at me, and I turn away, not wanting him to see my face, because I know this is going to feel like another stab in his back. “Are you firing me?”

“Let’s say you’re on probation. And I need you back here for a new assignment.”

I swallow. “When?”

“Soon.” He makes a rough noise in his throat. “Sorry, kid. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I’ve got your back. And the best way for this to blow over is for you to get back to the office. I’m only your editor, remember? I’ve got eyes on me, too.”

“Right.” It feels as if all the air has left my body. “Yeah. I get it.”

“Hey. I am sorry. And for what it’s worth, Devlin Saint seems like a class act. God knows his foundation does a lot of good. But, well, you know the mandate, and perception plays a huge part in credibility.”