Page 16 of Charmed by You

“Trapped?” He puts down the carafe and looks at me. “In yourfancy child star life?”

“Fuck. You.” I stand up, wishing I could just walk away fromthis guy. From his comments and questions and bullshit assumptions about someshiny perfect childhood, when the reality is I always felt like a prisoner inmy own damn life.

But that’s not something I talk about, and now this bastardis painting some damned rosy picture, and because I was too stupid to insistthat Ryan assign Leah, I’m stuck like glue to Mr. Holier Than Thou becausesomeone is trying to kill me, and I really don’t know how—

Fuck.

My heart is racing and the world has gone blurry, and Irealize I’m looking at him through tears. I push back the chair, then move theshort distance to the couch. I kick off my shoes, then settle into the corner,my feet curled under me. There’s an olive green throw pillow, and I pull itclose, then hug it tight to my chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I do not show vulnerability, and I do not cry inpublic. Not ever.

And yet here I am, about to lose it to a waterfall of tearsand sobs in front of this utter and complete a-hole, and I don’t know if it’sbecause he brought up my dad or because he’s a jerk or because I’m just plainscared.

“Frannie…” He’s standing at the end of the sofa looking downat me, his face full of contrition.

“It’s Francesca,” I snap. “Just leave me alone.”

He frowns, then sits on the opposite end of the sofa.

I start to get up—if nothing else, I can find the bathroom,lock the door, and hide alone in there. But he puts his hand lightly on myknee.

“Hey,” he says.

I want to slap it away. Hell, I want to run away.

Instead, the tears start to fall, and right then all Ireally want to do is sink into these cushions and disappear.

“Francesca,” he says, “I’m sorry.” It’s that gentle voicethat does me in. I can feel the band inside me that’s been holding everything.It’s tight, stretched to the limit, and now it just snaps, and all the wordsinside me come flying out, my voice hard and harsh and full of tears.

“I have done nothing—nothing—to give you reason tobe such a goddamn prick to me, and every time I think that maybe you’re goingto be just a tiny bit human, you prove me wrong. But I’ve let you under myskin. I’ve hired you. Hell, I’ve trusted you. And then you go andslash me with a knife. So you tell me, Simon. Why are you here? Why are you theone protecting me when as far as I can tell, you couldn’t care less if I liveor die. Why, why, why?”

Chapter Six

Simon forced himself not to cringe.

He had no idea what had actually set her off. Something morethan the fact that he’d basically called her a spoiled child star, that was forsure. Not his most shining moment, but he knew damn well she’d been calledworse in the tabloids.

It wasn’t that.

But damned if he knew what the real trigger was.

Right now, though, it didn’t matter. At the core of it, he’dlit the fuse.

He was an ass, just like she’d said, and he’d been baitingand belittling her since the moment he’d met her. He’d put his own shit betweenthem, and it had sat there like a ticking time bomb until it had finallyexploded.

But, dammit, he wasn’t letting his shit destroy her. Franniewas too damn strong, and he wasn’t going to be the one who broke her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching tentatively to put his handback on her knee. “I’m really sorry. It’s not you.”

She released the pillow long enough to slap his hand away.“Screw you,” she said. “You think you’re so much better than me. You think allI do is playacting. That you’re out there saving people and making the worldsafe for democracy, and that what I do doesn’t matter. But you’re wrong. Mywork matters, too. I give people an escape. I give them empathy.”

She drew a breath, and he almost started to speak, but shecontinued on, her words coming out like the rat-a-tat of a machine gun.

“I give them something to talk about, to bond about. Andsometimes I even save lives, too. And maybe you don’t believe me, but I canremember the name of every girl who wrote me a letter after I did a TV movieabout anorexia when I was eighteen. And do you know how many suicide centershad an increase in calls—in saves—after one of my television moviesback in the day aired? Do you have any idea at all how many people write me tosay that they saw themselves in one of my characters? Who thank me for playinga character who got through the bad stuff and was stronger at the end? Do youhave any idea—any fucking idea—of how much that can impact people?”

He swallowed, his mouth dry. He didn’t want to have thisconversation. But he had to. If nothing else, he owed her that.

So he drew in a breath, released it, and said, very simply,“No.”