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A flash of light blinds me, and a horde of shouts echoes into the house.
“Where’s Tate?”
“Are you his mistress?”
“Why did he turn to drugs?”
I stumble backward, stunned at the mob of people standing on the porch with their cameras and cell phones aimed at me.
“What the fu—Get out of here!” Tate appears, dragging me behind him. “This is private property.”
They don’t listen and, with their target in sight, they go berserk. The flashes multiply, the shouting rises; they give us no space to breathe, let alone speak.
“How long have you been an addict?”
“Why are you hiding from your fans?”
“Are you going to apologize?”
They’re relentless. Tate goes to slam the door in their faces when a figure at the end of the drive catches my attention. A panicked Harriet stands amid the chaos, Ethan’s car seat hanging from her arm, as they block her from getting into her car. Tate must spot her too because he curses before barging through the paparazzi. I take off after him, dodging camera lenses and elbows. They don’t care about me, and follow after Tate.
“Move out of the way!” Tate barks.
Ethan’s petrified squeals pierce the air, and Harriet does her best to soothe him while trying to avoid getting trampled on. A particularly burly man knocks into her as he tries to get a shot of Tate.
Gone is the typically laid-back Tate. He shoves the guy in the chest and covers Harriet with his body. “Can you not see there’s a baby here? Have some fucking respect.”
“Harry, quick. Follow me.” I hold out my hand for her and escort her back up the path, jabbing everyone out of the way.
They’ve appeared out of nowhere, and I fear now they know where Tate lives there’s no stopping them. It isn’t a gated property, meaning anyone could waltz off the street and approach the house.
We reach the front door, and I guide Harriet and Ethan inside first. Tate is still on the front lawn, phone pressed to his ear, to whom I can only presume are the cops, when I’m rammed from behind. I fall to my hands and knees, scraping them along the pebbled path.
“Talia!” Tate roars.
He gets to me in record time, scooping me up in his arms before glaring at the guy who shoved me.
“Shit. Sorry. She got in the way.” He lowers his camera.
I think Tate’s about to smash it to pieces. Anger pulsates from him. “She? This is my fucking wife.” Tate turns to me, inspecting me over, and when he sees the cuts on my palms and knees. His nostrils flare as he turns his attention back to the man. “Take your shit and get off our property.”
“It was an accident.” He has every right to look petrified. This isn’t the Tate Brooks they know; the one who woos the cameras and dazzles his fans. He isn’t a violent man, yet there’s a brutality in the way he stares down this stranger. It shouldn’t thrill me.
It absolutely does.
I should call my therapist.
For now, I soak up the protective fierceness.
Tate strides forward, but I tug at the collar of his T-shirt. “Leave him. Let’s check on Harriet.”
It’s enough to make him pause. He gives me those blue eyes. One look at me has him pivoting on his heel, pounding up the steps and into the house. He’s about to slam the door closed with his foot until he sees Harriet consoling Ethan and shuts it softly with his butt.
He still doesn’t put me down as he walks over to her, voice hushed. “Are you both okay?”
She nods, a little breathless from the commotion. “All the shouting startled him. I should’ve called ahead, but I thought I’d stop by and see how you’re both doing.”
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Harry. I was hoping it would take them longer to work out where I lived.”
