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Corey was fuming. He started the truck and backed out before he’d given her a chance to close the passenger door.
“Jesus,” Taran snapped as the door smacked shut, but he ignored her, turning up the radio. “Country?”
“Three years in Houston,” was his only reply.
Neither of them said another word.
Bringing her was a terrible idea, but he didn’t know what else to do, and he refused to read about Clayton on every news outlet tomorrow. His stomach bottomed out at just the idea of that.
Hot Shots, Corey and Clayton’s all-in-one agent, publicist, and financial adviser firm, had made the right call when they told Clayton to stay away from the media. He was already a big name, so Hot Shots suggested driving his brand up by not being available. But it had made the media crazy for anything to do with Clay. A story focused on him whining about hating the teams that wanted him would blow up the twenty-four-hour news cycle and kill a top draft pick for him. The story would be a big deal, so Taran Murphy had left him between a rock and a hard place, and the bitch knew it.
He stewed as he drove, getting angrier by the minute. It had been stupid to leave the tunnel’s safety on the phone. But conversations with the Evanses weren’t usually filled with newsworthy information, so he hadn’t considered someone overhearing.
He slammed the truck into park as soon as he stopped in Beth and Marc’s driveway and turned to the silent woman next to him.
“I get final say in the article about Clayton—I see it and approve it before you publish anything,” he demanded.
She shrugged.
“Is that a yes? Because I can’t tell with that ugly ass shirt you’re wearing.”
“Okay, whatever.” Her indifference wasn’t comforting.
“No, I want it in writing. Now.” He pushed her back into the seat and reached into the glove compartment. He pulled out the first thing he saw and thrust it at her.
“Is this an RSVP card?” Taran asked, distracting Corey from searching through the center console for a pen. “Mel Holly’s wedding?”
Shit.
“Give me that.” He yanked the ivory card back from Taran. The last thing he wanted to talk about with a reporter was his famous ex-girlfriend’s upcoming wedding. Hell, neither Mel nor he had ever officially confirmed their almost two-year relationship to anyone in the media, and he wasn’t starting with Miss “In Case You Didn’t Know.”
“Hmm.”
But before she could say more, he flung a different piece of paper at her along with a pen before folding and pocketing the RSVP card.
“What do you want me to do with this insurance card?” she asked, raising a thin black eyebrow at him.
“Flip it over and take dictation. I, Taran Murphy, promise to give Corey Matthews the final say in any articles, blogs, tweets, stories, or anything publicly viewed that I write about the Evans or Demoda families. And then sign it.” His tone was ice, one that he almost never used, but he was pissed—no one messed with the closest thing he had to family.
She shrugged again, wrote something, signed it and handed it back to him. “There.”
She’d written exactly what he’d said in big bubbly writing, and she’d even signed her name with a heart after the y. He sneered at it. She sure had cutesy handwriting for a woman who looked like a homeless preteen boy.
“Fine, let’s go,” he said, knowing that had been almost too easy. But he got out of his car and headed inside without looking back.
The commotion of a crowd came from the kitchen at the back of the house. He knew Nick, Grant, and Clayton weren’t in town, but the other four Evans brothers might be there, considering how loud it was. It was odd to hear music, but the laughter wasn’t out of place.
“Is there a bathroom?” Taran asked.
Corey pointed to the door to their left before leaving the stupid woman. It was a relief to have a few minutes to enjoy the Evanses before he had to explain her. He cracked his neck, forcing himself to relax, and smiled as he sauntered into the kitchen.
“The hero has arrived,” he said, and Beth looked away from the commotion going on across the room.
“We all saw the third,” she said pointedly as she stood at the counter, her blond curls surrounding her tired face. He was sure she’d rather be in bed, but she’d never kick them out.
“You wrecked it again, Luke,” Danny complained from across the room.
