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She isn’t mine. And she never will be.
This is just a retreat, a weekend of some fun. This isn’t a long-term thing—that would require love.
And Blake Ford doesn’t do love.
When we arrive at the retreat, I glance at Rachel. She looks out of the window with awe on her face and the idea that I’m impressing her makes me giddy.
“Is this all yours?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s easier to control the paparazzi and which guests join us when I own it—we’ve tried a few places over the years and this is the simplest way to stop any rats from getting in.”
“Oh, you mean rats like…”
“Journalists posing as guests to get the scoop,” I say.
She giggles and I know she thought about real rats for a second. I smile.
“It’s sad,” she adds, her smile fading.
“What?”
“That you have to barricade yourself like this just to be able to enjoy yourself.”
I shrug. “It comes with the territory.” I don’t see it as a sad event that I must protect myself. It’s something I’ve done my whole life. At some point, I got used to always looking over my shoulder. When I look at Rachel, who lives a normal life, I’m overcome with jealousy. What is it like to walk around and not be recognized, to not have to be suspicious about every person? I can’t imagine a life like that—even before I was anyone special, I was looking over my shoulder.
The first few years after running away, I was terrified my dad would appear around every corner, grab me by the collar and fuck me up good and proper before he dragged me back home.
When that didn’t happen, and I started making money and earning a reputation, my suspicions didn’t go away; they only shifted from seeing a familiar face to not being able to trust strangers.
“It’s still sad,” Rachel says.
“We don’t always get the luxury of letting go of the past,” I said.
Where did that come from? I didn’t mean to say that.
But Rachel doesn’t ask what I mean, so I have to hedge about what exactlymy pastis. Instead, she nods.
“That’s all too true.”
That shifts the focus from me to her. What’s in her past that she feels the need to get away from?
“Tell me,” I say.
“What?” She blinks at me.
I clear my throat. “Tell me about your past and what you mean about not being able to let go.”
Rachel raises her eyebrows. “It’s not something I like to talk about. You’re very demanding.”
I bristle, but she’s right. I have no right to ask about something she doesn’t want to confide in me about. And I have no right to make demands.
“Sorry,” I concede. “Force of habit.”
“You’re so used to having to order everyone around. Don’t you have friends you can just be yourself around?”
I shake my head, realizing that this sounds just as sad.
“Emma is the only person who doesn’t work directly for me. And I even pay her… she’s my personal trainer.”
