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Damage control?
Damage?
I place my laptop down on the desk carefully, my head spinning. Why is it suddenly so freaking hot in here? I’m sweating under my clothes; struggling to catch a full breath. Tudor watches us both from the seat next to mine, his mouth flattened in a line.
“I, um.” Damage control? Seriously? I got this all so, so wrong. “I need a coffee too, actually.” Dex frowns in confusion, his broad forehead creasing, but I push to my feet, only wobbling a little. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
Later, once I’ve duct taped my crumbling heart back together. Later, when I can be cool and unflustered by Dex referring to our relationship as damage.
Because of course he doesn’t want anyone to know about me. I’m young and clearly naive. A liability. And I’m supposed to be a temporary presence here, right? The last thing Dex Kincaid probably wants is me getting silly ideas in my head, falling for the first man who ever touched my body.
Jeez.
I’m such a cliche, aren’t I?
I need to get the hell off this tour and go back home where I belong.
“London.” Dex catches my elbow when I start to leave, but I pull my arm away. “Something’s wrong, I can tell. What is it, baby? I’ll make that article go away, I promise. You won’t ever have to worry about it again.”
No kidding.
Because I’ll be far, far away.
“Coffee,” I rasp, stumbling toward the exit. “There’s nothing wrong, Dex. I’ll see you later, okay?”
I can’t get out of here fast enough.
Ten
Dex
Silence rings through the studio as London leaves, my muscles straining against my bones. She just lied to me. Told me everything is fine, when it’s clearly fucking not. What the hell just happened?
Tudor blows out a harsh breath. “Man. That was not good.”
“No shit.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, and god, I hate asking another man’s help to read London’s mood, but she’s upset and I’m desperate. I’ll take any guidance I can get. “Make sense of this for me.”
“She liked the picture,” he says, like it was obvious. “The article didn’t bother her. You acting like the sky was falling did, though, Chicken Little.”
Ass.
I swallow hard, my throat tight and aching. Doesn’t London know it’s her I’m worried for? Her I’m trying to protect? Always her. She owns my heart, my thoughts, my goddamn soul.
“You know what people will say about her and me.” I can barely force the words out. “They’ll call her a gold digger. Say she has daddy issues. They’ll say all kinds of shit.” And I can’t stand it, because London deserves so much better. She deserves respect.
But Tudor shrugs, already frowning at his pages of music again. Bored with my nonsense. “It’s not like she has to listen, Kincaid. She knows that, even if you don’t.”
“Jefferson…” I begin.
There’s a snort. “Do you really care what he thinks anymore? I know you were close once, but come on.”
That’s fair. But: “London wants to be a writer.”
Tudor rolls his eyes. “And are you going to stop her?”
No. Obviously not, and I’m running out of excuses.
I just…
