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14
SKY
Do paparazzi have a Christmas holiday?
No. They don’t.
Are Dylan and me allowed a normal Christmas?
Apparently not.
I honestly thought we had time before announcing we were married, but one slip up by Dylan and the world wants to know every detail. Mum’s phone constantly rings, the press camp outside the house, and one or two cheeky bastards even attempt to persuade us to answer the door.
The curtains remained drawn as we pretend this isn’t happening; that Christmas normality exists. I give credit to the determined pack who sit in their cars in the freezing cold weather, but they won’t get a picture of me. No way.
“I told you this was a mistake,” Mum remarks as I help her prepare vegetables in the kitchen.
“Marrying Dylan?”
“No, trying to hide it.”
I rip the peel from the potatoes, twice as fast as I usually would. “We managed to hide our wedding, which is what we wanted. Okay, we made a mistake not telling people, but the main reason was we didn’t want to overshadow Liam and Cerys.”
Dylan appears in the doorway. The dark look he started the day with had lifted, but now it’s firmly back on his face. “Can I talk to you, Sky?” he asks in a low voice.
My heart races. “What’s happened?”
He inclines his head to indicate I should follow him, and I set down the vegetable peeler. I follow Dylan into the back of the house, where the blinds are pulled down in the conservatory to block out intruding eyes.
“Dylan?”
He slings his phone onto the table. “I’m really sorry. I thought you should know. I don’t want you to think I’m hiding this.”
“What?” I snatch it from the table. Every muscle in my body stiffens as I look at the image on screen.
A grainy picture of Dylan and me in Bali, taken on the beach. I’m in my wedding dress talking to Tara; in a second image, I’m kissing Dylan.
Our perfect moment shredded.
I grip the phone. “Bastards. Who the hell...?”
“Not somebody involved with the wedding or resort; otherwise, the pictures would be better quality.” He swipes his thumb across the screen. Dylan and me in the water at the beach. And my worst nightmare. I’d somehow avoided this moment in the time we’d travelled earlier this year.
A photo of me in a blue bikini.
I scowl. “Well, at least the shot isn’t close enough to give a run down on the size of my ass or all the imperfections a normal woman has.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your ass,” says Dylan with a small smile.
“I know there isn’t,” I retort. “But this is bullshit. Can someone find out who sold the pictures?”
“Probably.”
“Can we sue them?”
“What’s the point, Sky?”
I sink onto the cushioned wicker chair and grit my teeth. “Will this ever stop?”
