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Her heart had grown calluses, and she didn’t believe a word of it. “You’ll say anything to avoid a public rift, but I’m done with faking it just so people I don’t know will believe I’m someone I’m not. I’m ordering Aaron to stop talking to the press. And this time, I’ll make sure he does what I say.”
“The hell you are.” The transformation started in his eyes, where cold calculation shifted into mulish determination. And then he went a little nuts. He gave her a hard kiss then half pushed, half shoved her ahead of him toward the back hallway. “You’re coming with me.”
She tripped over her feet, but he had too tight a grip for her to fall. “Let go!”
“I’m taking you for a ride,” he retorted.
“Like that’s something new.”
“Shut up.” He pushed her ahead of him into the garage. He wasn’t rough, but he wasn’t exactly gentle either. “It’s time you understand exactly how much I value my respectable reputation.” He looked like the wild man of his past.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“We’ll see about that. I’m stronger than you are, I’m meaner than you are, and I’m a hell of a lot more desperate.”
Her fury burned hotter. “If you’re so desperate, why didn’t you try to talk to me as soon as you finished casting Helene? Why didn’t you—”
“Because I had something I needed to do first!” He shoved her into the car, and the next thing she knew, they were shooting down the drive and out through the gates with two black SUVs peeling after them.
He turned the air conditioner on full blast, too cold for her bare legs and thin T-shirt, but she didn’t ask him to turn it down. She didn’t talk at all. He drove like a maniac, but she was too angry to care. He wanted to break her heart all over again.
They hit Robertson Boulevard, which was bustling with Saturday-afternoon shoppers. She leaned forward in her seat as he screeched to a stop at the valet station in front of The Ivy, the paparazzi’s second home. “Why are you stopping here?”
“So we can make a promotional appearance.”
“You’re not serious.” One of the paps spotted them and tried to photograph them through the windshield. She’d left the beach house without a stitch of makeup. Her hair was a mess, her T-shirt exactly the wrong shade of blue to go with her wrinkled turquoise shorts, and she’d pulled on her beach sneakers instead of sandals. “I’m not getting out dressed like this.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t care about image, remember?”
“There’s a big difference between not caring about image and going to a decent restaurant in dirty shorts and grimy sneakers!”
Three more photographers pressed against the car, with others darting through the traffic to get to them from across the street.
“We’re not eating,” he said. “And I think you’re beautiful.” He jumped out of the car, transferred a wad of bills to the valet, and muscled his way through the shouting photographers to open the passenger door for her.
Mismatched T-shirt and wrinkled shorts. Bad hair, no makeup…and a husband who just might love her but probably didn’t. With a sense of unreality, she got out.
Mayhem erupted. They hadn’t been seen together in weeks, and all the paparazzi starting shouting at once.
“Bram! Georgie! Over here!”
“Where have you two been?”
“Georgie, is Mel Duffy lying about your meeting?”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Are you still together?”
“What’s up with the outfit, Georgie?”
Bram wrapped an arm around her and pushed through the crowd toward the brick steps. “Give us some room, guys. You’ll get your pictures. Just let us have some room.”
Pedestrians gaped on the sidewalk, patio diners craned their necks, and a trio of perfectly dressed purse designers interrupted their conversation to stare. Georgie briefly considered asking to borrow a little lip gloss, but there was something wildly liberating about standing in front of the world looking her worst.
He put his mouth to her ear. “Who needs to call a press conference when we’ve got The Ivy?”
“Bram, I—”
