Page 63 of Under His Obsession


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Khloe

WE STAND BEHIND a barrier and watch the adult parade make its way down Main Street. Honestly, I’ve never seen a carnival quite like the one they throw here in Saint Thomas. Women dressed in pink boots, colorful bikinis, headpieces and fluffy angel wings dance down the street to the music of “Soca Kingdom.” Another troupe comes behind them, and I gasp when I see the women bending forward, twerking, and the men holding their hips, simulating sex.

“Whoa,” I say to Will, who turns and grins at me.

He playfully wags his eyebrows. “A little racier than you thought?”

“Definitely not the kind of parade I’m used to.”

He jerks his head to the left. “Want to go?”

“Nope.”

Chuckling, Will puts his arm around me, and the guilt circling my stomach jumps into my throat. For the past week, I’ve been making secret phone calls, gathering information. And just the other night, I finally got hold of Avery Roberts, the journalist who’d caught Will with his pants down.

I sort of told her I was doing a follow-up story, a small lie, and asked how she managed to get him in such a compromising situation. I hinted that I wanted something just as racy for the headline. She was reluctant to talk at first, but when she mentioned that she had a hatred of rich, arrogant men and I fully agreed, she loosened up a bit and admitted she once hit on Will and he stone-cold rejected her. That’s when it occurred to me she was out for blood, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. Those pictures had always felt a bit off to me, and now I know why.

The more we talked, the more she let slip, and I eventually learned she was behind the pictures—she’d personally set Will up to fall. Apparently, she’d contacted the girl who was to dance at Will’s bachelor party and paid her off to slip a roofie into his drink. Later that night, the stripper had led him to the bedroom and left a window open in the back of the house so Avery could get in to take the illicit pictures.

The sheer horror of what she’d done—that she could destroy a good man’s life on purpose—left me speechless, and that never happens to me. Avery hadn’t just been out for a headline, she’d been out for revenge. As I mull that over now, my heart aches for the man and all he lost simply because some reporter wanted to get even.

As my stomach cramps, I once again try to figure out how to tell him. I can’t keep that information to myself, but I’m not sure how to say it. I nearly blurted it out the other night when he was barbecuing, but something horrible and selfish had stopped me. I’m stupidly falling for the man—how could I not—and once he knows the truth, he’ll go back to Naomi, the woman he’s never stopped loving. I hate myself right now, and I have to figure out how to tell him because he’s a good man, and he deserves the truth. He deserves the happiness he was denied.

My phone buzzes, and I unzip my purse to grab it. My damn heart jumps into my throat when the word Starlight lights up my screen. Crap, it’s my old boss. I angle the phone so Will can’t see it and shove it

into the back pocket of my shorts.

“Aren’t you going to answer?” he asks.

“No, it’s not important.”

He looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t push. In a few short days, we’ll be headed back to the real world, and I’ll deal with Benjamin then. For now, I’m going to ignore his calls. But I can’t deny that I am curious. Why is he suddenly reaching out to me? Has he had a change of heart? Even if he has, I’m not going back to Starlight. I’d rather starve. But that won’t happen for at least a couple of months. Assistant to Will Carson pays well. One of his rules is he never hires the same woman twice. But I wonder if he’d make an exception. Bend the rules for me.

Good God, girl, get it together.

He doesn’t want more, and once he finds out he was set up, he’ll be begging Naomi to come back.

Why, oh why, did I go and fall for him?

We watch the parade until the end, and when the crowd begins to disperse, Will puts his hand on my back and leads me down the street.

“How about we try some local cuisine?” he says as music blares from a band playing on the corner nearby and people bustle about. Will pulls me closer before I get lost in the hustle.

“Sounds like a great idea,” I say, trying to push a little enthusiasm past the lump in my throat.

His eyes narrow in on me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” I give him a little nudge. “Just thinking about what we might cross off the list tonight.” He laughs at that, and we make our way to the food tables. Will points out all the traditional food—everything from fungi, which is made with salted cornmeal, water and okra, to callaloo, a soup made from leafy greens, okra and meat. He stops at the table serving deep-fried pastry stuffed with chicken, beef, fish or vegetables. He rubs his stomach.

“Pâté. Mmm. My favorite.”

“They look yummy.”

“Want to try?” Since I can tell he does, I nod. “I’ll grab us a couple,” he says, and pulls his wallet from his pocket. He hands over a stack of bills and in return receives six different pastries. “There’s a free table over there.” He gestures with a nod. “Grab it, and I’ll get us a couple painkillers.”

“Painkillers?”

He laughs. “It’s a local drink made with rum, pineapple juice, coconut and orange juice.”

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