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“I realize it won’t be easy,” I say, hating that my voice shakes. “But better than me being ambushed by reporters out for a story.”
He stops pacing and his head snaps up. “That won’t happen.”
The hard conviction tells me his comment isn’t a hollow promise. “What do you mean?”
“Just trust me on that.”
“No! Tell me what you mean, why you’re so certain.”
His stance is poised for battle and his expression doesn’t yield even as he answers. “Any reporter would have to go through Stiles or one of his men to get to you. And that’s not possible. They’re all ex-cops or former military. Stopping reporters would be child’s play to them.”
My head spins as my brain clambers to assemble that I have highly trained bodyguards and that Mick hadn’t said a word about it until now. Under duress.
“You’re having me followed.” It’s not a question. “Talk about an invasion of my privacy. I thought I had to worry about the press, not the man I’m sleeping with.”
“Christ, Dee. I’m not tracking your whereabouts. I’m doing what’s necessary to protect you.”
“Just another precaution,” I retort.
“Yes.”
“Unbelievable.” I grab my robe off the foot of the bed and pull it on before letting go of the sheet. Furious with him, I yank the belt into a knot.
“You’re mad that I’m protecting you?” he asks incredulously.
“How can you not get this?” I glare at him through the web of hair that has fallen across my face. “I’m mad that you didn’t tell me. That you had no intention of telling me.”
“I didn’t want to alarm you.”
“So, you decided what was best. Making the decisions. Taking over my life.”
He crosses to me and grips my arms. “You think I want to control you, Dee? I don’t. You think I want to take away your independence? You’re wrong. But I have to balance that with protecting you from the very thing you told me you didn’t want.” He lowers his hands to my waist, and when he speaks next, his tone is gentle. “I’m not taking over, baby. I’m taking care of you.”
With that, he expects me to fall into his big, strong arms and let his deep-voiced reassurances pacify me. And just like Friday night when he faced the press while Stiles took me home, and just like yesterday when he assured me that I didn’t have to worry about his fame, he’ll feel better for having soothed my fears, and I’ll feel safe, snuggled up in my cozy bubble of blissful avoidance.
And God help me, I’m tempted to fall right into that comfortable pattern. But I know all too well as he looks at me with those dark brown eyes awaiting my surrender, that if I continue to passively go along, soon neither of us will respect me very much anymore.
“I understand that you want to shield me from the media. I’ve given you every reason to think that I need you to. But…” I continue on a surge of resolve. “You can’t just hire bodyguards for me without my input. You can’t just decide ‘no’ to a press release without involving me. That’s not how relationships work. Your fame isn’t yours to handle alone anymore. We’re in this together.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want it touching you, Dee.”
“That’s not possible.” I bracket his cheeks between my palms. “You can’t protect the people you love from everything. You can’t protect me from this.”
He recoils as if I’d struck him.
“Mick,” I whisper, hurting for him that I’d spoken a truth he can’t bear to hear. “I—”
His hand lifts to silence me. His expression shutters. He blocks me out and tugs open the drawer I’d given him just yesterday, and changes into running gear.
“Y-you’re leaving?”
“I can’t be here right now.” Then turning, he stalks out of the room.
Shaken, I watch his retreating back, and minutes later hear the front door close with a resounding click. Abandonment is a powerful trigger. Even as my adult-self registers that Mick hasn’t really left me, that scared little girl inside isn’t quite convinced.
The last time I saw Benjamin Chase was the morning after my fourth birthday. I remember sitting at the round kitchen table, eating leftover cake from the box. It had pink flowers and white buttercream icing. Food was my mother’s way of keeping me occupied and content.
They were fighting again. As a truck driver, my dad wasn’t often around, but when he was, all they did was fight. I don’t know what started it that time. His job, probably. But I could hear them in their bedroom. He shouted that he couldn’t take it anymore. That he was sick and tired of her moods. That she needed help. She cried and screamed. Words I couldn’t decipher through her sobs. I heard something crash. More yelling. Then my father stormed from the room, a duffle bag in his hand. She chased after him. Hitting his back, spitting out curses. Accusing him of always leaving her alone with me.
