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My heart pounds harder, and I increase my pace. I have to get him out of here before—well, maybe it’s a nonissue. These are kids from disadvantaged homes, they probably don’t have—
Snap, snap, snap.
Too late.
Where there are tweens, there are cellphones and, therefore, cameras.
“Finley,” I yell over my shoulder. “Confiscate the cellphones!”
Without question, she jumps into action, calling out to the other counselors to help her—hopefully, before anyone has a chance to text or snap or whatever the kids are doing these days.
“Get back in the car,” I hiss at Blake.
He lifts his hands. “Only if you agree to talk to me.”
“Do I have a choice?” Anger and frustration boil through my veins. I want to scream. “Get in the car, Blake.”
He motions to the passenger door, brows raised, waiting.
With a growl I get in.
He finally complies after I do, sliding back into the car and shutting the door.
I really hope Finley is able to confiscate the photos before any hit the Internet. That’s all we need, a story all over social media about Blake showing up at my childhood home, complete with images of me getting into his car with him.
“Go up the drive,” I bark at him.
“I’m really digging the warm greeting, Mindy. It’s pretty sexy.”
“Just drive.”
He finally cooperates, guiding the car around the bus. I direct him to park in front of the house and then I hop out like the seat is on fire.
I can’t talk to him in his car, the space is too confined, and I might punch him in his stupid face. I wait for him to get out.
After a second, the door pops open and he faces me.
He gestures to the house. “Can we go inside to talk?”
I shake my head. “No. What are you doing here?”
He ducks his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s cold out here. Can we please go inside?”
Is it cold? A blaze of fury is heating me from the inside out.
“No. You should have brought a coat. What are you doing here, Blake?” I repeat.
He sighs. “You weren’t replying to any of my texts or calls.”
Is he deluded? Dumb question. Of course he is. “Why would I?”
His chin dips, and he kicks at a rock in the drive with the tip of his Air Jordans. “I heard you’re doing well. I listened to some of the work you’ve done with this”–his nose wrinkles—“Luke person. The buzz is that you’re making a comeback and that your new label will be a real contender.”
It just might be. Of course, it would help if he would stop talking about me in interviews and writing songs about me and showing up where he’s not wanted, but I don’t want to tell him that. I can’t tell him that. I know Blake. Trying to tell him what to do is like trying to tell the world not to turn. He’s going to do what he wants, and any demands will likely just make him dig in his heels.
I need him to leave, so I remain silent.
“I wanted to congratulate you. And see you.” He takes a step closer.
