TWENTY

Jared

“Did you see it?”

It’s not uncommon for Brian to forfeit a greeting when he calls, but this morning I detect anxiety in his tone that’s not normally present. He has me at a loss; I have no idea what he’s talking about.

Could be because my mind is still filled with the sound of Mia trying to stifle her cries in a pillow, after I made her come with my mouth, early this morning. Or the time after that, when she was pressed up against the shower wall, her moans drowned out by the water as I plunged into her from behind. It’s like these weeks of restraint have ramped up my hunger for her to a point where I’ve become insatiable. In these past two nights, I’ve easily made up for my recent lack of action in that department. Still, it’s not enough. I’m afraid it’ll never be enough. Not with her.

The only reason I’m not still in bed with her is because I noticed her wince walking out of the shower, reminding that as much as it’s been a while for me, it’s literally been ages for her. So instead of letting her get dressed, I urged her to crawl back in bed while I saw about some breakfast. She didn’t argue, just curled up under the sheets I covered her with.

I snatched up the phone, without checking caller ID, the moment it rang, not wanting to wake anyone. It takes me a minute to process who’s talking, and another to try and clue in to what he’s saying.

“See what?” I finally manage.

“The spread in The Sun. Page twenty-three. The entertainment section.”

I’m already walking toward the office before his words are out. Fucking journalists. Although, in all honesty, the asshole from The Sun can hardly be called a journalist. More like paparazzi, lying in wait for a juicy tidbit he can exploit for maximum sales. It’s not the first time he’s done it.

“How bad?” I ask as I boot up my computer.

“For you? Mild. Although being relegated to the entertainment section instead of sports might be considered a direct hit. For your neighbour? Let’s just say it didn’t take him long to dig up dirt.”

His words burn sour in my stomach as I pull up the paper’s website and flip to page twenty-three. Bile crawls up my throat when I see the headline and the collection of images the dirt bag managed to get. Fallen Hockey Hero Hideout.

Right below is a grainy picture of Mia’s porch, taken at night. It shows the barely recognizable image of me holding Mia on the couch. We’re set mostly in shadow, just backlit with the lights from inside. Despite the poor quality, the caption makes it clear who is depicted, including Mia’s full name. It appears that prick had been busy before he showed up in her driveway.

There’s one of Mia in front of her cottage, her arms wrapped around her middle and shock on her face, with the caption Slumming it. And one last one of me opening the front door, shooting an angry glare back at the photographer. No caption on that one, just an insulting piece with a small thumbnail image from a gala event I attended two years ago, with Trinity Hall. At the time, the rumour mill was buzzing about my supposed involvement with the insufferably annoying model. It had been played up like some version of Beauty and the Beast. But that one date had been the total sum of our perceived relationship. One night of listening to that woman had been enough.

Now this guy, Taylor Torrence, is dragging that up again, but putting a new spin on it. What the fuck kind of name is Taylor Torrence anyway? Sounds like a sleazy character in a bad daytime soap. The small caption below the gala image reads: From Beauty To Beast? The story they spin is one that makes my blood boil. Boasting sources who reveal Mia Thompson as a local woman, whose mental problems have forced her into seclusion.

“Sue them,” I bark at Brian. “I don’t care what the cost. I want the newspaper sued for slander, and I want to know who’s been talking to that scumbag.”

“Easy, my friend. The newspaper is one thing, but before you start ripping up the locals for talking, let’s look into it. It may have been an innocent remark twisted out of context. We know that’s been done before.” As always, Brian manages to keep his head when I’m losing mine.

“What the hell?” Mia’s voice sounds from the doorway behind me, and I immediately slap my laptop shut.

“Is that her?” Brian wants to know.

“Yup. Gotta go,” I say, as I turn to find a pale-faced Mia, with her arms once again wrapped around her middle. “Get legal on this.”

“Done. Go do some damage control,” he suggests before he ends the call.

“Come here.” I toss the phone on my desk and hold out my hand to Mia. “Beautiful, come here,” I repeat gently.

“What’s going on?” she demands with more fire in her voice than in her body language.

When she doesn’t make a move toward me, I lean forward, grab her arm, and pull her between my legs. My hands on her hips hold her in place.

“I’m sorry,” I start. “I guess the asshole from your driveway didn’t give up, as I kindly suggested. Looks like he was busy. He posted a bullshit article with some pictures of you. Of us.”

“I want to see,” she says, her hands reaching for my laptop.

“Mia, it’s bullshit. I’m taking care of it.” I try to stop her, but she already has the screen open. I can hardly wrestle the computer away from her, so instead I twist my seat around to where I can pull her down on my lap as she reads.

I don’t have to see what she’s reading. I can feel it in the way her body responds. By the time she reaches the end of the ridiculous piece of garbage, she’s shaking. To my relief she doesn’t bolt, but instead leans her weight back against me. I slip my arms around her waist, covering her own.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, to which she gives her head a sharp shake.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice a little wobbly, and I worry she’s crying. I can only see the side of her face, but it’s turned away from me. I follow her gaze out the window, where her cottage is visible on the other side of the water. “I have nothing to hide. Not anymore.” The wistful tone of her voice cuts me.

“My lawyers will get them to retract the story. It’s all bullshit,” I enforce, giving her body a squeeze.

“Not all,” she says so softly, I can barely hear her.

“Mia...”

She doesn’t let me finish; with sure movements she pushes off my lap and turns to face me, a high blush on her cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, but no tears, just an unfamiliar firm line to her mouth.

“It doesn’t matter,” she dismisses firmly. “You mentioned something about breakfast?”

Not wanting to push things when she looks like she’s hanging on by sheer willpower, I stand up, reach for her hand, and lead her out of the office.

“Bacon and eggs okay?” I ask over my shoulder.

“As long as it comes with coffee, it’s perfect,” she answers, unnaturally bright.

Mia

“Did you see this?”

I’ve just struggled to down a perfectly good breakfast but feel it surging back up at Jordy’s shrill question. She slams a tablet down on the kitchen counter, in front of her brother, and plants her fists on her hips.

“We saw,” he says, throwing a quick glance my way before turning back to her. “Brian’s on it.”

We’d consumed breakfast in silence. Every time he started saying something, I stopped him. More than anything I want to run to my place and hole up inside until I can process this, which is my usual modus operandi, but it’s clear after yesterday’s events and this morning’s discovery, I’m better off here. Doesn’t make it any easier. When you spend years, basically on your own, you start living inside your mind. You have discussions with yourself, even arguments, and you process shit at your own pace. Of course, I’ve had Rueben to drag me out of my head, but it’s still a place where I’m most comfortable. Especially when my emotions are firing off all over the place—like now.

God, I already felt raw after the past few nights with Jared, and I don’t just mean physically. I care. I’m also terrified, unsure, excited, and a whole lot turned on, but most of all I actually care. For the past two days, in this joint seclusion, the world has been kept at large, our only concern the people inside these walls. The nights felt like a vacuum, where Jared and I were each other’s single focus. Nothing breached that bubble. I had no reason to doubt what was happening, what he was saying and making me feel. I was beautiful and special. Right up to where he tucked me back in with a kiss this morning, leaving me to snooze in his soft bed, the tender reminders of his touch putting a smile on my lips.

Reality can be brutal. And it hit me with the force of a Mack truck when I saw those images on his computer. Those words, my God. So crushing and painful. But the truth often is.

I’m surprised I haven’t had a panic attack yet. If there was ever a good reason, I believe this might constitute one. Although the familiar tingles in my arms and legs were there, they never progressed, just petered out when Jared wrapped my body against his. Even now—trying not to listen to the heated communication between siblings, the glaring evidence of my shortcomings staring up at me from Jordy’s tablet—there is no shortness of breath, just a deep sad feeling of loss.

When the baby starts crying, I’m the one who gets up, the other two still talking.

Ole stops complaining the moment I pick him up from his crib. He spit up a little, which probably means Jordy fed him not too long ago. Instead of cleaning him on his change table, I take him, and his towel, straight to the bathroom. He likes his baths and as soon as his little ass hits the warm water in the sink, any strain left on his little face smoothes right out. I love the silence, only broken by the occasional little splash as his hand hits the water. It gives me the mental space I need to sort things out.

It bothers me that Jared keeps apologizing. It’s like he expects me to blame him for having my privacy invaded. I don’t. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to live under the kind of constant scrutiny he’s been exposed to most his life, but this at least gives me a better idea. I know he feels responsible somehow, for the ugly things that guy writes about me, but he’s not. What would it say about me? He has shown to accept me, including the storage facility of mental baggage I drag along, so how hypocritical would it be of me not to accept him, and all that comes with him? Being a victim to public scrutiny is no different than being a victim to stress induced public fear.

I’m not blind. I can see the gorgeous woman in one of the pictures may look like a more appropriate match for him, but it’s clearly not what he wants right now. Who am I to question that?

“How’s he doing?” Jordy asks, when I carry him back into the nursery, where she is rocking in the chair.

“He’s good. Aren’t you, little bruiser?” His tiny body stirs in my hands at the sound of his mother’s voice, and I make quick work of getting him dressed and in her arms.

“And how are you?”

My gaze lifts from where Ole is greedily latching on, to Jordy’s concerned eyes.

“I’m okay,” I tell her with a shrug. “A bit shaken up, I’m not gonna lie, but I’ll be okay.”

“This is the part he’s always hated, you know?” Jordy says softly, lowering her eyes to her son. “Living in a fishbowl, every move you make seen, noted, and recorded. These last months here, he has been so much more relaxed than I can ever remember him being since his career took off. I’ve certainly never seen him look at anyone else the way he looks at you. It’s killing him, that this has touched you.”

“I know,” I assure her.

“He’s going to pull back. I know he is,” she says with tears in her voice. “Men are so stupid. He’ll tell himself it’s the logical thing to do; push you away so this kind of thing won’t affect you.” I keep the chuckle I feel bubbling up inside. I tried doing that with him and failed miserably. And so will he.

“I won’t let him.” My voice is firm as I lean over and give her arm a squeeze.

Then I get up and walk out of the room, down the hall, and right through to the kitchen where Jared is standing at the sink. He turns when he hears me and barely has a chance to open his arms before I walk straight into them.