Saylor, this way. Is it true?
How does it feel stealing Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor away from Jenna Dixon?
Click, click, click.
Are you moving the bakery to Hollywood now?
Is it true he’s only with you because you’re pregnant?
Click, click, click.
Why would you do that to Jenna?
Is he as good in the sack as rumors state?
Click, click, click.
Before I can blink, DeeDee is there in front of me grabbing my hand in hers. She takes control, gets my luggage from the driver, and steers me into the bakery—my bakery—and closes the door behind me.
I expect the noise to end. The shouts and clicks and the flashes so bright they feel like they are screaming at me to stop too. But they don’t. They’re muted now. Still a chorus of chaos outside, but not as loud.
When I look up, people are at the tables inside. With cups of coffee and empty cupcake wrappers and notepads. Customers.
“They may be paying for food, but don’t trust them. They’re one of them,” Dee says with a lift of her chin to the photographers outside who are now directing their lenses toward the plate-glass storefront window where I stand. “Ryder says they may be assholes but we sure as hell will take their money.”
I look at her. Shell-shocked. Overwhelmed. Wondering how they knew I’d be here when my original flight wasn’t slated to land for another two hours.
And then it hits me.
It doesn’t matter.
They’ve been waiting.
Wanting a piece of me.
Needing a new shot to sell so someone can create more lies about me.
Shit.
Welcome home to me.
“I don’t care. Issue the statement. Set up the exclusive. Do whatever the fuck it takes to fix this or I’ll break the NDA and take my chances . . . if I don’t get paid, then you don’t get paid.” I look out the window to the city below, and chew the inside of my cheek as my comment hits my agent, Benji, where I want it to: right in the hefty mortgage he just acquired when he bought that house off Laurel Canyon.
“Hayes . . .”
I grit my teeth at his placating intonation and his this will blow over attitude. He didn’t see her face or watch her hand fly up to cover her mouth as she stood in front of the damn magazine rack in the airport and read the bullshit headlines he had already warned me about. He didn’t hide in the shadows and watch the woman he loves wipe the tears from her eyes as she touched the tabloids as if to see if they were actually real before skimming the fronts to read what they had printed about her.
Because, fuck yeah, I followed her to the airport. I would have followed her all the way home if I could have but her plane was full. Not even bribery or my celebrity status was able to buy me a seat on the flight. My fight was subdued in comparison to how I felt inside. My need to not draw more attention to her by any lurking paparazzi readjusted my focus. No way in hell was I going to let her head to the airport and face a possible slew of photographers on her own without being there to step in if need be.
But it killed me to watch her hiding beside the trashcan, presumably reading the stories on her phone. Enraged me to know she gave an ounce of her attention to the lies.
Shit, while I watched her from behind my dark sunglasses and beanie, I had half a mind to walk right up to her and not give her a fucking choice in the matter whether I was going with her or not. Charter a damn plane myself if need be to get us out of there together because I’d lost her once and I wasn’t taking the damn risk of losing her again.
Last time it had been right to walk away. I had justifiable reasons. This time? Not a chance in hell.
That look in her eyes. She was spooked. Freaked out by the fucked-up confines we Hollywood A-Listers live by. There’s a helluva lot of privilege but also a ton of bullshit. And the only thing worse than watching her walk away—letting her go face this beast on her own—is losing her.
So I hung back on the other side of the tiny terminal. Wanting to be sitting beside her, talking her stubborn-ass through this, but instead I did the hardest thing for a man to do: I sat and watched the woman I love, knowing she was hurting and all I could do was sit there and fume.
Because fuck yes, I love her.
No doubt about it.
It was hard enough putting her in a car and kissing her goodbye. Biting back the words I feel but knew wouldn’t mean a damn thing to her considering the circumstances. Saying I love you for a second-first time should be special, not because I’m afraid I’m going to lose her.
But I fucked up. Big time.
It was only after her plane took off that I realized my fuck-up. She heard me say the words to Jenna. But not to her. And there’s no way to fix it except to earn the chance to tell her face to face.