“Later,” I say, though I’m thoroughly enjoying the bite in her tone. We have a whole plan for the day that includes showing the world that Nova Tate is thriving, but first we need to drop in onHot Scoop’s owner and editor in chief, Neil Shaw.
Also known as Brenda’s husband.
As soon as Hank’s PI friend, Chad, tracked down my mom’s confidential marriage license and followed a trail of DBAs and holding companies to get to Shaw’s ownership ofHollywood Hot Scoop, I felt so stupid for not figuring it out earlier. Shaw has enough wealth that my mom would have had plenty of reason to brag about him instead of simply telling me she fell for him. And if she really wanted to be in my life and be a family again, she would have at the very least told me his name. But she kept his identity a secret; she knew I would eventually connect the dots and end up here if she let it slip.
“So, how long are we going to stand out here?” Donovan asks, squeezing my hand. “Some people—obviously not me—might start to wonderhow you can jump out of an airplane without hesitation but be frozen with fear when it comes to a conversation with a silly little tabloid.”
I don’t know how she can make me smile when I feel like I’m barely holding my life together, but I love her for it. “Can I admit something?” I’m stalling, yes, but something I learned while working alongside Pops the last few months was the power and peace that comes from accepting reality as it is. Not as I want it to be.
Donovan lifts an eyebrow at me. “Is that a real question?”
“No. I’m going to admit something. I spent two weeks training to do that plane jump and did several practice jumps, both tandem and on my own. Every single jump scared the crap out of me. I hated every minute of that stunt and wish I hadn’t done it.”
Squeezing my hand again, she smiles up at me like I just told her my darkest secret. “Even though that movie won you an Oscar?”
“Even then.” It’s better if I don’t admit how much I hate the Academy Awards as well. Yes, I’ve won twice and had three other nominations, but those three awards that I didn’t win are what fully pushed me to go to therapy after I met Bonnie.
Nothing like a blatant failure to trigger your maladaptive perfectionism.
Even years later, those losses still sit heavy in my chest.
“Okay,” Donovan says. “So, you’re afraid of falling to your death. That’s perfectly valid. It’s harder to see why you’re afraid to step through that door.”
I keep my eyes on the door in question when I say, “Because this conversation isn’t just about me. This involves the people I care about most. It’s not my body on the line but my heart, which isn’t nearly as strong as the rest of me.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me here, huh? Come on, Supes. You promised me a beach day.”
Letting her pull me forward, I follow this incredible woman who keeps changing my life, and step into the empty lobby. We take the elevator to the second floor and head for the door that readsPasadena Tribune. Donovan doesn’t slow down, which means, before I’m ready, we walk into the small, unadorned office and come face-to-face with two people halfway hidden by gray cubicle walls. The closer employee, a man who looks to be in his early thirties and has impressively vibrant lavender hair, is deep into whatever he’s typing on his laptop and doesn’t seem to notice us.
The other looks up, brow furrowing as she studies us, almost like she’s confused why anyone would have walked through the door. Unlike her coworker, none of her features stand out, and she has a timid sort of look about her.
For a moment, I wonder if Chad’s information was wrong and we really did step into a local newspaper’s office, but then I watch recognition spark in the woman’s eyes.
She swears loudly and says my name, clapping a hand to her mouth as she stares at me with wide, horrified eyes.
The man lifts his head and gets halfway through asking what’s wrong with her before he follows her gaze and sees us standing near the door. He leaps to his feet, knocking his rolling chair into the cubical wall, and adds his own curse to his coworker’s.
I get recognized everywhere I go, but it’s their fear that tells me I’m in the right place. Drawing confidence from their reactions, I stand at my full height and fold my arms. “I’m here to talk to Neil Shaw.”
The woman gulps and points to the door behind the cubicles. “He isn’t—”
“There’s no one here by that name,” the man interrupts. “Is there something we can help you with?” He seems to be getting over his shock, attempting an air of nonchalance that no one in their right mind would believe is real. Not when his hands are shaking at his sides.
Channeling the same character I used to threaten Brody, I step forward with heavy footfalls until I’m only a couple of feet away from the man and he’s forced to look up to meet my gaze. “Yeah, so, I’m in a bit of a time crunch and have better things to do than pretend that you and I don’t know what you’re really working on here. So either you can tell Shaw that I’m here for a quick chat, or I can assume that you’re the one who’s been writing lies about me and my friends, and we can deal with this man to man.” I shift my gaze to the woman. “Or are you the person behind the slander? Because if so, Nova Tate would like a word.”
“Yeah, I would,” Donovan says in a growly timbre that sends a shiver down my spine.
BothHot Scoopemployees gape at us, all their thoughts on display on their faces as they seem to calculate their rate of success if they try to verbally spar with either of us. Their expressions range from disbelief to terror, with some impressive but delusional confidence thrown in the mix.
It’s the woman who breaks first. “We didn’t write that story about Miss Tate.”
“Gina!” the man hisses in warning.
“Well we didn’t!” she hisses back. “I’m not going down for something I didn’t write.”
“I don’t know what you think we do here, Mr. Riley,” the man says with false calm in his words, “but you have the wrong idea.”
Gina scoffs and rolls her eyes.
