A shiver slides down my spine. I drop the mirror back into my purse. There’s no point. I don’t use lipstick anymore.
I steady my breath.
In LA, my driver would be armed and already moving us where we needed to go. Back doors. Service corridors. Layers of security between me and anyone who thinks they’re entitled to my attention.
Kali asked if I wanted her to arrange security.
Why did I say no?
Because I’m sick of feeling like a prisoner in my own life.
But out here, in the open, exposed?
Okay. This is definitely worse.
My thoughts suddenly swing to Lumberjack.
The way he moved without hesitation. Like this was familiar terrain.
Like he already knew to protect me.
A tower of muscle paired with a dimpled, wicked grin.
I cross my legs and shut that down.
Hard.
The more I think about that rugged lumberjack, the more irritated I get. How does a man that obnoxiously protective just… walk away?
Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.
Though a small, traitorous part of me wishes he could see me in this dress.
It’s cinched tight at the waist. Slit to heaven because I ran out of time to fix that. And my breasts are practically gift-wrapped up to my chin, but at least the structure is intact.
Because a nip slip is not happening. Not on my watch.
Besides, as everyone in this business knows, breathing is for amateurs.
I smooth my hand over a seam, fingers tracing the clean line of the stitching. For something finished between interviews, entirely by hand, I couldn’t be prouder.
Ahead, I spot a flurry of reporters.
My stomach tightens. “Could you drive around back?”
The driver keeps going. Straight for the front entrance.
What’s he doing?
Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“Turn here,” I say, louder now, pointing. “Around back.”
“I was instructed to drive you to the door.”
I huff. “The back door.”
He ignores me and pulls right up to the curb, cameras already surging closer.
