Ishouldn’tneed anyone, though. No help, no support, figure it out yourself. If it’s broken, fix it. The idea that I’m benefiting from Robert simply being in the room with me is a weird thought to entertain. One I’m not sure I like the feel of.
His stare singes my cheeks from across the room. When I eventually make eye contact, my nipples tighten, bringing a dimension to the interview I hadn’t anticipated. Fuck, he’s gorgeous when he’s scowly.
I clear my throat. “I don’t think it’s going to be too hard to concentrate on the game.” Even as I say the words, my body makes a liar out of me. I fight the urge to climb into Robert’s lap and kiss him until this woman leaves my house and takes her camera with her.
The woman in question snorts. “Really? I mean if I had that hunk of a man watching from the stands, I’d find it hard to concentrate on anything else.” She gives me a demure smile that tells me she likes him. Don’t blame her, he’s more of a catch than I realized, and not because he’s hot.
But he’s definitely hot. The way his shoulders stretch out that t-shirt should be fucking illegal.
Despite playing a contact sport for a living, I’m not a fighter, but right now I want to claw this woman’s eyes out so she can’t look at him again.Especiallynot like that.
If we weren’t committed to each other for the next coupleof months, would he like her back? Would he date her? Kiss her?
I don’t get the chance to follow that train of thought because he grunts, drawing both of our attention toward him.
“You don’t agree, Robert?” Laura is baiting him to join the interview, and from the way a muscle twitches in his cheek, he’s willingly going to take it.
“I think you’re reducing her to some airhead bimbo who can’t date a man in her personal life while being a professional in a career she’s worked her whole life to achieve.”
Wow.
My body heats, from head to toe and back again. How can he be so fucking sexy just from the words that come out of his mouth?
CHAPTER 25
Robert
Ican’t take another second of this farce of an interview. I’ll likely pay for speaking up later. I told myself I wouldn’t open my goddamn mouth, especially not after last night when I confronted Mike Morrigan in his own living room.
But Rhiannon’s body language has shifted since the start of the interview. Her shoulders have curled forward. Her head tipped downward like it was last night as her father towered over her, yelling abuse at her. Her finger is fucking bleeding.
Her shirt has already absorbed two droplets of the crimson liquid, and that’s two droplets too many. And even though this isn’t my circus, in a weird way, Rhiannon is my monkey, and I don’t like how this verging-on-mean girl clown is treating her. Not one little bit.
She hasn’t come and said anything straight out, but she doesn’t need to. Her body language, the way her lips curve into a smirk with that shark-ish gleam in her eye, tells me everything I need to know about this situation. I know Laura, I’ve been Laura, and she can sniff all she wants, but she’s notgoing to make any more of a fiasco of my girlfriend than she already currently is.
“That’s not what I?—”
I hold my hand up to stop whatever stream of bollocks is about to come out of her mouth. “Thatiswhat you said, Laura. And to be honest, I’m kind of surprised at you right now. You’re a solid journalist with a reputation for reportingrealstories aboutrealpeople. I listen to the podcast. You’re gritty, with the occasional flare for the dramatic and a healthy dose of scandal, but this? Agreeing pre-interview not to talk about a subject and dancing around it for the whole interview so far? Reducing Rhiannon’s exceptional and untarnished career to the last few weeks of her life?”
I fold my arms. “It’s more than a little beneath you, wouldn’t you say?”
Rhiannon’s jaw is clenched, but she’s not glaring at me. She’s not even looking my way at all. She’s staring at Laura, waiting for an answer. The stark contrast between Rhiannon, the eldest daughter and how she’s sitting there taking this, and me, eldest son with all the privilege that entails is eye opening. Our Emma isn’t like this at all, but I suppose neither is Hurricane Aoife—as the papers call her—either.
While we both wait for Laura to regain her composure, I take in Rhiannon’s profile, and try to marry the strong leader, the confident, capable, outspoken woman from Croatia with the unsure, self-conscious, and reserved shell sitting in front of me.
Who did this to her? Is this her father? Her ex? Is this some kind of protection mode she puts herself into when she’s feeling overwhelmed? I have no fucking clue, but I want my girlfriend back. The one who’s not afraid to call someone out for their bullshit.
Fake girlfriend.
Laura blinks. She has the decency to turn tomato red, thenlooks at the camera, then at Rhiannon. “He’s right. I’m sorry. I agreed not to grill you on your ex, or your current boyfriend, and I’m overstepping. I’m out of line.”
Rhiannon nibbles her bottom lip. “I don’t have anything to hide, but contrary to the last few weeks of media storm, I prefer keeping my private life exactly that, private.”
Laura drums her fingers on her notepad. “People will keep coming at you until they get the story they want.”
Something inside Rhiannon snaps, and her face hardens. “Then they’re not the people I’m inclined to share my story with. As a woman, you know we’re held to higher standards than men. George cheated on me, he ruined our relationship, I lost my two best friends, and all everyone wants to know is how long I waited before jumping into bed with Robert. Which, quite frankly, is no one’s fucking business.”
Watching her come back to herself is a thing of beauty. Her shoulders drop, and she lifts her chin just enough to stay on the right side of confident, not confrontational.
