18
Sam
Micah burst into the pub, eyes feral, clutching a stack of newspapers. His hoodie was undone and flapping wildly behind him, and his hair was twisted like he’d done everything in his power to yank it out at the roots.
To anyone who hadn’t clicked on the link my mum had just sent me, he probably looked like he’d escaped a day-release programme, but I knew exactly what had put that look on his face. I’d just spent ten minutes locked in the stockroom, reading every damning word. Article after article. Hundreds of pictures. Some douchebag pap had been trailing him for months. Trailingus. They’d even followed us to Whitby and hung around the pub to catch a snap of me mooning over Micah long before anything had ever happened between us. They were probably still watching us even now.
The door slammed shut behind Micah. He stumbled forwards and crashed into an empty chair. The commotion alerted every soul in a five-mile radius, and Céleste—who’d been with me in the stockroom, obviously—moved fast to intercept him. She caught his arm and towed him away from the main dining area. The alcove was the nearest private place, but it was still way too exposed for my liking.
I caught her eye and pointed to the fire exit. She nodded and disappeared, taking Micah with her while I finished serving the early evening queue.
“He’s that gay footballer,” my customer supplied helpfully. “I heard he was in the nuthouse. Surprised to see him round here.”
Fury built in my chest so fast and sudden I couldn’t contain it. I slammed a pint glass down on the bar. “Mind your own fucking business.”
I made my escape before I decked someone. Heart thumping, I abandoned the bar and ducked out of the fire exit. Céleste had Micah cornered by the bins. He was pacing like a caged animal, still clutching the newspapers, but at least the high fence protected us from view.
Unless that wanker pap is stalking us from an upstairs window.
Fifteen minutes ago, I’d have laughed at something so ridiculous, but in the cool light of the early evening, anything seemed possible.
Céleste disappeared. I took her place and faced Micah down. “I’ve seen it. My mum sent me the link.”
Micah stopped pacing. “The link to what?”
“The article inThe Sun.I’m guessing it’s in that piece of crap too?” I gestured to theDaily Mirrorat the top of his pile.
Micah flung the whole lot in my general direction. Pages separated and fluttered messily to the ground. “It’s fucking everywhere. That cunt even followed us to the library. Papped us sitting in the chair.”
I carried that scene in my dreams, those precious minutes we’d spent leaning against one another, reading, staring, aware of nothing but each other and words on the page. It’d been as close to perfect as I’d ever dared imagine, and I could barely contemplate that it had been stolen from us. I had to see it with my own eyes.
Some of the pages Micah had scattered had landed in a puddle of stale beer leaking from a discarded barrel. I knelt beside it and gathered them up, leafing through them until I found the article. The pictures were grainy and blurred. Nausea rising, I found my phone and pulled up the tabloid’s gossip site.
The pictures of us were all over it—having lunch in the bistro, walking in Regent’s Park, even holding hands on the train home to Yorkshire. The library pics were further down, perhaps because whoever had taken them had deemed them less interesting than Micah shoving chips in my mouth on Whitby seafront, but they had no idea. Seeing them tossed around the internet was so violating I actually gagged.Jesus. No wonder he was so poorly after last time.
I stood to find Micah had moved as far away from me as it was possible for him to be without actually leaving. He’d flattened himself against the fence, jaw set, gaze fixed on the ground. I laid a cautious hand on him.
He flinched.
My heart broke. “Micah. It’s okay. It’s just some gossip. It’ll be tomorrow’s chip paper.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Sure it does. There’s always new headlines. Okay, it might take more than a couple of days, but they’ll get bored.”
“They won’t. Dom’s boyfriend is in the papers all the time. They follow him to work, just like they followed you.”
I’d forgotten about that. “Shit.”
Micah sighed. “I know, right? I’m so fucking sorry.”
“What for?”
“For bringing this bullshit into your life. It’s not like I didn’t know this would happen, especially after they caught me with Freddie.”
“You weren’t doing anything with Freddie.”
“I wasn’t doing anything with you either until they tracked us to your parents’ place.”
