“How long has this been going on?”
There are ten of them, maybe more, cameras aimed at us from every angle. Patterson’s driver is parked twenty feet away, the black SUV idling at the curb, but twenty feet might as well be a mile with this many photographers blocking our path.
I thought we’d have more time. One night was all I wanted. One night where we could be us before the circus started.
Patterson pulls me closer. “Keep walking.”
I know how to do this. I spent two years with Jameson, smiling for cameras at charity events, hockey games, and random Tuesday nights when someone recognized him at dinner. But Patterson is bigger news than Jameson ever was, and these questions are meaner, designed to provoke.
“Is Coach Hart punishing you for getting with his daughter?”
“Kendall! Weren’t you engaged to Jameson Cross? Keeping it in the family?”
I keep my face neutral and my eyes forward.Don’t react. Don’t engage. Don’t give them anything they can twist into a headline.
“If you get any closer, I’ll put you on your ass.” Patterson’s voice has that edge I recognize, the one that usually precedes something reckless.
His driver is out of the SUV now, moving toward us, but the photographers don’t budge. They’re used to security. They know exactly how much space they can take up without crossing a legal line.
“Kendall, is it true your father doesn’t support this relationship?”
“Did you cheat on Jameson?”
I keep my head high as Patterson’s grip tightens around me.
“Ignore them,” I whisper. “Keep walking.”
His driver clears a path, one arm extended to create space. Patterson guides me into the back seat and slides in after me. The door closes, and their voices and flashes cut off abruptly.
As the SUV pulls away from the curb, I watch the photographers shrink in the rearview mirror, still snapping pictures as we disappear into traffic.
“You okay?” Patterson asks.
“I’m fine.” It’s not a lie. “I’m used to this.”
“It’s different from when you were with my brother. Jamie wasn’t fucking his coach’s daughter.” He laughs, but there’s nohumor in it. “The story is too good. Twin brothers. The coach’s daughter. Years of history. They’ll milk this until there’s nothing left.”
“I know.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “I don’t care what they say. As long as you and I are okay.”
“It’s us against the world, Ken Doll.” He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine, kissing my knuckles.
The SUV glides through Midtown, and I watch the city blur past the tinted windows. The high from dinner is fading, replaced by reality pressing back in.
The penthouse is quiet when we get inside. Patterson locks the door behind us, and I kick off my heels in the middle of the foyer because I’m too drained to care.
“Drink?” he asks.
“Please.”
He pours us both whiskey, and we settle onto the couch, my legs draped across his lap, his hand resting on my ankle. I take a long sip and let the burn settle.
His phone vibrates. Then again. Then three more times in quick succession. He glances at the screen and tenses.
“What?” I ask.
“Photos are already up.”
He turns the phone so I can see. All the gossip sites have the same shot of us leaving the restaurant, his arm around me, my face flushed.
