“It was the only place I thought would be easy to reach and not totally obvious. This sweater doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
That’s the understatement of the year.
“It leaves enough that Iprobablywon’t have to punch any of the reporters today,” Griff says with a smile. “But if any of them step one foot out of line, you just say the word, sweetheart. And I’ll take care of it.”
The conviction in his voice? It’s reassuring in a way I desperately need.
“Then let’s go. If I keep the wolves waiting much longer, they’ll be out for blood.” I hate press conferences. They’re the worst part of this job. I’d let a wardrobe person lift and tuck and tape me all day, every day, if it meant I never had to face the press again. But at least I can take comfort in one thing.
This will be the last one I’ll have to do. Whatever happens with Dimitri, I’m out after this trip. Even if that means I have to disappear without saying goodbye to Marina—or Griff.
Chapter Eighteen
Griff
“Stay on my left side, sweetheart.”
Sloane stumbles as she tries to change direction mid-step, and I steady her with my palm at the small of her back. “Your left side?”
“If I need to protect you, my right arm is a hell of a lot stronger than my left. Even if the prosthetic is practically indestructible. I can still feel you holding my hand, remember?”
She nods, and her lips purse and clench rapidly until I cup her cheek. “Relax. You’ll be fine. Wren hacked into the hotel’s security system last night and sent me a layout of the room we’ll be in. I’ll be standing against the wall to your right, less than thirty feet from you. Ifanythinghappens, you drop to the floor, cover your head, and wait for me to get to you.”
Shit. She wasn’t ready for that, asshole.
“Do you think…”
“No. Volkov and anyone he’s working with would be fools to try something in front of all of those cameras. But it’s my job to be prepared at all times. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
Sloane’s gripping my hand so tightly, the remapped nerves in my arm almost register pain.
“Breathe for me, okay? In and out. You took your meds, right?”
“Yes. Trust me, if I hadn’t, you’d know.”She laughs—or so the text on my lenses tells me—and continues. “When my anxiety started to get really bad…I refused to take anything. Until I had a giant meltdown at an evening gown shoot. I was in this huge dress with a dozen layers to the skirt and a full corset, and I just sat down on the floor and sobbed for a full ten minutes until the photographer called off the whole thing.”She stares down at her shoes as we traverse the long hallway toward the elevator, her cheeks flushed a bright shade of pink.
We’re alone in the elevator, and I press the button for the second floor. The rumbling of the doors calms me—one little spark of normalcy in my otherwise silent world. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. We all need help sometimes. Asking for it—that’s what takes true strength.”
Sloane doesn’t reply, but the weak smile touching her lips? It’s everything. Relief, connection, a moment between us that’sreal.Her death grip on my hand eases slightly, though the way she keeps fluttering her fingers is a clear sign she’s barely holding on.
“What do you want to do after this?” Distraction might help. “Lunch? There’s this open air market half a mile away. TheBahnhofstrasse. Supposed to be great for walking and window shopping.”
Hope brightens her eyes for a brief moment, but it’s quickly snuffed out as she frowns and chews on her lower lip again. “Is it safe?”
“We’ll be in public. In broad daylight. Besides,” I nudge her shoulder with mine, “it’ll help sell the whole relationship angle.”
This time, the color in her cheeks has nothing to do with shame, and I will my body to calm the fuck down before Sloane—or someone else—notices how my zipper is straining against my erection. These pants arenotloose by any stretch of the imagination.
Seconds after stepping off the elevator on the second floor, the wordsCrowd noisescroll across my lenses. Shit. Touching the temple a couple of times, I set the glasses to tune into Sloane’s voice exclusively and shift so my arm is around her waist.
Flashbulbs go off at regular intervals, and her little flinches against my side worry me. Yet, she’s plastered on a bright smile. Two uniformed security guards stand in front of a velvet rope barrier. Paparazzi line one wall, occasionally elbowing one another as the other models and theBeauty and Styleexecutives walk a red carpet leading to the press room.
“Harry Griffin,” I say to the men, flipping open my wallet to show them my ID. “With the Harvey Ulstrum Agency. I’m representing Ms. Sanders.”
The taller one scrolls through a long list of names on an iPad. “I see a Max Snood as Ms. Sanders’ representative.”
Sloane tenses, and I tighten my hand on her waist. God, I hope it’s as comforting as I intend it to be. “Mr. Snood came down with the flu. Check the morning update sheet. You’ll see me listed as his stand-in.”
If Wren didn’t work her magic, we’re fucked.
