I will burn the world down for the blonde who I should have never flirted with to begin with, but now don’t know if I can live without.
I like her banter too much. Her sass.
I like the way she’s blunt. She doesn’t tell me what she thinks I want to hear. She tells me the truth, even if I don’t want to listen.
Even though I wish I didn’t, I’m gone for this girl.
*
By the timeI look at my phone hours later, there are hundreds of notifications littering my screen. Missed calls, texts, social media messages, emails, and news alerts all cover the image of Emaly on my home screen. But I don’t pay any attention to them. Not to the twenty missed calls from Ashton, or the five from my agent, Scott,orthe three from Emaly.
I also don’t answer any text messages, especially not the ones with images attached, because I don’t have the energy to see what bullshit is being plastered about me now. I’ve never cared that deeply before. Not until Winter became involved in the whirlwind that is my life.
When I finally find the name that’s sunk toward the bottom of my text threads, I click on it and wait as it rings.
And rings.
And rings.
And rings. Until the voicemail picks up and I’m greeted with a generic automated voice that isn’t the one I want to hear.“You’ve reached Winter Bronte. Please leave a—”
I hang up and toss the phone into the passenger seat, unbuttoning my suit jacket and loosening my tie so I can fucking breathe for the first time all night. When I see the light on my screen flash, I bolt to pick it up and narrowly miss side-swiping a parked vehicle. I’m sure that would be another twisted headline.Hockey star side swipes car while drunk driving after charity gala.
It wouldn’t matter to people that I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol tonight. I’m sure it would be widely believed solely because I would be the asshole to do something like that.
“Winter,” I say, straightening out the car and slowing down as I approach a red light.
“No,” Emaly says, voice sounding heavy. “I saw the pictures, and I’ve been getting calls again.”
She means from the media wanting commentary. The fact that they have her number, after thethirdtime she changed it, isn’t surprising to me one bit. They have weird ways to get the information they need, and it makes me want to punch something. Ideally, one of them.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll get in touch with the phone provider and see about getting you a new—”
“No,” she cuts me off. I’m really starting to hate that word. “Forget about that. I can field calls. I want to make sure you two are okay.”
For a moment, I’m quiet. She’s not just calling to inquire about me and my dumbass mistake. She’s asking about Winter.
I swallow. “I’m not sure,” I admit, hating the uncertainty. “Your father approached her tonight. He’s been following her too. And me, obviously. I don’t know what he said to her, but it was enough to spook her.”
This is all my fault.
My fault.
My fault.
My fault.
“I ruin everything,” I whisper aloud, forgetting she’s on the phone still. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not,” she disagrees. When I don’t reply, she says, “Itisn’t, Little Bear.” Her tone is firmer than before. Not allowing me to argue.
Maybe my father was right. I get in the way. Of myself. Of everyone. I’m a cancer. Everything I touch is poisoned. Ruined.
I should have known the second I stepped into Winter’s life—the moment I realized I wanted to knowmore—it wasn’t goingto end well. Because that’s what happens when people get close to me.
“Listen to me, Thomas Xavier Moskins,” my wife all but growls at me. “You are not responsible for this. I am. We both know it. And I think it’s time I stop letting you take the brunt of the consequences because all it’s doing is hurting us. Seeing you like this is killing me.”
It’s hard to swallow as I take in her words.
