I reach over and brush a strand of wet hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. “What’s wrong, baby?”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The water ripples as she shifts, drawing her knees up to her chest like she’s trying to protect her vital organs from an attack she can sense coming.
“I’m scared,” she finally admits, her voice small.
“Of what specifically?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.” She lets out a hollow sound that’s more like a sob dressed up as a laugh. “The internet is having a field day right now. Grayson’s narrative is winning because he’s the only one talking. People think I’m a cheater, a slut, a liar—pick your favorite insult, I’ve seen it in my mentions. And tonight I have to walk out on that stage and pretend like none of it matters.”
“It doesn’t matter. Not really.”
“It does, though. Because those people bought tickets. They’re going to be in that arena, thousands of them, and some of them are going to be angry. They came to see America’s sweetheart, and instead they got…” She shakes her head. “What if someone heckles me? What if someone throws something? What if—” She stops, swallowing hard. “What if someone is so angry about what they’ve heard that they decide to do something about it?”
The fear in her eyes guts me. This isn’t about reputation anymore. This is about safety. About the very real possibility that some unhinged stranger might decide to make a statement at her expense.
“Hey.” I shift closer, taking her hand under the water. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly.
“I’m going to be there tonight. Right in the wings, watching every second. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll handle it. That’s literally my job, remember?”
“I know. I just…” She squeezes my hand. “I can’t get out of my own head. Every time I close my eyes, I see worst-case scenarios. My brain won’t stop running disaster simulations.”
I study her face—the tension in her brow, the way she’s chewing her bottom lip, the shadows under her eyes that tell me she hasn’t slept well despite our activities last night. She’s trapped in her own anxiety, and no amount of reassurance is going to logic her out of it.
She needs a distraction. A reset. Something to pull her out of her head and back into her body.
“Charlie.” I keep my voice casual. “Where’s The Detonator?”
She blinks, thrown by the subject change. “What?”
“The vibrator. I know you still have it. Where is it?”
A flush creeps up her neck, visible even through the steam. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
“It’s…” She hesitates, suddenly fascinated by the bubbles surrounding her. “It’s in my underwear drawer.”
“Is the battery charged?”
The flush deepens. “Fifty-fifty chance.”
A grin spreads across my face. “Oh really?”
“Shut up.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re smiling. That’s saying something.”
“I’m smiling because I find it incredibly sexy that you’ve been using it.” I lean closer, my lips near her ear. “Tell me, how’d it perform? Is it better than me?”
She pretends to gasp. “No. Of course not.” Then she clears her throat. “Very close second though.”
I press a kiss to her forehead and stand. “Don’t move.”
Her underwear drawer is exactly where I expected—top right in the massive walk-in closet. I find The Detonator nestled between silk and lace, already freed from its packaging just likeshe said. The thing is even more ridiculous up close, all curves and buttons and promises of destruction.
