“He’s found a new Griffin to interview,” Rafael said grimly. “Bea.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RAFAEL
The tide was louder in winter. Rafael noticed it most in the early morning, when the house was quiet and the sea sounded like it was arguing with the shore.
By the time he’d finally closed the Malaysia issue for good and returned home, he’d found his wife sound asleep, hair across his pillow. Rafael had a strong aversion to nights that ended this way, and lately there had been too many of them.
She’d spent the entire day living inside his head, particularly after the messages halfway through the afternoon that had sent his blood pressure through the roof.
LITTLE BEA: Oliver reached out again.
RAFAEL: Ignore him.
LITTLE BEA: I already replied.
LITTLE BEA: I told him I’m considering the interview.
He’d stood there longer than he should have, debating whether waking her would be welcome or deeply unpopular. He’d slid into bed and drawn her against him. Bea tucked herself back into his chest automatically, still out.
Now he stood on the terrace outside their bedroom, legs beneath his running shorts taking the bite of the July wind. He watched the waves break against the sand, mug of coffee cooling in his hand. The sky was pale blue over the water, the smell of eucalyptus drifting from the hill beside the house.
The door slid open behind him.
“Good morning.” Bea’s voice, but neutral. Careful.
Rafael turned, sipped. “Morning.”
She was wrapped in a fluffy pink robe that fell past her knees, feet encased in Ugg boots, hair freshly brushed. She looked soft. Domestic. Disarming.
And currently the most infuriating woman in the United Republic of Westhaven.
She approached slowly, like someone stepping toward a dog that might bite. Rafael set his coffee down on the wide stone railing. He waited until she was within reach, closed the last step, and lifted her onto it. The small gasp she made improved his mood slightly.
“Time for that conversation.”
She nodded once. Her spine straightened like someone preparing for cross-examination.
Rafael took a step back. He searched for the fastest way to shut this down. “Oliver Fox came for you because of my family. Twenty years ago he needed an exclusive interview to save his primetime slot. He asked my parents for it after Valeria passed.”
Bea frowned. “And they didn’t give it to him.”
“No. The network replaced him within the year.”
“Do you think he blames them?” she asked, brushing her hair from her face where the wind kept lifting it.
“He’s been watching GV ever since. Waiting.”
Bea spoke like she was thinking out loud. “When I spoke to him before the wedding, I told him I watched his show.”
“Canadian, sweet, popular without inviting it, and a fan.” Rafael ticked each off on his fingers. He watched the realization dawn. “From his perspective, you’re the door.”
Bea’s face was expressive. Rafael watched her emotions travel across it in real time—disbelief first, then a quick flash of embarrassment, and finally outrage.
Good. She understood.
“So clearly the interview is off the table.”
