Page 39 of Hard to Hold

“What is it?”

“There are most likely going to be press camped out in front of your place when you look outside,” he warns, and I rise immediately from the bed to take a look out the window. Sure as shit, they’re there.

“Why?”

“Now that’s a little more complicated.”

“What did Rory do?” There’s silence. “Archibald?”

“He’s been seeing someone he shouldn’t be. She’s not in a very good marriage, unhappy with a husband who isn’t exactly the nicest of men.”

“Okay.” I draw the word out as I pull on the back of my neck before looking back out the window to the trucks and cameras waiting for me to leave for my early morning training sessions.

“She’s why Rory has straightened up his act. He’s stopped the . . . bullshit,” he says, his term for the drugs he pretends his son doesn’t indulge in. The drugs that make a mockery of the law he’d been sworn to uphold. The laws made by the Parliament he’s hoping to become an elected member of. “And he’s focused on his fitness, his game, and the rest of his shortcomings. He’s really turned everything around—”

“He has—”

“And it’s all because of her, this woman. She’s turned everything around for him.”

“I don’t see why—”

“This isn’t the best time for there to be a scandal attached to the Matheson name, Rush. As you know, I’m standing for Parliament and it’s a tight margin between me and the other candidate, so I could really use your help.”

“Rory cheated with a married woman. Why would that reflect ill on you?” I ask, as my phone begins to start buzzing in my hand. Or maybe it already has been, but I’ve been so caught up in the conversation that I didn’t realize it.

“I hate to even ask this of you.”

“Ask me what?” I demand. “I’ll help, any way I can, but I’m not sure what it is that I can do,” I say, trying to make sense of what he thinks the problem is.

“There’s a picture of them kissing on a balcony. It’s all over the bloody place. Every newsstand, social media, the like.”

“I’m sure you have a whole team at your disposal who can assist you in how to spin this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“But you’re calling me.”

“They think it’s you.”

The dread that has been creeping up my spine slams into me. “Me?” I laugh the word out, thinking this joke is anything but funny. “Funny.”

“Rush . . .” His sustained silence owns my attention.

“Wait. You’re serious. Are they bloody crazy?”

“Turn on your telly. Your computer. Your . . .” Before he can even finish, I have my iPad in hand and am staring at the grainy image taken from afar, trying to comprehend what I’m looking at.

“That’s—she looks like—”

“Esme,” he murmurs.

“Oh. Shit.” The full weight of what Rory has done is out there and what Archibald’s asking me to do hits me.

Esme.

Chart-topping singer who only needs one name to be known.

She’s wildly famous and married to Seth Haskins.