knew me too well. I grinned but stayed silent.
“Oh my God! We should totally, like, double date! That would be so, like…” She twirled a lock of her hair, which on better inspection proved actually to be extensions. I rolled my eyes and waited for the light bulb to turn on so she could finish her thought. “I don’t know, like the best pair of shoes in the world!”
I sucked in a harsh breath that only Wes noticed because Brandy and Dr. Hoffman were too busy checking out Wes. I didn’t blame them. I could easily spend all day looking at his body. He was the most decadent eye candy. “Sorry, guys, but in order for me to get this to you tonight, we need to work the rest of the day. Wes is helping out since he has some time off,” I said.
Dr. Hoffman opened his mouth, and something in him tightened. “That’s right. I read in the news…horrible what happened to you and that beautiful actress.” He shook his head and the hairs on my arm started to stand tall. “You survived most of a month in captivity with Gina DeLuca, right? Half your team was wiped out by radicals. Fucking savages.” His remarks seemed genuine, but didn’t fix the instant wall of fire that stood beside me.
No, no, no, no. Everything had been going so well. Wes stiffened further.
“Uh, yeah. Glad to be home. It was good meeting you, Dr. Hoffman and Brandy.” He shook both of their hands like the professional he was. “Unfortunately, we need to get back to work.” On that note, he sat down. The editor handed him a pair of earphones, and Wes locked his eyes on the screen.
Conversation closed. I waved noncommittally at the duo, sat down, and repeated Wes’s steps exactly. Eventually, Dr. Hoffman said something, and the door closed. shutting us back into our world of stay-at-home-moms and living beautiful. I put my hand to Wes’s rigid back. I could almost feel the tension pumping off him like a living, breathing animal hiding just under the surface. At first, he shook when I touched him, but as I slid my hand up and down his back and asked him questions about this or that on the screen, he began to relax once more. When we turned the segment in, the executive producers loved it on the spot. We went back to the editing room, grabbed our stuff, thanked the editor, and moseyed into the catacomb that was Century Productions.
I thought we’d dodged a bullet. Unfortunately, I was wrong. So damn wrong.
Chapter Eight
F or the entire week , we’d managed to avoid all contact with the press. The only time Wes had left the house was to go with me to the Ryans’ shoot, which was in bumfuck, Egypt, as far as the Hollywood media were concerned. Unfortunately, it looked like someone at Century Productions—the doctor, the producers, or maybe Brandy-spelled-the-normal-way—had tipped them off. They must have thought it would look good for Wes to be seen coming out of their offices with someone associated with the celebrity doctor. So it made sense why Dr. Hoffman and his supermodel wife were standing right outside the office doors when we attempted to leave. The moment we stepped outside the door, the flashes were staggering.
I’d experienced fame and some serious paparazzi encounters with Anton while in Miami, but this was a far cry from a handful of cameras and smarmy men with fat bellies hanging over their belts with their beefy fingers clicking a million miles a minute to capture the worst possible image for their smut mags. This was a convention of media personnel. A fucking feeding frenzy.
“Weston, what was it like being held by terrorists?” one screamed.
“Did you kill anyone while you were there?”
“Where did they hurt you?”
“What did it feel like watching Trevor die in front of you?”
“Did they hurt Gina, your girlfriend?”
“Who’s Mia Saunders to you?”
Dr. Hoffman approached the crowd with his wife. She went from stupid bimbo to top paid supermodel trophy wife in less than a breath, standing by his side,
“Oh my God! We should totally, like, double date! That would be so, like…” She twirled a lock of her hair, which on better inspection proved actually to be extensions. I rolled my eyes and waited for the light bulb to turn on so she could finish her thought. “I don’t know, like the best pair of shoes in the world!”
I sucked in a harsh breath that only Wes noticed because Brandy and Dr. Hoffman were too busy checking out Wes. I didn’t blame them. I could easily spend all day looking at his body. He was the most decadent eye candy. “Sorry, guys, but in order for me to get this to you tonight, we need to work the rest of the day. Wes is helping out since he has some time off,” I said.
Dr. Hoffman opened his mouth, and something in him tightened. “That’s right. I read in the news…horrible what happened to you and that beautiful actress.” He shook his head and the hairs on my arm started to stand tall. “You survived most of a month in captivity with Gina DeLuca, right? Half your team was wiped out by radicals. Fucking savages.” His remarks seemed genuine, but didn’t fix the instant wall of fire that stood beside me.
No, no, no, no. Everything had been going so well. Wes stiffened further.
“Uh, yeah. Glad to be home. It was good meeting you, Dr. Hoffman and Brandy.” He shook both of their hands like the professional he was. “Unfortunately, we need to get back to work.” On that note, he sat down. The editor handed him a pair of earphones, and Wes locked his eyes on the screen.
Conversation closed. I waved noncommittally at the duo, sat down, and repeated Wes’s steps exactly. Eventually, Dr. Hoffman said something, and the door closed. shutting us back into our world of stay-at-home-moms and living beautiful. I put my hand to Wes’s rigid back. I could almost feel the tension pumping off him like a living, breathing animal hiding just under the surface. At first, he shook when I touched him, but as I slid my hand up and down his back and asked him questions about this or that on the screen, he began to relax once more. When we turned the segment in, the executive producers loved it on the spot. We went back to the editing room, grabbed our stuff, thanked the editor, and moseyed into the catacomb that was Century Productions.
I thought we’d dodged a bullet. Unfortunately, I was wrong. So damn wrong.
Chapter Eight
F or the entire week , we’d managed to avoid all contact with the press. The only time Wes had left the house was to go with me to the Ryans’ shoot, which was in bumfuck, Egypt, as far as the Hollywood media were concerned. Unfortunately, it looked like someone at Century Productions—the doctor, the producers, or maybe Brandy-spelled-the-normal-way—had tipped them off. They must have thought it would look good for Wes to be seen coming out of their offices with someone associated with the celebrity doctor. So it made sense why Dr. Hoffman and his supermodel wife were standing right outside the office doors when we attempted to leave. The moment we stepped outside the door, the flashes were staggering.
I’d experienced fame and some serious paparazzi encounters with Anton while in Miami, but this was a far cry from a handful of cameras and smarmy men with fat bellies hanging over their belts with their beefy fingers clicking a million miles a minute to capture the worst possible image for their smut mags. This was a convention of media personnel. A fucking feeding frenzy.
“Weston, what was it like being held by terrorists?” one screamed.
“Did you kill anyone while you were there?”
“Where did they hurt you?”
“What did it feel like watching Trevor die in front of you?”
“Did they hurt Gina, your girlfriend?”
“Who’s Mia Saunders to you?”
Dr. Hoffman approached the crowd with his wife. She went from stupid bimbo to top paid supermodel trophy wife in less than a breath, standing by his side,
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