Page 117 of Fame and Obsession
But I don’t hesitate. For once in our relationship there are no games. No lies. No secrets. This is raw and brutal honesty, and I want to hold on to it for as long as I can.
“I love you too,” I whisper as he dips his head and presses a small kiss below the third scar.
Thirty-One
Julian
“I just don’t see why we have to do this now, Julian.”
I glance back as Phoebe gets out of the taxi, then stands with hands on her hips.
It’s too damn early for the third degree. I’m still reeling with the bombshell she dropped on me last night to rehash this.
Then again, I dropped a few bombs of my own…
“Because Helena is still spinning bullshit about you slandering me—or do you not care about staying in Ellison Young’s good graces?” Hooking her elbow, I guide her up the steps to the main building of Rosten Media.
“That doesn’t mean she won’t still fire me,” she counters, nerves causing her to powerwalk through the lobby.
“If she fires you, then I’ll pay back the advance, and MetroGroup can shove the book up their asses,” I say, weaving my fingers through hers.
Stares and gasps swirl around us as we move through herds of people.
“It’s not that simple, Julian.”
We’re headed toward the elevators when I’m blinded by a flash of light. Leaning back, I catch a streak of denim and plaid as a lone paparazzo moves around the column, snapping photos of Phoebe.
Harlow’s words about forcing her to live a life of public scrutiny run through my head, and I curse under my breath.
Releasing her hand, I stalk toward him. I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone objectify her around me—especially now that I know what’s at stake.
The last thing we need is to give my stalker an all-access pass to a new narrative.
“Julian, don’t!” Phoebe calls out, but I’m already gone.
I’ll give you a picture, asshole.
He’s almost to the turnstile when I grab the back of his shirt and jerk him backward.
“Man, what the fuck?”
As he loses his balance, the camera jostles from his tight grip. So, I help him out by ripping it out of his hands.
“‘The fuck’ is that you need to leave us the hell alone.”
He looks me up and down, his lip curling up in a sneer. “See, that’s the beauty of America. The Constitution says I can stand here and take your picture, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. It’s a public place, man. Don’t want your picture taken? Don’t get in the limelight. I have to eat too.”
“You,” I growl, shoving him again, “can eat shit, for all I care. Take a picture of me, but leave her out of it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Let’s just say, if you don’t put the damn lens cap back on, I’ll put it on for you. That clear enough for you?”
“She’s more newsworthy than you, believe it or not,” he says nodding toward Phoebe. “She brought all this on herself writing that article.” His sneer widens, and it’s all I can do not to punch it off his face.
The entire lobby freezes as if waiting for my reaction. I oblige them by opening the camera, pulling out the memory card, and shoving it in my pocket. Smirking, I snap the cover back on and hand it back to him.
“Hey, man, you can’t do that! That’s private property. Gimme my card back.”
