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However, I’ve already twisted out of his hold. Girls ask Julian for autographs and hugs constantly. Usually, I look the other way and let them have their fantasy.
But not today.
Today, I’m pregnant and running from a stalker who wants to kill me and my baby. My threshold has been pushed to its breaking point.
I’m fresh out of fucks to give.
“Why stop at a hug?” I whip around with fire in my eyes. “Maybe with some persistence and a couple more tears, you’ll get a fan appreciation fuck.”
“Phoebe!” Julian scolds.
The woman tosses me a venomous look. “Publicity whore.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re a publicity whore. Enjoy it now.”
“We’re in a hurry, I’m sorry. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Julian raises his hand again, and, mercifully, a taxi pulls over. Shoving me inside, he slams the door. “Jesus, Christ, Phoebe! What the fuck?”
Tears burn my eyes. My anger has nothing to do with that girl. Unfortunately, she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I can’t do this, Julian,” I whisper, sliding down in the seat.
He pulls me close and presses his lips to my temple. “Yes, we can.”
“What if we can’t find her in time?” She has anonymity on her side, a luxury Julian and I don’t possess.
“Do you trust me?”
“Stop evading,” I say, swiping my sleeve across my face.
“Just answer it. Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” With our lives.
“Then trust me when I tell you I’ll die before I’ll let anything happen to you again. We’ll find out who’s doing this and nail her ass to the wall. You’re not going to have to live in fear, do you understand me?” His arms tighten around me, and I inhale, letting his familiar scent comfort me.
“You can’t promise that.”
Sighing heavily, he turns his head and stares out his window.
His silence speaks louder than his words.
He knows I’m right.
* * *
It’s silly to hide from a stalker at the home of the object of their obsession. But here we are, two sitting ducks perched on Julian’s couch in New Jersey like we’ve lost all shred of common sense.
I’m draped across Julian’s lap, both of us silently staring at each other, while he runs his fingers through my hair. The gesture is meant to be soothing, but the ridiculousness of what we’re doing agitates me.
Enough is enough.
The argument at Vinyl, the inquisition with Helena, the ruined picture of the baby—it all causes my anxiety to implode.
“Do you know why I did that last pageant?” I sit up, forcing myself to look him in the eyes.
“Excuse me?”
