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I nod, and we duck into the nearest restaurant, an upscale fine dining establishment that we’re likely underdressed for, but the paparazzi won’t follow us in here.
“Is this your life?” Grace asks as we approach the host stand.
She looks shell-shocked.
The hostess glances up at us, her eyes falling onto the jeans we’re both wearing with a bit of disdain before returning to me. I spot the recognition in her eyes. “Mr. Nash, welcome. I heard you moved in locally.”
I nod. “Thank you. My wife and I were being hounded by the paparazzi outside, so we ducked in here. While we’re here, we’d love to check out a menu and maybe have a drink or two.” I ignore the way she definitely twitches at the my wife line.
I don’t, however, ignore the way my wife also twitches beside me at those same words. I snake an arm around her waist and pull her a little closer, and she leans into me.
“Of course. Would you like a table or a seat at our bar?” she asks.
“A private, quiet table would be great,” I say.
My first thought isn’t because a private, quiet table could lead to private, quiet activities, but when she shows us to a table in a quiet corner in the back, the thought certainly crosses my mind.
We each glance through the menu, and we decide on some sushi since we’re here and we’re both hungry. I pair mine with a Sapporo, while Grace opts for a Reisling.
We’ve just placed our orders and I’m debating when to start getting handsy under the table when her phone dings with a text message. “Oh, sorry. Excuse me. I just want to make sure nothing’s wrong at the vineyard.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket, and her brows knit together before the color drops completely from her face. “No,” she whispers, drawing out the word.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She sets her phone on the table and scrolls through what looks to be a ton of photos of me. Only, I’m not alone. There’s Amelia, there’s a couple other women who are part of my history, and there are some photos that I don’t even recall ever taking, which tells me they have to be photoshopped.
Each photo is accompanied by a caption telling the people viewing it when and where the photo was taken, and there are enough that could be corroborated in there that it makes the ones that can’t be look realistic.
And the worst part of all of it is that each photo already has thousands of likes on it.
“What the hell is this?” I ask.
“I got a message from Jolene asking if we’d seen this,” she says. “It’s an Instagram account called NashIsTrash17.”
Seventeen for my number.
Who the fuck would make—
I interrupt my own train of thought.
Who’s the one person who not only has access to these types of photos but is good with Photoshop to create the rest?
“Amelia,” we both hiss at the same time.
“Why, though?” I ask. “Why would she do this?”
“Because she wants to win.” She purses her lips.
“How was I ever with her?” I mutter. I don’t ask my next question aloud, but I can’t help wonder all the same. How will this help her win?
I try not to live my life with regrets, but being with someone as awful and manipulative as Amelia would top the list.
Grace doesn’t say anything, but the way her face falls makes my chest feel heavy. I can’t help but wonder at what point she’ll start to feel like being with me isn’t what she really wants at all.
We finish our sushi and drinks, the heaviness surrounding us at the table, and instead of walking by the bay like we’d planned, we head straight back home, followed by the paparazzi the entire way.
And every time we leave the apartment complex, we’re greeted with the exact same treatment. I wouldn’t put it past Amelia to have arranged this as well. If she put half as much effort into the vineyard as she does into making my life hell, she’d have no problems running the place.
We spend a quiet morning in, checking off Lego Build Battle from my thirty things list as we drink coffee and pretend like everything’s fine.
