Page 41 of Scoring Eden

It doesn’t matter that the warmth of his palm on my waist is the only thing offering me any sort of comfort at this moment. Or that I’m clinging to him like a life raft. Alex is in deep shit.

The photographer in front of me lurches and makes a grab for my arm.

I’m behind Alex in the next breath, his back obstructing the view but doing nothing to hide the menacing rumble in the back of his throat. “You don’t get to touch her.”

I peek out from behind his shoulder to watch the photographer stumble back, pale from whatever threat he read on Alex’s face.

There’s a beat of total silence then total pandemonium.

“Is she your girlfriend, Alex?”

“Are you finally settling down?”

“Do you think you’ll be able to stay faithful?”

“Will you stay with him if he cheats?”

Paparazzi trip over each other in their bids to get closer. Their shouts grow louder. The flashing of cameras becomes a firework display, and spots of color dance in my vision.

“Step the fuck back.” Alex’s voice is more like a growl as he tries to lead us through them.

But the crowd only grows thicker. Hungrier. Angrier.

Alex takes my hand, crushing my knuckles from the strength of his grip. I’m grateful for it, though, and squeeze back just as hard. Though, not to reassure him. To threaten him, if anything.

Get us out of here, damnit.

He tries another step forward and is blocked by a rotund man in a stained white t-shirt with a beard that reaches his chest.

“Give us a good photo, and we’ll let you through.”

I don’t like the look on Alex’s face when he looks at me. The lines of deep thought followed by the flicker of an idea. He looks at my lips, then back to the paparazzi, and nods.

“Let us through, then we’ll give you a photo.”

Oh, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is he planning?

There are murmurings through the crowd before they part like the Red Sea. Alex repositions me at his side and guides us through the narrow pathway, our arms brushing bulging satchels and poised camera lenses.

Tension has etched harsh crevices into his brow that only begin to settle once we’ve cleared the mob and begin the ascent up the stone steps to the venue. The entrance lights are a beacon, and I want to go full moth mode and sprint to them, even if what’s inside is worse than what we’re facing out here.

Alex stops. Midstep. He turns around to face the swarm of paparazzi giddily awaiting whatever performance he’s about to enact, then he looks at me.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers.

“Absolutely not.”

His hands slide to my waist, turning me to face him then pulling me into his body. They burn through the thin satin of my dress, heating me in a way that reminds me how cold I am.

I guess being surrounded by a heavy mass of vultures had one benefit: protection from the freezing February night. But now I’m exposed to the wind, goosebumps are breaking across my skin at speed, and a shiver trembles through me.

At least, I think it’s because of the wind.

It’s definitely got nothing to do with the way Alex’s thumbs are stroking back and forth on my waist or the little glances he keeps sending toward my mouth.

He smirks. “You said you wanted to wing it, right?”

Shit. Oh, shit.