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The more I had to cage my attraction, the curter I became with Harper. An asshole move considering how warm and generous she was with Pais, letting me and my daughter invade her pocket of life. But it was either be an asshole or my attraction—and hers. For once in his life, Wade was wrong; it was better this way. Better to cling to my anger and play the part of the bad guy if it kept things from getting complicated between us.

I dug my fingers into where they gripped my knee and diverted my attention to my email on my phone. I blew by the dozen new messages from my agent with roles, sponsorships, and brand partnerships he’d received for me. It didn’t matter how many times I told Bill I wasn’t putting anything new on my schedule until things were settled with Pais; he had to send me the details.

I knew I was making his job difficult by turning down everything, even simple shit like snapping a selfie wearing this brand of sunglasses or wearing that brand of jeans. But it wasn’t worth it. The exposure…the inevitable run of gossip it would trigger…I couldn’t risk it. Not with Angela’s lawsuit hanging over my head.

My phone vibrated with an incoming call from my brother. I shoved out of the chair and walked to the far side of the room—as far out of sight and earshot as I could get.

“Hello?”

I hoped he was calling about having Pais over tonight; he and Lou had been having her over for dinner once a week for the last couple weeks.

“Hey,” Wade said. “Got a minute?”

“Yeah, what’s up?” My skin prickled. This wasn’t about babysitting Pais.

“Ms. Jenkins filed her interim report,” Wade said.

“Shit—hold on.” I lowered the phone and walked to the morning room. “I’m going to step outside and make a phone call,” I said to the two of them, praying I wouldn’t be bombarded by a litany of my daughter’s questions.

“Okay,” she replied, almost oblivious to me as she focused on screwing the lid onto a filled jar. A small mercy.

My eyes caught Harper’s as I went to turn, seeing the concern in her stare. It made my chest tighten even more than it already was. How she kept bubbling over with compassion for me when I was consistently cold to her, I couldn’t understand. Or maybe I didn’t want to because understanding it would lead to more feelings that I couldn’t afford.

I let myself out of the house, bringing my phone back to my ear only once the door was closed behind me.

“Sorry. What did she say?”

“She agrees that the way the paparazzi have been following you is exceptionally detrimental to Paisley’s sense of safety and security.”

I stopped pacing and my exhale tumbled from my chest like gravel from a dump truck. “She agreed?” I had to confirm because that was…what we wanted.

“Yeah. Everything we sent over convinced her you were justified in moving.”

“That’s…that’s fucking great.” I bent forward, bracing my hand on my knee as a huge exhale—and weight—left my chest. This was exactly what we were hoping for—what I’d needed to hear after dealing with those shitholes who hadn’t given up on camping outside the flower shop. This morning, they’d knocked over an elderly woman leaving the store because someone thought they saw me inside. “So, what happens now? I’m assuming the suit isn’t dropped, but the fact she sided with us must be a good sign⁠—”

“Blaze—”

“God, if we could just find proof that it’s Angela tipping off the paps, her case would be dead in the water⁠—”

“Blaze.”

His anger caught me off-guard, and the relief I’d felt fizzled to nothing. Somehow, this wasn’t good news. “What? What is it?”

“She credited the move, writing that the ‘paparazzi presence is detrimental to the minor child’s sense of safety and security,’ but unfortunately, our evidence was too good.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I growled and turned my back to the house again, staring blindly into the thicket of trees.

“It means we documented so much proof of how close the press is able to get to you and Paisley and how dangerous it is for her, that she flagged the apartment. She wrote ‘the current residence, above an operating commercial business, is so easily accessible and dramatically less secure than Mr. Stevens’s former residences,’ I wonder how this was even considered as an appropriate solution for the strain Mr. Stevens argues he and his daughter are under.”

Strain. Argues.

I took a step back like the words had physically shoved me.

“What the fuck…” I ground out, momentarily losing my ability to verbalize my rage. “What the fuck is she talking about?”

“She’s saying that it doesn’t look good that you’re pointing the finger at paparazzi harassment but then choosing to live above a commercial business where it’s easy for them to get to you.”

“What the hell…what does she think I’m doing? Baiting them?” I was shouting but I couldn’t stop myself. I was filled with rage, like a pot boiling over with scalding, protective anger. “Does she think I enjoy seeing my daughter panic every time we have to leave the house? That I’m thrilled to have to plan an escape route every time we go out? Not to mention the strain it’s putting on Max’s business, all the changes he had to make to keep his customers, and us, safe.”