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No one has seen us. Yet. There’s still time to leave or find a back entrance.
Or not.
This is Harvest Hollow. It’s not a big city. These are local reporters, not paparazzi and celebrity gossip magazines. We’ll be just fine. People will likely make assumptions. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been publicly linked with someone when it wasn’t true. If a woman so much as stands close to me and someone snaps a picture, I’m practically engaged.
But Parker looks so anxious. And that’s the last thing I want her to feel right now. I’d rather wipe the stress from her face, to ease the tension I can visibly see in her shoulders. I like being private, but I’m also used to this enough not to care.
“Are you that embarrassed to be seen with me?” I tease.
She smacks my arm. When she smiles, I feel like I’ve done my job. At least a little.
“No! It just derails the plan of this being low-key if pictures are splashed all over theHarvest Timesand wherever else. It just means more people we have to explain things to when things … you know, end.”
Parker’s voice goes a little quiet. But then she shakes her head a little.
“What about you? I don’t want to mess up your reputation or anything.”
I snort. “I should be so lucky. With a little investigative journalism, they’d quickly find that you’re way too good for me, Pete.”
It’s true.Sotrue. For a fraction of a second, I wonder how things would be if Iwerethe kind of man who could spend my life with Parker.
Her lips part, her mouth seemingly caught between a smile and dropping open in surprise. A flush rises in her cheeks, a deeper and prettier hue than her dress. I’d like to keep that blush on her face all night.
So, I keep going. “You’re, like, twenty-thousand leagues out of my sea.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says, but she’s giggling now. “But are you sure it won’t be a big deal for you?”
“Nope. I can’t top the bad press I’ve had lately.”
It’s died down some. But after the fight with the fan … it seemed like every media outlet wanted to dig up more dirt on me. Old photos were reposted, even if they were just pictures of me looking angry in a game or looking angry in a club. Anonymous sources opined about how I’m not a team player. Blah blah blah.
I can’t see how this—even if it did get reported—could be bad for me.
But I’m not surprised Parker is worried aboutmyreputation—she’s always been more concerned with others than herself. It’s not me she should be thinking about. Online trolls come out of the woodwork hungry for blood when hockey players are linked with women. And they don’t go after the players.
This gives me the slightest pause. But then again, these are small town reporters, here to fuel Mr. Douglas’s sense of self-importance.
Still.
I’ll text Jeremy later and give him a heads up just in case someone tries to sell a picture to a bigger news outlet or something. Wouldn’t be the first time. Since I don’t have a PR person, my agent will be the one people might ask for a comment.
“We don’t have to stop for photos if you don’t want to,” I tell her.
Her eyes brighten. “Really?”
“Yep. Keep your head down and tilted toward the building. I make a good human shield. The question is—how fast can you walk in those heels?”
“Fast enough,” she says.
“You sure?” I ask, just to get a reaction.
I get one. She mock glares. “I’m faster in heels than you are in skates, Barnes.”
I laugh. “Come on.” I slide my hand into hers, and when she looks at me in surprise, I shrug. “Hand-holding. It’s in the rules. Ready?”
She nods, and we set off. But Parker was perhaps a wee bit overconfident in her heel-walking abilities. We’re halfway through the group of photographers, who are still taking pictures and calling for us to stop, when Parker stumbles.
Immediately, I drop the hand I’m holding and slide my arm around her, steadying her. She giggles, grabbing at me and swinging her smiling face up to mine. I try to angle my body so I’m blocking her from the photographers.
