Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
CHARLOTTE
I’ve never felt as trapped as I do right now, especially not in my own home.
My home is my safe place, a lush, cozy sanctuary, a monument to “this sister did it by herself.” I bought, renovated, decorated, and upgraded every inch of my three-bedroom bungalow with my own money and my own hands. It’s a place where I usually feel held and proud of all I’ve accomplished.
Now, I feel like a rat in a trap, waiting for the catcher to come collect his prey.
I always suspected that fame was overrated. Now, I know for sure.
Fame sucks.
The paparazzi sucks.
And having a famous, deranged ex sucks worst of all.
God, I feel so awful for Beatrice. I thought the public passive-aggressive bullshit Teddy spouted in that magazine was bad, but this…
This is so bad it’s scary. I haven’t been able to sit down since the first news van pulled up hours ago, and every text alert from my phone or Beatrice’s makes me flinch.
The last time a message popped through from Makena, I yipped in surprise, startling Beatrice so badly, she nearly fell off her stool at the kitchen counter, where she’s in damage-control-triage mode with her publicist, her publicist’s mentor, and several trusted singer friends who’ve reached out with tips on managing vicious exes.
It truly takes a village to recover from a bad man…
After apologizing for scaring her, I retreated to the front of the house to twitch alone. Beatrice has enough on her plate without my high-strung energy adding to her overwhelm.
So, I pace the length of the foyer, heels clicking softly on the hardwood, doing my best to walk the stress away without breaking a sweat.
I’m dressed for battle today. A very specific kind of battle.
In wide-legged cream trousers, a camel cashmere sweater, and a smooth blowout, I’m leaning into my best “Gwyneth Paltrow on trial for a ski accident” energy.
The look says—I am elegant, unbothered, and have nothing to hide. It insists, “I am the reasonable person in this room, and all who contradict my narrative should be ignored.”
I thought getting ready to face the public would help, but so far, the pinch of my camel pumps is simply reminding me why I usually go for boots or sandals with this outfit instead.
I’m not twenty-five anymore, and neither are my feet.
As I turn, pace, turn, and pace again, the toe box rubs in all the wrong ways, and my gaze keeps drifting to the closed curtains.
The heavy linen blocks us from prying eyes but does little to keep out the noise.
The low drone of conversation, the occasional burst of “news anchor voice” as they go live, the shuffle of equipment, and the scooter buzzing in with food delivery all easily reach my twitchy ears.
A peek through the curtain reveals it’s Phillipe, the driver who delivers my weekly Indian food order, and I feel betrayed. I’ve tipped Phillipe very well. For years. I can’t believe he’s delivering supplies to the enemy!
Logically, I know I can’t blame a man for making a living, but still…
Phillipe’s a nice guy. Great smile. Sweet energy. If he knew these scavengers were re-traumatizing an already traumatized woman, I doubt he would be okay with bringing them the caffeine they need to keep going.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down—another text from a number I don’t recognize, asking for a comment.
I silence it and keep walking.
In the kitchen, I hear the low murmur of Beatrice’s voice as she answers another call from Laurel, her publicist, the third since we woke up to Hurricane Kai sweeping through our lives.
She sounds steady, but I know she’s angry and scared and worried about the repercussions of all this. Not just for herself, but for Nix, me, and my business. I’m not worried about my business—my clients aren’t the kind to pay attention to rock star drama—but I am worried about Nix.
It’s 11:43, and he texted that he was on his way from the airport twenty-five minutes ago.
He should be here any second.
My anxiety spikes again. I shake my hands loosely at my sides as I resume my pacing, attempting to give the nervous energy somewhere to go.
I know Nix understands what’s at stake. He’s too smart not to have put two and two together and realized a burst of temper would be playing right into Kai’s hands.
But still…
I also know how much he loves Beatrice and how much he hates lies and bullshit and bullies.
And the fact that he’s been suspended because of Kai, a man he’s loathed for years?
The moment that bombshell broke, courtesy of a popular indie hockey reporter, I knew Nix’s anger management skills were about to be tested in ways they’ve never been tested before.
I don’t blame him for keeping the news to himself—I’m sure he didn’t want to add to Bea’s guilt or stress, and it was news best conveyed in person—but still…
I wish he’d let me be there for him.
I could have at the very least offered a safe place to vent before he faced the press. After being suspended, accused of a felony, and chased out of Canada like a criminal, he’s likely hanging on by a thread. The news vans circling my house like sharks might be the final straw.
He might snap, and if he snaps…
I move to the window, peering through the crack at the edge of the curtains again, just as a black town car turns the corner at the end of the block. The hive buzzes louder, cameramen flurrying into place as the reporters sense fresh meat.
I grip the curtain fabric so tight my knuckles start to ache.
Just keep it cool until you get inside, I think, hoping Nix will feel the good energy headed his way through the swarm. Hold tight until I close the door behind you, and then you can unleash every bit of your very righteous fury. Just a few more minutes, Bay. Just a few more…
The sedan parks as close to my driveway as it can get with all the news vans in the way, and Baylor steps out.
He’s wearing a dark hoodie over maroon workout shorts and a baseball cap pulled low. He keeps his gaze fixed on the ground as he fetches his gear bag and travel duffle from the trunk and starts for the driveway.
My chest tightens with a mixture of worry and relief.
He looks massive. Gorgeous. And exhausted.
The reporters surge around the sedan, likely scaring the poor driver half to death as they shout—
“Baylor! Is Beatrice inside?”
“Did you force her to cancel the tour?”
“Do you have a comment on the kidnapping allegations?”
Shoulders inching higher, I brace myself for whatever comes next. Telling them to “fuck off” would be completely understandable. Unwise, but understandable.
But if he pushes a reporter or tosses a camera…
He sets his gear bag down on the grass at the base of the porch, sending my shoulders the rest of the way to my ears. But when he pushes his hat brim higher, revealing his face, he doesn’t look like a man on the verge of stroking out.
He looks weary, disappointed, like a tired father dealing with unruly toddlers.
He raises one hand, palm out, and the swarm silences, waiting with bated breath and poised mics as he says, “Good morning. I know you all have a job to do. I understand that.” His voice is deep, steady, sending a wave of relief through my tight muscles as he continues, “But what’s happening here isn’t news.
It’s a fabrication designed to hurt my family that we’ll be clearing up through the appropriate legal channels. That’s all I can say at this time.”
“What about the claim that—”
“That’s all I can say at this time,” Nix repeats, collecting his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
Then he smiles, a cool, boundary-setting smile that makes me so proud I can hardly stand it.
“In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my girlfriend’s azaleas.
If you step on them or cross the property line again, I’ll have no choice but to call the authorities.
” He winks before adding, “Or turn on the sprinklers. And I think we all know water and cameras don’t mix. ”
A few of the press cluster actually chuckle.
Then, they step back! They retreat like scavengers shooed away by an apex predator, and Nix didn’t have to raise his voice a decibel.
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my chest for hours and head for the front door, flipping the lock with shaking hands.
The moment I step out onto the porch, cameras flash, but I don’t look their way. My eyes are all for this man, my man. When Nix sees me, the “calm and collected” mask slips for a second, revealing the mortal man in crisis beneath, but my arms are already twining around his neck.
I hide the crack in his facade with a kiss.
A real kiss…
A deep, focused, promise of a kiss. It tells Nix that I’ve got his back, but it’s also my statement to the press, my flag planted in the ground.
I am Charlotte Delaney, pillar of the fucking community, and I stand with this man wrapping his free arm around my waist and holding on like I’m the only solid thing left.
The flashes keep coming—so do the shouted questions—but I don’t care. I kiss him until I’m damned good and ready to stop.
Then, I pull back just an inch, resting my forehead against his as I whisper, “Welcome home. That was perfect.”
He exhales. “Thanks.”
“Now, let’s get you a coffee.”
“And a shower,” he whispers with a soft laugh. “I came straight from the gym. I probably smell like a ripe animal.”
“But you’re my ripe animal,” I tease as I take his hand, holding tight as I lead him inside.
The moment we’re behind closed doors, the energy shifts as we both relax into real reunion mode.
Nix leans back against the heavy wood of the door, dropping his bag with a rush of breath. “Shit. What a fucking morning.”
“I know,” I say, brow furrowing with concern as I cup his tired face. “We heard about the suspension. The news broke while you were in the air. I’m so sorry.”
He winces, but before he can reply, Beatrice shouts from behind us, “Bay, you’re back!”