Chapter 28
Ava
I’m living my worst nightmare.
“Who’s the blonde you were with at the airport, Harrison? Four in the morning’s a little early for a booty call.”
A phone gets shoved directly into my face.
There’s Harrison on the screen, arms wrapped around a woman in oversized sunglasses and a trench coat. Apparently after canoodling with my husband, she’s headed straight for a midair heist with D.B. Cooper.
Jealousy rears its ugly head so fast it nearly gives me whiplash.
My stomach drops.
“Who’s the woman?”
The words fly out before common sense can tackle me to the pavement.
Shit.
“Thanks for the sound bite, Ava,” somebody snickers.
Ugh. I’m such an idiot.
And judging by the glowing phones surrounding us, at least half these vultures are live-streaming.
“We’re leaving,” Harrison mutters.
We pivot hard in the opposite direction.
Three more reporters spill out of a van.
“Is the marriage fake?”
“Is that why you haven’t given her a real wedding ring?”
“Is it true you had a threesome with Chase Cartwright at The Beaumont?”
I nearly choke on my own spit.
How the hell do they know about Chase?
There are, like, a thousand people at the hotel. There’s no way anybody knows he visited us.
And yet, they do.
Apparently, the FBI has nothing on celebrity gossip reporters.
Someone shoves a phone in Harrison’s face for a quote.
They get one.
“Go fuck yourself.”
The dumbass pap immediately pushes closer.
A mistake.
Harrison grabs the phone and hurls it straight into the sidewalk as we all watch it shatter into a million pieces.
The collective gasp from the crowd is weirdly satisfying.
Questions fire from every direction so quickly they stop sounding coherent.
Cameras shove closer.
Lights flash.
Someone nearly loses an eye to a boom mic.
And Harrison?
He changes.
Not in the smooth, charming way this crowd expects.
No.
More in the deeply male, terrifying way that makes the entire crowd instinctively step back.
Like they suddenly remember the ex-SEAL is built like a linebacker and knows at least a dozen ways to kill a man with his bare hands.
His arm locks around me as he shoves us through the crowd.
The temperature in his voice drops twenty degrees.
“Back. Up.”
Half the crowd actually stumbles backward.
For a second. Then, once again, they descend on us.
“Are you in an open marriage?”
“Is there trouble in paradise?”
“How long has the affair been going on?”
“Is that why you’re leaving the States, Ava?”
Harrison shoots me a look.
And just like that, he knows.
His gaze falls with a frown.
He’s hurt.
I want to explain.
To tell him I’m sorry.
That I didn’t want to ruin this perfect day.
That I’m terrified none of this will work because how can we possibly survive a fucking ocean between us?
A smug reporter with disheveled hair and absolutely zero survival instincts gets right in Harrison’s face.
“Do you think your marriage survives a year apart while Ava films in Iceland?”
Everything stops.
Harrison’s entire body goes still on one word.
Iceland.
“I can explain—”
“We’ll talk later,” he says.
Frustrated and out of options, he scoops me into his arms and barrels through the crowd toward the ridiculous little motorbike.
Yes, in the middle of all this, apparently this is the chariot that’s supposed to save us.
Apparently my grand escape involves a Vespa.
What in God’s name was he thinking?
He sets me on the seat while we struggle to shove these stupid helmets on.
“Is it true there are multiple sex scenes with Chase and Pierce despite the PG-13 rating?”
Another guy shouts out, “Can’t wait to see your wife’s tits!”
And that’s when it happens.
Harrison turns.
Too calmly.
His fist connects with the reporter’s jaw hard enough that I actually hear it.
The guy drops like a sack of bricks, and I’m pretty sure that man and my career are both about to be on life support.
Oh, fuck.