Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grayson
Brody was right, and I’m never telling him.
Watching Miranda model another dress is doing things to me that have nothing to do with her usefulness as a fake fiancée.
The slow turn in front of the mirror. The way she tucks her hair behind one ear and frowns at her own reflection like she’s bracing for criticism.
The way her face changes when I tell her it looks good, that small, startled flicker before she shoves the compliment away.
I’ve spent the morning watching her quietly come apart at the seams every time I press a credit card into a salesperson’s hand.
It’s the best three hours I’ve had in a month.
I drop the bags into the back, slam it shut, and turn back toward where I left her on the corner. The afternoon light is sharp off the storefront glass. I’m already smiling because I’m picturing her face when I tell her about the lingerie boutique two streets over.
Then I catch the second voice.
“...everyone at the hospital has heard about your reputation, sweetie.”
My feet stop moving.
Three women have her cornered against a planter. The one in the middle is doing the talking, dark hair, expensive dress, the polish that comes from a salary Miranda probably never saw at that hospital. The other two are flanking her like bridesmaids at a wedding nobody invited her to.
Miranda hasn’t moved.
That’s what gets me first. My fiancée. The woman who pinches me when I overstep, who threatened to render me incapable of fathering more children in a locker room, who curses out men twice her size on principle.
She’s standing with one hand white-knuckled on her bag and the other curled at her side, and her jaw is locked tightly enough that I can see the muscle ticking from here.
She’s holding herself back.
My wolf surfaces in a slow, rolling wave. I should walk faster. I make myself slow down instead, because if I cross that pavement at the speed my body wants, somebody is going to the hospital.
“Ordinary?” My voice carries before I’ve reached them. “I don’t think there’s anything ordinary about my fiancée.”
The arm sliding around her from behind is the calmest thing I’ve done all day. Miranda goes still against me, her fingers wrapping around my forearm like she needed something to hold on to, and the ring catches the light right where I want it to.
The three of them turn to me in unison.
The leader recovers first. Her hand lifts in that practiced way doctors use at hospital fundraisers, smile sliding into place like a panel of glass.
“Mr. Wolfe.” Her voice has gone honey-sweet. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’m Vivian Banks. One of Miranda’s colleagues at the hospital.”
I look at her hand.
I keep looking at her hand.
She drops it.
“Colleague?” I say with a sneer. “Miranda has never mentioned you.”
Vivian’s smile thins. “Well, Miranda and I were never very close. She was always too busy chasing every doctor on the ward to bother with the rest of us attendings—”
“Vivian, shut up.”
That’s Miranda. Quiet, dangerous, the version of her voice that means a man is about to lose a tooth. The tightness in my chest loosens a fraction at the sound of it.
I turn my head so my mouth is near her temple.
“You don’t have to hold yourself back on my account,” I murmur, loud enough for them to hear. “If you want to beat her up, go ahead. I’ve got your back.”
Miranda’s chin lifts to look up at me. The shock on her face is almost comical.
“What?” she breathes.
“You heard me.”
The blonde to Vivian’s left makes a small, affronted sound. The third one is frozen in place, the way people do when they suddenly remember the floor they’re standing on isn’t stable.
I shift my gaze to Vivian and let some of the wolf surface behind my eyes. Just enough to register on a primate brain. Just enough that her smile freezes at the edges.
“I don’t usually go after women,” I tell her conversationally.
“It’s not my style. But you should know there are plenty of ways to hurt you without laying a finger on you.
I can make sure you never work at a hospital in this state again.
Money has a beautiful way of moving things around. And my money is my fiancée’s money.”
Vivian’s mouth opens.
“If she has a problem with you, I have a problem with you.”
I tug Miranda’s hand up between us and lift it, deliberately, so the ring sits between her body and theirs.
“Look at her,” I say to the three of them. “Look at my fiancée. These two haven’t said one word that compares to what you just did. You’re envious of her, so all the ugliness inside you ends up on your face. It’s actually a little sad.”
The blonde makes a strangled sound.
“How dare you?” Vivian’s voice climbs. “You chose the hospital slut over—”
A laugh punches out of me.
“Really? That’s what we’re going with?”
“Yes.” Her teeth are showing now. “Everyone at the hospital knows it.”
I pull out my phone.
I dial Sterling.
He picks up on the second ring. “Grayson, I was just about to—”
“Sterling, you’re on speaker. Quick question. How strong are the defamation laws in this state?”
A small silence. Then his voice comes through, dry as bone. “Pretty ruthless, actually. Why?”
Miranda stiffens against my side.
“I want to sue Silverpeak General,” I say. “And every single member of its staff who has been participating in slandering my fiancée. We’ll start with the medical board.”
“Grayson—” Sterling’s voice has gone careful.
“Pay close attention to the name Dr. Vivian Banks. She seems to think she’s someone important to the hospital. Pull her contracts, her board memberships, her speaking fees. Everything. I want to see how she’s able to look my woman in the eye by the end of this week.”
Vivian’s face has lost most of its color. The blonde takes one small step backward.
“You can’t do that!” Vivian’s voice cracks on the last word. Her eyes dart to Miranda. “You can’t do that, can you? Tell him to stop!”
Miranda just shrugs against me. “Sorry. I’m too busy being the hospital slut to intervene.”
I want to pin her to the nearest wall.
“Say goodbye to your career, Doctor.” I tip my chin at the three of them. “Sterling, I’ll call you back.”
He’s wise enough not to argue. The line clicks off.
I tuck Miranda’s arm through mine and turn us both toward the restaurant. The three of them haven’t moved. I can hear Vivian’s breathing climb as we walk away, the start of a sound that might be a sob.
We round the corner before Miranda says a word.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I really did.”
“Grayson.”
I keep my pace steady. My free hand is in my pocket because if I take it out, I will go back and put it through something brick. The wolf is still pacing in my chest, not satisfied, never going to be satisfied with words alone.
I keep my voice casual. “Why did you let them talk to you like that?”
She glances up at me. Her cheeks are still flushed. “Grayson, we’re under constant public scrutiny right now. One wrong move from me and we throw the whole case. You could lose Ethan.”
I stop walking. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly. “I don’t care what anyone says to me,” she continues quietly. “I can bear it. For Ethan.”
The thing in my chest goes feral.
I turn her toward me by both shoulders, careful with the bandaged arm. The midday street keeps moving around us. I don’t see it.
“Well, I can’t bear it,” I tell her hoarsely. “Don’t you ever let anybody talk to you like that again. I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself the next time.”
She blinks up at me, her eyes going wide and uncertain. That look on her face makes me wonder when she’ll ever truly believe me.
I bring my hand up and push a strand of her hair off her cheek. My thumb brushes the shell of her ear. She inhales sharply.
“Miranda.” My voice has gone low and rough. “Everything that affects you matters to me. And if you don’t know why by now, I might have to throw you in the lake again.”
She bristles immediately, just like I knew she would.
“Don’t you dare.”
I grin.
There she is.
I take her hand in mine and kiss her palm. “Come on. I’m not going to let them ruin our date. Let’s have lunch.”
I made a reservation in a fancy French place that has too many weird sounding names on the menu. But Miranda enjoys the food. When she converses with the waiter in French, I want to kiss that mouth of hers.
“You speak French?”
She shifts awkwardly in her seat. “I took French in high school. And a bit of German.”
“That’s so hot.” I grin, and she flushes at my blunt words. “So what? If you’re in…emotionally charged situations, can you suddenly start speaking in French?”
“Emotionally charged…?” She gives me a confused look before my meaning registers on her. Her face turns a bright red. “Grayson!”
I wink at her, and she kicks me under the table. I take the hit, laughing. “Now that’s all I’ll be daydreaming of today.”
“You’re such a pervert.” She shakes her head, but she’s trying to hide her smile.
“Anything else you want to do today?” I ask, watching her chase the last olive around her plate.
“No more shopping,” she says immediately. “Unless you actually need something for yourself.”
I lift my fork and then pause. “Now that you mention it.” I clear my throat. “I should probably grab a few things. I’ve been meaning to replace some shirts.”
Her brow furrows. “Really?”
“Cuffs are fraying.”
Her brow furrows deeper. “On a hockey player’s salary.”
“I’m hard on shirts.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether to call this what it is. I keep my expression bland and steal a piece of her bread.
“Do you think we can get some clothes for me?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t you have a stylist or something?” She gives me a suspicious look.
“A stylist?” I scoff. “I’m not a celebrity, Miranda.”
“Well, you kind of are,” she murmurs. “But sure. I don’t mind.”