Dearest Series Boxed Set (24 page)

His eyes soften, and he takes a step closer. “I know what it’s like to be judged for what you write. For every article I publish, I get an inbox full of hate mail.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ve read your stuff. You’re a brilliant reporter.”

He shrugs as though uneasy with the compliment. “You’ve had that advantage.” I raise my eyebrows, wondering what he means. He clears his throat. “You know what I’ve written because I don’t use a pen name.”

My eyes turn down to the floor. Of course he’s known I have a pen name. I told him as much when we first started studying together. I just never told him what it was. Nothing was stopping him from asking.
Unless he was waiting for me to offer it.

“I wish you felt like you could talk to me.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“I could say the same thing.” My stupid mouth opens before I realize what I’m saying. He nods slowly, his distance growing.

I think about how he spends time with Angelique. Hell, I saw her walk in with him at the gym only two nights ago, and yet he and I aren’t spending time together. I’ve never thought of myself as a jealous girl, but damn it, I’m pissed.

Gavin exhales and starts for the door, pausing to place a pink square of paper into my palm and kiss my forehead. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Don’t leave.

But I don’t say the words. I can’t. And then he’s gone.

I open my hand to find a Post-It with something scribbled across it. A quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
“That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.”

God, I’m an idiot. He comes here to comfort me and I piss him off. I suck at relationships. I start to go after him but stop at my front door, remembering I have a lawn full of reporters. My situation has garnered enough attention to have a few news trucks parked outside, and yet Gavin didn’t ask to interview me or get a story when his specialty is investigative reporting. He never leveraged me for his own advancement. My vision gets blurry, and I blink back the tears, the ache in my chest overwhelming.

I stare down at his note in my hand and wish I knew what to do.

T
he best distraction
from how screwed up things are with Gavin is to deal with the shitstorm brewing over my book. If I can deal with this myself, maybe I can figure out how to straighten things out with him. Time to make some calls.

The first one is to the dean’s office.

After I’m on hold for about ten minutes, a polite elderly-sounding woman tells me Dean Marshall wants to see me on Monday to discuss the allegations made by Wheeler. Her calm, perky demeanor is better suited for taking my lunch order at a 1950s diner than asking me to attend the Spanish Inquisition.

Daren’s legal firm hooks me up with top-notch representation, a woman named Kate Peterson. I can hear the disgust in her voice for Wheeler, and thank Jesus, Joseph and the Easter bunny that Daren got me an attorney who sounds like she might tear off my former professor’s man parts personally and enjoy it. She says she’ll start working on a slander lawsuit immediately.

Gathering up a little more courage, I call my boss Roger who chews me out for not letting him know about my alter ego sooner so I could do some in-store book signings. After grumbling about how his week is shot to shit because I can’t come in this evening, his voice softens.

“Look, kid, take the week off so you can deal with school, but you have to promise to do a few promotional events when you get back. That book of yours is a hit.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“Don’t call me that. You know it makes me feel old.”

“You are old,” I tease.

He laughs. He’s taking this really well. Guess I need to address the polka-dotted elephant in the room.

“Roger, I want you to know I didn’t plagiarize.”

Before I can say anything else, he cuts me off.

“Of course you didn’t. Any jackass knows that. Now hurry up and figure all this out so you can get back here and do next month’s schedules.”

I’m relieved not to have to explain more, and he wishes me luck, offering me more time off if I need it. I start to relax now that everyone in my small circle of friends has been so supportive.

My phone rings for the tenth time in the last hour, and although I’ve managed to dodge a couple of reporters so far, I know I have to make a statement soon. As if on cue, a familiar name flashes on my cell. I don’t get a chance to say hello before Maeve, my publicist, starts in on me.

“I don’t think I need to explain my job to you, Clementine, but I’m your liaison to the media. However, if I don’t know what the fuck is going on, I can’t do my job, which makes me very unhappy.” Her British accent sounds amazingly sophisticated even though she’s telling me off.

“It’s nice to talk to you too, Maeve.” I roll my eyes. She can be so dramatic. Of course, I’ve never made her job easy.

After listening to a few rounds of apologies, she’s quiet. “I hope there is no merit to the charges.”

“No, God, of course not!” I share what my attorney has said, which seems to assuage her ruffled feathers.

“Great. Now get yourself a few nice outfits.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Why?”

“You need to get in front of this. I made a few calls to the Sunday morning news shows. I’d love to get you out there this evening, but the story will resonate more if you issue your statement during a slow news cycle. So pray there isn’t a terrorist attack or natural disaster this week that messes with your PR.”

“You want me to do an interview?”

“Interviews. Plural. Or maybe one big one. I’m still working out the details.”

My mind floods with fears, but she’s right. I have to state my side. It’s like being on trial. If I don’t do the interviews, it’ll seem like I have something to hide. And I don’t. Not anymore.

“About that. I have one request.”

* * *

A
fter being
on the phone for two hours, I’m in a nearly vegetative state when my cell rings again. I should let it go to voice mail when I see that it’s an unknown caller, but I accidentally hit accept.

At first, all I hear is music. I recognize it as a Beatles tune, but as the lyrics become clearer, my hand starts to shake. It’s called
Run for Your Life
. The evil song about a guy who would rather kill his girl than watch her end up with someone else plays in my ear.

“Did you get that, love?” Wheeler asks with a snicker before he hangs up.

I’m still gripping my phone when I walk out into the living room and find Jenna, Harper and Dani watching an episode of
True Blood
.

“Is it weird that I think Eric Northman was hotter when he was a heartless asshole?” Dani asks.

Harper turns to her with a raised eyebrow, looking like she might launch into a clinical assessment when she spots me. The phone slips from my hand, crashing to the wood floor.

“I… I might need to take off for a few days,” I say before I break down, sobbing.

Y
ou’ve got
to be kidding me.
The first thing I notice is that my palatial hotel suite smells like lavender and candles. The second is the massive mahogany sleigh bed dressed in a delicate ivory comforter that looks
way
too big for one person. The last detail that sends my wallet into heart-attack mode is that from my balcony—yes, I have a balcony—I have the most stunning view of Copley Square below where dozens of people stroll around the fountain in front of the majestic Trinity Church.

“This can’t be right,” I tell the bellhop, who sets my small suitcase by the door.

“Ma’am, if you’re Mr. Sloan’s guest, this is the room.” He stares at me like he’s waiting for me to say something and itches his collar nervously.
Oh.

“Shit, hold on.” I reach into my bag for my wallet and hand him a five, which I realize is probably a small tip for a five-star hotel, but I’m on a budget.

As soon as the door closes, I dial Daren.

“Are you crazy? This is too much!” I yell the second he answers.

“Do you like it?” he asks with a laugh.

“It’s gorgeous.” Uh, understatement! Try bridal-suite amazing. Wait, that’s bad.

I stop breathing, trying to choose my words carefully. “Daren, I really appreciate your help, but why are you doing this? You know I’m in a relationship, right?” Or kind of in a relationship. Damn it. I don’t know what Gavin and I are anymore, but he’s where my heart is, and I don’t want to give Daren any mixed messages.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist. I saw how you looked at that guy at the gym, and I’m not trying to throw my hat in the ring here, but I owe you, and we’re friends, right?”

“Yes, we’re friends, but this goes above and beyond—”

“You need a place to stay until Boston PD can get back to you about another restraining order, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Look, I know you don’t see your brother often because he’s been afraid to put us in the same room together, so if we can put this behind us, maybe the three of us can go back to being friends. Besides, I put you through a lot of shit. I know because I read your book, and even
I
think I was a dick, so look at this as my way to put the universe back in order again. You didn’t deserve how I treated you, and if I can do something nice for you once in a while, you should let me. My dad’s hotel has great security, and at least I’ll know you’re safe. Jax has an away game this weekend, and he doesn’t want you to be alone, so unless you want to sleep on my couch, you’re going to have to deal with it.”

“But I’ll barely be able to afford your attorney, much less this suite.”

“Honey, you’re not paying for any of it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Daren, stop. I won’t let you throw money at all of my problems. I’ll figure out how to pay for my attorney, who’s great, by the way. But this suite is too much.”

“Emmie, we grew up together. We played in the same crib. You were my first kiss when I was twelve, the first girl to slap me when I was an ass, and the first girl to break my heart. But I also think you’ve taught me more than anyone I know. You’re not some random woman. Now let me take care of this or you’ll hurt my feelings.”

I roll my eyes at his melodrama. He has this all wrong. I
so
did not break his heart, and I would remind him of this and correct his revisionist history except he keeps yammering on in that Daren-Sloan-rules-the-world kind of way.

“Besides,” he says, “you’d do the same for me, right?”

If I were a millionaire like you? Sure. But since my bank account is nonexistent at the moment, you shouldn’t look to me for this kind of help any time soon.
And I know of at least one person who definitely will not be cool with this arrangement. “Yes, but I wouldn’t want this to come back and bite you in the ass with Veronica.”

He’s quiet, but then he sighs. “Let me worry about her.”

I’ve spent three years trying to block out how Veronica is a c-word, so now, I merely have a general distaste for her, the way I dislike food poisoning or yeast infections.

“I’m not trying to get back at her. I mean, I don’t think I’ll have her over for lunch anytime this millennium, but I’m not looking to hurt her.”

“That’s big of you. Now stop wasting my time. I’m a busy man.”

I snort. “In your dreams, beefcake.” He laughs at me. This is easy, like it used to be for us growing up. “Daren, I
really
appreciate this, everything, but we’re even now, okay? This is it. You can’t just ride in on a white horse for me again or I’ll get pissed.”

“I thought most girls lived for that shit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not most girls.”

“Emmie, I think we all know that.” He chuckles again and tells me to take advantage of the masseuse and day spa downstairs. Good lord, he’s infuriating.

* * *

A
s heavenly as
this bed is, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking back to how I left things with Gavin earlier today. It’s obvious we’re growing apart, but I don’t know what to do. I would kill to have him here with me in this bed, despite everything we haven’t talked about, to have him wrap his arms around me. I feel safe with him, like we can figure things out better together than I can alone.

I want to call Harper or Jenna, but neither one seems to understand why I needed to take a step back from the relationship. Fuck,
I
don’t understand it right now.

Maybe I should call him. But it’s after midnight, and I don’t want to wake him, so I resolve to do it in the morning. Simply making that decision puts me more at ease, enough to finally fall asleep.

I’m up early on Thursday morning and go for a run at the gym downstairs, and as my feet pound on the conveyer belt, I try to plan my day. My empty schedule is uncomfortable, like an itchy sweater that doesn’t fit. After learning about the camera crews who stalked me at my brownstone, the dean’s office advised me to call my professors to get my assignments and take a brief leave of absence until our meeting on Monday. I’m in no mood for classes or for dealing with any press that might be lurking, so I complied. Plus, at least this way I know I won’t run into Wheeler. But I have too much time on my hands, and that makes me nervous.

Around ten, I finally get the nerve to dial Gavin, but the second the phone starts ringing, my stomach twists into a tight knot. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.

“Gavin, hey, I’m sorry about how we left things yesterday. I… I miss you. Call me when you get a chance.”

When I hang up, I realize he doesn’t know I’m staying at a hotel or that Wheeler threatened me.
At least you’ll have something to talk about when he calls.
The thought almost cheers me. Except he never calls. I write three thousand words on my story, people-watch out my window for an hour, and veg out to two reruns of
CSI
, and my phone never rings.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and like any modern woman with half a brain, I cyber-stalk him on Google. He’s been busy. Gavin’s had several articles in the BU newspaper in the last two weeks and a front-page article about sexual predators on college campuses in the
Globe
that ran yesterday. That piques my interest.

Apparently, a girl at a nearby college recently got attacked by her ex-boyfriend, but the school didn’t believe her because it was a he-said/she-said situation, which Gavin uses to explore how much evidence a woman needs to prove her claims in a situation like this.

That hits close to home. I wonder if he got inspired by what happened with my professor, but he never asked me for an interview.
He must have thought I’d turn him down.

Eventually, early Saturday afternoon, my phone rings.

It’s Jenna. Damn.

She asks about the restraining order, which the police won’t reissue because they say there isn’t enough evidence to consider Wheeler a threat. The fact that Wheeler sounds like he wants to eat my insides Hannibal Lecter-style doesn’t seem to bother them at all, so I call Jax and tell him I might crash with him next week if I can’t figure out what to do. And I
really
don’t want to stay with my brother. The last time I did, his late-night hookup came waltzing out of his bedroom buck naked and asked if I had seen her thong.

“Are you coming to the show tonight?” Jenna asks, interrupting that unpleasant memory.

I sigh. “Shit. With everything going on this week, I forgot about it.”

“You really should come. Remember, stake your territory, mark your man, maybe show him your goodies.”

“Jenna, I am not showing him my goodies.” I don’t know why I say that. Out of principle, I suppose. After all, he’s already seen my goodies, but he and I aren’t like that anyway. That’s not what our relationship is about.

The club is one train ride away, and the B-line will drop me off in front of the venue. Unless Wheeler is lurking in the bushes right outside of my hotel, which is unlikely since no one knows I’m here, I’m probably okay for a quick trip. I have to go because the writing is on the wall: Gavin must think we’re over. If he doesn’t, that’s where this is headed if things don’t turn around ASAP.

“Yeah, I’ll try to make it.” The thought of seeing him makes my insides squirm with excitement and fear, but I need to be a big girl and deal with this.

“Great. I’ll make sure your name is on the VIP list.”

I wish I had realized the band was playing this weekend. Maybe I would have packed more than jeans and t-shirts. But the idea of gorgeous girls in barely-there fabric draping themselves all over him is enough to motivate me. I can see Angry Red now, shaking her big tits in the front row, and my blood boils.

A quick trip to the mall across the street suddenly seems like a brilliant idea. I need something for the interview my publicist set up for tomorrow morning anyway, so maybe I can kill two birds with my MasterCard.

About two dozen outfit changes later, I drag myself back into my room, toss my packages on the bed and bury myself in the blankets for a nap. Jenna can shop endlessly for days, and I can barely manage a few hours.

Truth be told, I can’t wait to see Gavin. I’ve never seen him perform with Ryan’s band, but the impromptu open mic with his students a few weeks ago has me wanting more. He’s so damn sexy when he plays the guitar.

With thoughts of that hot man tumbling around in my head, I put my whole heart into getting ready. I straighten my hair, do my makeup, making sure to play up my eyes, and then wiggle into my dress, which I think hugs in all the right places. He liked the outfit I wore on my birthday, and this one is similar, but it’s fire-engine red—a bit of a departure for me, but I know I need to pull out all the stops if I want to stave off the hungry droves of women who might be pining for him.

And suddenly, nothing could be clearer. I don’t want to lose him. If he says he hasn’t been cheating on me, I believe him. That’s probably stupid and naive, and I’m setting myself up for heartbreak, but I’m tired of living life on the sidelines, and if I don’t take a chance with Gavin Murphy, I think I’ll always regret it.

I know my problem. After years of consuming a steady diet of romantic comedies with Jenna and Harper, I think I’ve been waiting for the big gesture, the one where the guy stands in the rain and declares his love or makes some scene at a football game that ends with the crowd doing the slow clap. It’s official. Romantic comedies have ruined my life.

Maybe tonight I just need to tell him how I’m feeling, that I want to work this out. Maybe that will be enough, and he’ll tell me what happened with Angelique last weekend. Of course, there’s a chance I might vomit before I get the opportunity because I don’t do well with these kinds of declarations.

On the bright side, there’s never any puking in romantic comedies.

I check myself in the mirror one last time before I reach for the door, but I flinch when a loud knock startles me. Through the peephole, I see two men in black suits. I put the chain on the door before I open it slowly.

One waves a badge.

“Ms. Avery? We’re with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Jason Wheeler.”

Holy crap on toast.