“It’s silk?” She licked her lips and bowed her head, hiding her face from him, her hand still slowly moving over the shiny charmeuse. “I … I don’t know what to say.”
He forced himself to heave an exaggerated sigh, despite those prickling sinuses. “Just say thank you, Wren. Were you raised in a barn? Or is the Killjoy Guild unfamiliar with standard expressions of gratitude upon receiving a gift?”
She’d haltingly thanked him, the blanket clutched close, those beautiful eyes big and confused and … lost.
As lost as he’d felt then, and as lost as he felt now too, because what the actual, ever-loving fuck?
Stomping on the brakes, he abruptly turned the car into a fast-food parking lot.
“Let me get this straight.” Swinging into a space, he brought the car to a jolting halt and cut the engine. “You’re not important enough to defend? Even when someone insults you to your fucking face, literally two feet away from me? I’m not supposed to react to that in any way?”
“I know how loyal you are, Alex, and I know it goes against your instincts to let those sorts of incidents go,” she said soothingly, and once more, he was very definitely not fucking soothed. “But they’re not worth your career. I’m not worth your career.”
If his head had already regrown, it would have detonated a second time.
“That is not—I repeat, not”—for emphasis, he stabbed a finger into the air—“your fucking decision, Lauren. I am the only fucking person in this car and on this planet who can decide what my career is worth, and it’s not worth my fucking soul.”
He wished like hell he’d come to the same conclusion a year ago, before the final season’s filming began, but it was much too late to right that particular wrong.
“Do you think you’re the only one here who wants to act based on what’s right, rather than what’s convenient?” Behind his eyes, that prickling began again. Hurt and rage. “What exactly do you think of me, Lauren? Just how callous and selfish do you fucking think I am?”
“I don’t …” She put a hand on his arm, her fingers gentle and trembling. “I don’t think you’re callous or selfish.”
“Then don’t ask me to act like I am,” he snapped, as pinpoints of heat flashed to life on his skin everywhere she made contact. “I don’t know what sort of people you’ve had in your life before now, but I am not them. And if that makes you too uncomfortable, you have your asshole cousin’s number. Feel free to fucking use it.”
Silence. Then she removed her hand, and he was floating in space, untethered and alone and disoriented.
The haze in his vision, in his head, took a moment to clear, and then—
Aw, fuck.
Closing his eyes, he gripped the steering wheel and rested his forehead against its leather surface, doing his damnedest not to ram his skull into it again and again. As always, his wounded rage had driven him too far, and now she was going to call Ron, and he’d never fucking see her again, ever, not even—
Her cool palm rested lightly on the nape of his neck. She gave him a gentle squeeze there.
“Alex.” Her voice was warm. Tender. “Tell me what happened at that Spanish bar. Who were you defending?”
The question took a moment to register.
Then he heaved out a near-sob. Relief. Gratitude.
Because she wasn’t leaving him. Because she’d asked. She was the only one who’d asked, in all this time. Even Marcus, amidst his preoccupation with April, hadn’t asked what happened, hadn’t questioned the version of events offered by the tabloids and Ron.
Marcus had sympathized and worried for his best friend, but he’d assumed. That Alex had been drunk. That Alex, bless his reckless goddamn heart, had made another stupid fucking spur-of-the-moment decision.
And maybe it was spur of the moment, but it wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t regret it.
“I went to the bar for one drink. A beer, because I—because I was lonely,” he told the steering wheel, his voice thick. “It was crowded, and there were no empty stools or tables. So when I got my drink, I propped myself against the wall and started watching people. And after about two sips of my beer, I noticed this beefy, sunburned Brit at a nearby table hitting on a redheaded server. She was almost as short as you, and a few years younger than him. Maybe early twenties. Pretty. Irish accent.”
Lauren’s fingers on his neck felt like a benediction, and he sighed in appreciation.