Clara had seen Sullivan’s face on the grocery store tabloids for years. “Not when Sullivan sells magazines.” The worst part was that the picture they had used was from when they went to the zoo together. A reporter had obviously been following them. They’d taken a happy moment and twisted it until it became ugly. The photograph was of Mason running away from them, and while they hadn’t been arguing at all, Sullivan had his head bowed and looked sad. Clara remembered that moment. Sullivan had wanted to tell Mason the truth and not keep secrets anymore. “Why would they do this to him?” she asked, mostly to herself, shaking her head.
“Because they’re paparazzi,” Maisie said, peeking around the curtain and out the window. “They’re paid to twist stories.”
Amelia handed Maisie her phone back then said to Clara, “This doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. Anyone who believes this trash talk doesn’t matter.”
But someone did matter, someone above anyone else. “Mason matters.” Clara took the phone from Maisie again, searching for anything bad said about Mason. While he wasn’t mentioned directly, the article stated that Clara hated Sullivan for leaving them, and that Sullivan hadn’t wanted a son. Her heart squeezed tight. Gossip ran like wildfire through town, which was likely how the reporters got wind of Sullivan’s son no one knew about. Surely, a kid a school would mention it to Mason and bully him. Especially since Mason had been boasting about his dad being a professional baseball player. She never wanted Mason to think Sullivan didn’t want him.
With trembling limbs, she moved back to the window, watching Sullivan talking to the reporters, handling them like he seemed to do so well. But she wasn’t used to any of this, and her head swarmed with worries. “This is our story, not theirs, and they’ve twisted it. Made it so ugly.”
Before Clara could even think what to do next, the front door opened, and Hayes rushed in. “Fucking vultures,” he growled.
But in that exact moment, before Hayes slammed the door shut, Clara heard something else.
“Do you still love Clara Carter?” a reporter called. “Did you ever love her?”
It occurred to her right then that she had been fooling herself. And that, from day one when it came to Sullivan, she’d been all in. Because her unguarded heart bled as Sullivan answered, “No, not now. Not ever.”
13
An hour had gone by since the cops showed up at the brewery to clear out the reporters, and Sullivan’s mood was in no better state than when he’d arrived after being alerted to the article by Marco. “Thank you for coming by,” Sullivan said to Penelope’s husband and cop, Darryl, as the sun sank lower behind the mountains.
Standing on the porch steps, Darryl rested his hand on the barrel of his weapon. He was a scruffy guy with a thick beard, tough for sure. “Hey, man, not a problem. Sorry you’re dealing with this. Let me know if you need me to come back.”
“Thanks,” Sullivan said, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching against the frustration burning through him.
As Darryl headed down the porch steps, the chief trotted up. “Looks like you’ve had a day,” he said.
“You could say that,” Sullivan said with a snort, feeling the tension trembling through him.
John arched a brow. “Price of fame?”
Sullivan gave a firm nod. “A steep one, sometimes.”
“Pity,” the chief muttered. “Listen, I’ve got a cruiser sticking around for the night to make sure no one comes back.”
“Thanks, John. I appreciate that.”
The chief cupped Sullivan’s shoulder in a strong grip, his stare steady, at the ready. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will, thank you,” Sullivan said.
The chief headed back down the porch steps and got into his SUV, right as Sullivan’s cell phone rang. He saw it was Hayes before he answered. “Is Mason okay?” Sullivan asked by way of greeting. Hayes had been here, at the house, but Sullivan had asked him to take Mason home until all this settled down.
“He’s all good,” Hayes answered. “Don’t worry. He’s totally fine and happy to be here with us for dinner. Take the time you need with Clara.”
“Thanks, appreciate it, man,” Sullivan said, the weight squeezing his chest lifting slightly. “Can I talk to him?”
“Sure. One sec.”
There was rustling over the phone line, and then Mason said, “Hi, Sullian.”
“Hey, buddy, are you having fun?”
“Yeah, Auntie Maisie is helping me paint dinosaurs.”
“Cool,” Sullivan said, running a hand through his hair, not enjoying this next part. “Your mama has an upset tummy, but she told me to tell you we’ll come get you once she’s feeling better, okay?”
“Okay.”