What the shit!
I start scrolling past the endless popup ads and pictures of me, stopping when pictures of Grace pop up. Pictures of us from the day we went into town.
Except they don’t look right.
“These are fucking photoshopped,” I snarl. “Grace looks like she’s about eighteen in these pics.”
Grace! Who’s got every reason in the world to keep an even lower profile than I do. Unless…
Tobin gives me this pained look I haven’t seen since the night I walked out on him and took payback into my own hands, not long after Mom’s funeral.
“Ridge…I suggest you have an urgent talk with Miss Sellers. If it’s as it seems, then—”
I’m on my feet before he can even finish his sentence.
Son of a bitch.
Unless I’ve had my head so far up my ass I’ve gone blind.
The moment I yank open the back door, I hear an engine running.
Jogging around the corner of the house, I see exactly what I expect—an old Ford backing up to the horse trailer parked next to the barn.
11
No Lucky Break (Grace)
I see Ridge coming for the truck and have to breathe through the anger that’s been boiling me alive for the past two hours.
God.
I was hoping to have the horses loaded and out of here before he woke up, but I couldn’t push Dad that hard. Sure, he sprang up the second I mentioned the possibility of leaving, but he’s been dragging ever since.
He was doing so well last night, and now he’s in the barn, gasping for air just from walking that far. I didn’t tell him why we have to leave so suddenly or why I’ve had an abrupt change of heart.
He doesn’t need the extra stress, and frankly, he never asked.
“Did your job so now you’re leaving?” Ridge says, jerking open my door.
I ignore him, keep backing up, using my rearview mirror, forcing him to walk or get smacked by the open door…
…until I hear the clink of the ball hitting the hitch on the horse trailer.
That’s my cue to throw the truck in park, turn it off, and glare.
I can’t believe I thought I could trust him.
That he was truly out to help us, with nothing in this superhero act for him.
For all I know, he threw those cameras up for show.
Just so he could wait for the perfect second to run outside and make a big stupid show for the paparazzi.
“How much are they paying you?” he asks, his voice this animal growl.
I’ve heard it before—the morning he chased those men off me in the alley.
Only, now the same dark storm in his voice is aimed at me.
“Paying me? You’re serious?” I shove at his chest, barely pushing him out of the way as I barrel out of the truck so I can attach the trailer.
He rocks back as I slip past. I’m ready to bite him when he grabs me, but by some miracle, he keeps his paws to himself.
“Grace—”
“You’re such a flipping idiot, Ridge Barnet! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because that’s what your little stunt will do.” Shaking my head, I walk to the back of the truck.
Little, my ass.
It’s actually a ginormous reckless stunt.
I truly can’t fathom what’s running through his head.
“My stunt? Excuse the fuck out of you, darlin’, I wasn’t born yesterday. I see what you’re up to. Pretending to be on the run? Showing up at the almost-deserted Bobcat in the middle of a blizzard, that bald asshole, your stuntman. You’re a fine actress, Grace. Hats off to you and the rest of your crew. Shit, that scene in the alley in town was worth ten Oscars.”
“Oscars? What are you talking about? I don’t—”
“This!” He roars, holding a phone in front of me.
It’s one of the many ugly articles I’d read this morning.
I’d searched his name so many times the past few days that it auto-appeared in my Google interests. There wasn’t even a need to go looking.
As soon as I’d looked at my phone to check the weather report this morning, the page was full of breaking news about Ridge Dane Barnet, scandalously living with a pumpkin farmer nymph in Dallas, North Dakota.
Nymph! That’s what a few of those trash pieces called me, making it seem like I’m not even old enough to drink, much less date a famous movie star.
“That’s not even the best one,” I mutter, swatting the phone away from my face. “The one where my face is photoshopped on some lady’s body in a bikini is a real doozie. I hope you aren’t paying whoever you’ve got doing your dirty work too much. Two of the pictures they lifted off my old social media page aren’t even me!”
They were, in fact, ancient photos of my mom that I’d uploaded and posted after she died. Pictures from when she was young and alive. That was enough to trigger hot, angry tears before I’d even scanned through three of those twisted PR pieces.