“What?” Candy demands.
“Get out,” he says and turns to us. “I understand that you want to go, but come back anytime for a meal on us.”
“Thanks,” Levi says with a nod and pulls me close to his side as he leads me out of the restaurant. I tuck my face into his shoulder, trying to avoid being recorded by the phones pointed at us.
“That was a disaster,” I say as we sit in his car. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? That girl was ridiculous.”
“Oh, that was tame compared to some I’ve met.” My heart is racing and in my throat. “At least she didn’t touch me.”
“Christ,” he mutters, putting the car in gear and driving away from the restaurant. “Why are people so ridiculous? Why couldn’t she have just quietly told you she enjoyed your work? Then we could have gotten on with our day.”
“Most do that,” I concede. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, people are gracious and kind, and just want to say hello. The other one percent is a little . . . odd.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
“Well, it’s true. That whole scene will be all over social media and the tabloids within the hour—if it isn’t already. I’m sorry for that because your face is there, too. And now people will dig into who you are, and it could be uncomfortable for you.”
“I’m a big boy,” Levi says with a sigh. “I’m fine. I don’t give two shits about social media. I just don’t want anyone to ever speak to you like that.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you still hungry?”
“Hell yes, I am.”
He grins over at me. “Should we go get some Red Mill and take it back to my place?”
“That’s perfect. I didn’t really want to be good with a salad anyway. A burger sounds delicious.”
“Done. But we’re getting an extra order of fries because last time you ate half of mine.”
“Why are you so protective of your fries?”
“Because I’m hungry.”
“We’d better get two extra orders.”
“You’re really hungry.”
“Sex in a cop car does that to me.”~Starla~
“Fuck me,” I mumble as I page through my Instagram. I’m in Levi’s bed, the sheet wrapped around my naked body. I can hear Levi in the shower, blissfully unaware of the social media shitstorm that I’m watching.
There are videos of the whole scene—from different angles, of course. The comments below them range from whoa, what a bitch! The waitress just wanted a photo! to why don’t people leave celebrities alone when they’re trying to live a normal life?
There are more still photos, some zooming in on Levi.
“What in the hell?” I read the caption on one of the pictures.
Does anyone know who the tall drink of water is? I don’t recognize him. Is he famous?
And the comments . . .
He’s not famous. I did a Google image search, and it looks like he’s a cop in Seattle.
Love his salt and pepper hair!
What does Starla want to do with an old dude? She’s way too good for that. Hell, I’d fuck her.
In your dreams, asshole.
Maybe he’s her bodyguard?
Oh, that could be.
“What are you scowling at?” Levi asks as he walks into the bedroom, naked as the day he was born. My eyes feast on him, taking in lean muscle and smooth, tan skin. He’s hot as hell, and anyone who thinks differently can bite me.
“This turned into a social media mess,” I reply. “I’m surprised the publicity team hasn’t started texting me yet.”
“It can’t be that big of a deal,” he says as he slips on a clean pair of boxer briefs. “That chick was out of line.”
“Photos and videos spin things,” I mutter. “And it pisses me off that they’ve dragged you into this.”
I whip the covers off and reach for my clothes, yanking them on in jerking motions.
I’m so damn pissed.
And who the hell am I to think that I can have any kind of normal relationship, with Levi or anyone else? This will always happen. The media and fans will twist it to be something ugly.
“Starla.”
“I think maybe I should go home. I’ll call an Uber.”
“Hold on.”
“No, it’s better this way.” I shake my head as I slip my feet into my shoes. “It’s just not going to work out between us, Levi, and I was silly to think that it might. It’s not fair to do this to either of us. To open us up to gossip and scrutiny. You didn’t ask for this.”
“Stop moving.”
His voice is hard, catching my attention, and my gaze swings to his. He’s pissed off. His jaw is clenched, his hands balled into fists.
“What the fuck, Starla? I’m not a child. I’m capable of making my own life choices, and if being in a relationship with a ridiculously famous woman is one of those choices, well, it’s mine to make.”
“I just think—”