“You did nothing wrong, at least this decade. You killed her dog, not her parents,” she spat over the phone, and I cringed. But she wasn’t wrong. I needed to set the record straight once and for all.
“Thirty seconds,” the director of the show called from the depths of the darkness in front of the well-lit studio. There was a whole other world in front of the stage, with Boston’s landscape in the background—one with cameras and wires and people with head mics and frantic assistants, living in the shadows of the glamorous TV world. There was also an audience. The seats were jam-packed and full of viewers.
Vanessa gave the director the thumbs-up. “We have everything we need?”
“Yup,” he answered.
Everything they needed? I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Ready?” She turned to ask me.
“As I ever will be,” I muttered.
Once we were on air, Vanessa began questioning me about the rivalry with Lana, the roots of it. I told her about Spot and about Lana’s injury, which I’d caused. I came clean about my part of what happened. Then we discussed all the things that had been done to me. Lana and Junsu were facing serious allegations, and likely weren’t going to participate in any official sports in this lifetime. Then Vanessa turned her line of questions to more private matters.
“Let’s talk about those paparazzi pictures.” Vanessa rested her chin over her knuckles, frowning in concentration. “You were seen storming out of your former archery club with a half-naked Hunter Fitzpatrick on your heels. For viewers who are not aware, Mr. Fitzpatrick is the nineteen-year-old heir to Royal Pipelines and a notorious playboy. Earlier last year, he was involved in a scandalous sex-tape incident that—”
I raised my palm. “No.”
“Excuse me?” She smiled tightly.
“No. You cannot reduce him to being a playboy, to…to some guy who had a sex tape. He was filmed without his knowledge while doing something…” I wanted to say “that he regretted,” but Hunter probably didn’t regret one second of it. “…something that should’ve been done more privately, yes. But he is not some silly heir. He is hardworking and honest and generous and caring. He would put himself at risk for those he cares about.”
I thought about the pub brawl he’d gotten into when we barely knew each other, about the lengths he’d gone to to save his father and brother. I even thought about that stupid fundraiser, when I’d freaked out and he’d held me in his arms, refusing to let go until I was completely okay.
“Hunter has made mistakes, but so has the rest of humanity,” I continued. “Only difference is Hunter has had the public eye on him since day one. He never had a chance to figure himself out privately.”
“Are you saying you guys are an item?” Vanessa grinned.
Seriously? That’s what she got out of everything I said?
I felt myself blushing under the thick layer of makeup. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”
“So you’re not an item,” she stressed.
“Right,” I said around a lump of bitterness in my throat. “We’re just…friends.”
Then why does it feel like dying to admit that?
“Well,” Vanessa said sweetly, tapping her cards on her lap. “As it happens, he doesn’t see things the same way as you do. Which brings me to the following item. I’d like to invite my next guest, Hunter Fitzpatrick!”
My heart jerked inside my chest like a snake had bitten it. I sucked in a breath and blinked as he came into focus, wearing a smart, camel-hued suit—accessorized with his killer cheekbones, taunting smirk, and beautiful blond locks swept backward. His blue, blue eyes zeroed in on me as he strode into the studio, leaving no room for questions.
He was the Hunter.
I was the prey.
He sauntered to the center of the stage. Instead of taking a seat next to me on one of the blue loungers—in front of Vanessa—he remained standing, putting a mic someone from the production team gave him to his mouth.
“Well, fuck me,” Hunter spoke into the microphone, running a hand through his velvet hair. His feline eyes, so wildly exotic and blue they caught every sliver of light in the room, glittered with mischief. “I just realized something pretty depressing, Vanessa.”
“What is that, Mr. Fitzpatrick? And please use appropriate language for a morning show.” The pedicured host flashed a dazzling smile to the camera, by way of apology.
It was blatantly obvious she was torn between being delighted at this new, unexpected outburst that would surely bump up her ratings, and horrified about him dropping the F-bomb on television, especially because most of her viewers were housewives and young mothers.
I tried to regulate my breaths, acutely aware my heart flapping here and there in my ribcage.
“I’m in love with Sailor Brennan. Shit. Okay, that’s no good.” He chuckled, strolling the length of the studio with the microphone in his hand, frowning. “End me now, Vanessa. For I’m already toast. It is much, much more embarrassing than my other brush with fame. Then, I had my dick out. Now, I have my heart on the line. My friends are going to have a field day when they see this. I was the last one standing, you see. I thought I was immune from the L-word. I always made sure to put a condom on my emotions before talking to a chick, let alone doing anything more. So many women have left me over the years, I figured leaving them first was the best course of action. But you, Sailor, you’re the one I won’t let get away.” His eyes burned darkly, intensely, like a fire catching as they bore into mine. “Serial killer much? Yeah, but it’s the truth. I’m not letting you leave me.”