Mr Spencer (Mr. 2)

“We’re discussing it now. I go with you, or I go alone.” He stands, and without another word, he walks off to the bar.

I begin to hear my frantic heartbeat in my ears, what a mess. My worst nightmare is for him to go there and face them alone. He has no idea who he’s dealing with here. I just want to keep them apart so I can live in peaceful denial for the rest of my life.

Spencer orders two drinks and returns to the table. He hands me a glass of wine and I glance down at his.

Scotch. Gone are the cocktails and fun drinks, he’s back onto the hard stuff. I exhale heavily, unfortunately life is back to the hard stuff.

Spencer grabs the leg of my chair and pulls me closer to him. He rests his hand on my lap under the table, and I force a smile his way.

“I don’t want you to fight with them,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to fight with them, either.”

“I think it’s better if I see them alone first.”

He sips his scotch and then swirls it around in his glass. “And I told you the answer is no. I’m not leaving you alone to deal with this. The story is about me, let me defend myself. Why should you take all the heat alone?” He squeezes my thigh in reassurance. “Why wouldn’t you want me to deal with them?”

My eyes search his. “I’m terrified that they are going to scare you away,” I whisper.

He puts his drink down and takes my face in his hand. “Angel, I will not be forced from your life against my will. Not by anyone. You are the only person who can end what we have.”

“Promise?”

“I don’t need to, you already know it’s true.” He kisses me. “Don’t you?”

I smile softly, knowing he’s right. I do know he wouldn’t cower to Edward like everyone else.

Spencer Jones may be a lot of things, but a coward isn’t one of them.

“Do you love me?” he asks.

I nod.

“So, trust me. Tonight, we deal with your brother, whether he likes it or not.”

He makes it all seem so simple.

“Okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Okay.”

* * *

I’m freshly showered and dressed back in my sensible clothes—black Capri pants and a cream woollen jumper that sits off my shoulders. My hair is in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing black ballet flats. Gone are my sundresses from Santorini, along with any relaxation I had while I was there. My father and Edward have cut their trip short by two weeks to come home, and I know they mean business. Spencer is upstairs getting ready while I am sitting at the kitchen counter of his apartment, looking at the stories on my laptop.

The more I read, the sicker I feel.

Every tabloid has reported us over the weekend. There’s headline after headline about how the love rat Spencer Jones has struck again, how he will break my heart, how he is after my money, how there’s a huge Prescott family divide.

How he has been pursuing me for months. It’s complete rubbish. I didn’t even know him months ago.

I know my family will have read all these stories, and what hurts the most is the niggling little voice in my psyche screaming at me to listen to the warnings.

What if it’s all true?

It’s not. I know Spencer. I love Spencer.

This is what they do. They poison your thoughts with false stories.