An hour later, she looks as if she’s about to step onto a runway.
“Let’s go,” she says, giving me a stern look. “I know that look in your eyes, and if we don’t get out of this bedroom, we will never follow through on whatever surprise you have in store.”
“Touché.” I take her hand and head downstairs.
“You really do spoil me, daddy,” she says softly on the elevator down. “A girl could get used to treatment like this.”
“A girl could,” I say, kissing her temple. “But a daddy likes to take care of his little girl.”
I run my finger down her spine, and she shivers. “I love how you respond to me, Katie.”
She smiles shyly. “I love how I respond, too. I don’t do it on purpose, it’s just like my body comes alive when you touch me.”
I grin at her. “Is that a line from your book?”
For some reason, a shadow crosses her features, and she looks away.
“Something I said?”
“Oh, nothing,” she says, but it isn’t nothing. What’s troubling her? But the next moment the elevator opens, and flashing lights and cameras block our view. I scowl, and signal for security on this floor. Four uniformed guards flank our sides instantly.
“Take us to Bellacasa,” I order.
On all sides, we’re being accosted by journalists. I catch snippets of conversations and questions shouted directly at us. Cameras flash.
I hear people say romance writer, and billionaire, and did you authorize this, Mr. Morrow? I ignore them all.
“What is all this? I thought if we went to Georgia and laid low, this would all be over when we got back.” Katie asks. “Seriously, Darius, what is going on?”
“Just ignore them,” I tell her. “It happens sometimes. It’s really nothing to worry about, promise.”
I don’t tell her that this onslaught of reporters seems more vicious than the last. Could it be because Katie’s involved this time? Can I brush them off as usual, or should I really pay attention?
Not tonight.
Tonight’s about Katie’s accomplishment, finishing her book, and sending it off to her publisher. Tonight, I’m giving her a real ring for that finger.
My security team brings us to a private hallway, and we enter through the privacy entrance to the restaurant. Our table is secluded from the rest, a circular table set for two, adorned with candles and flowers. The rest of the guests are separated by walls and mirrors, giving us full privacy.
“Oh, wow,” Katie says. “This is amazing.” She smirks. “Wish I’d seen this before I sent that book in.”
I chuckle, but it makes me wonder. How much of us did she put in her book? I tell myself not to worry about it, it’s just my old fear of being played for my money surfacing its ugly head again. Katie isn’t like the others.
I pull a chair out for her, place a napkin in her lap, and push the chair in.
“Why, thank you,” she says, but she still looks distracted.
“Are you alright?” I ask, sitting down.
“I just wonder what they were going on about,” she says. “Have you heard anything from your publicist?”
“I wouldn’t know. Left my phone in the penthouse.”
She bites her lip. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I’m starting to tire of the questions. Tonight’s a special night, and I won’t let the media get in the way of that.
“It’s an excellent idea. You know what else is a good idea?”
She gives me a curious look.
“Trusting your daddy.”
She smiles, but still looks uneasy. Soon, however, we’re presented with a large tray of shrimp cocktail and a charcuterie board, our wine glasses are filled, and she’s regaling me with scenes from her book.
“That sounds amazing,” I tell her. “Will you let me read it?”
She sputters on her wine. “Absolutely not!”
“Why not?”
“Well, first of all, it’s just… too personal.”
“Personal? So I’ll learn a little bit more about you? Excellent.”
She winces. “What if I’m not ready for you to learn more about me?”
That bothers me. “So you’ll let however many thousands of readers learn a little more about you, but not me? How does that work?”
“Oh, don’t, Darius,” she pleads. “It isn’t like that.”
“Then why don’t you explain?”
“They don’t… they won’t know it’s me. They don’t know me. I’m a faceless author no one’s ever met, and they won’t be able to fetter out what’s real from what’s fantasy.”
I take another sip of wine. I’m trying to understand, but I don’t love this.
“And I will?”
She places her wine glass down and stares at me earnestly. “Yes,” she says. “You will. Because you’re good at that. You’re really, really good at moving past the periphery and seeing the truth.” She bites her lip. “At breaking down my barriers. At making me… vulnerable.”
“I see.” But I really don’t. I feel like she's hiding something from me. The waiter signals me from the corner, and I rise, placing my napkin on the table.