Mr Spencer (Mr. 2)

“My car is out on the street today. Where are you parked?” I ask them. I don’t want Charlotte to be without them with her for a moment.

“Around the block,” Anthony answers.

“We’ll just go down and wait in my car until you come around, and then we’ll pull out in front of you, okay?” I ask.

“Okay, good,” Wyatt replies.

We walk out of the building hand in hand, across the quadrangle area.

“Charlotte?” a man calls out. “Charlotte Prescott...”

We both turn and see a photographer smiling as soon as he realises it’s her. Before we can do anything he begins to take photos. The camera clicks away picture after picture.

Charlotte’s step falters.

“Keep walking!” Wyatt snaps.

&

nbsp; Charlotte puts her head down, and I drag her by the hand as Wyatt approaches the photographer.

“Get the fuck off!” the photographer cries out when Wyatt tries to take the camera from him. They get into a struggle, leaving Charlotte and me to head to the car as quickly as we possibly can.

“Meet us at home!” Anthony yells, turning and running back to help Wyatt confiscate the camera.

I open the car door and Charlotte slides in. I run around to my side and, once secured in, we take off quickly.

I look out through the rearview mirror to see the two guards in a full-on scuffle with two photographers now.

“Oh my God,” Charlotte whispers, dropping her head into her hands.

I grip the steering wheel with white knuckle force, trying to concentrate on the road ahead.

Looks like the war is about to begin.

13

Spencer

We drive in silence, but my eyes keep drifting back to the road behind us to make sure we aren’t being followed. Charlotte sits in the passenger seat, staring through the windscreen.

I pick up her hand and kiss her fingertips. “We have four or five days before those pictures go live and that’s if we’re lucky.”

She glances over to me. “How do you know that?”

I clench my jaw. “I just know. If they want top dollar, then they’ll have to approach several tabloids to sell the images.”

She pulls her hand from my grip and gives a subtle shake of her head, somewhat annoyed that I’ve been through this before.

I hate that I have, too.

I exhale heavily as my eyes drift to the road behind us, once again. They can’t find out where she’s staying or her job is gone.

Great. It’s just my luck that a photographer who recognised her was outside my place of work. What are the chances? Nobody even knows who she is in London.

“You’ll need to tell your father that you went out with me,” I say. “Warn him of the images that could be coming out.”

She runs her hands through her hair. “It’s not that easy, Spencer.”