Chapter Twelve
The story exploded.
By noon on Tuesday, that first photo of Griffin and Beverly on Congress was everywhere, along with the one of him in disguise at the premiere.
That would have been bad enough, but every social media hound in the world had started digging into his past. Fortunately, he’d bought his house in the name of his business trust, so he didn’t have a horde of cameramen camped outside, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t found out about him. Someone managed to prove that Griffin Blaize was Griffin Draper, and had dredged up news coverage of the fire when he was just shy of thirteen. Someone even found a picture from when he was in the hospital.
His career was splashed all over the Internet. Kelsey and Wyatt were dragged into it, and Griffin kept sending his sister apologetic emails, despite her telling him not to worry about it, she had his back, and the so-called reporters were assholes.
He agreed, but that didn’t help.
The worst was that he was essentially trapped in his house. He couldn’t even go to The Fix, because Megan had told him that photographers were all over downtown, and they were especially thick around the bar. “Probably because Beverly is the emcee. I don’t think they know you hang out here, but they do know that you’re with her, so it’s a good bet.”
Which meant he was stuck inside, Beverly with him. But he was quiet and moody. He hated that he was, and hated that he cared so damn much. Hated the scars. Hated wanting to hide them. Hated knowing that he was now the center of a media shit storm, and that everywhere he went, reporters were going to try to get a picture.
He looked at Beverly, curled up on his couch with a red pen going over their pages. They were in the final throes. The Man of the Month contest was tomorrow night, and Thursday they left for the tour. And Griffin knew damn well that the mystery would leave Austin. It would follow Beverly.
Without a mystery man on her arm, it would die down.
His stomach twisted. He hated himself, but he knew what he had to do.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Bev?”
She looked up, her smile bright but sympathetic. “You okay? The hoopla will die down, you know.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “I know how to make it die down faster.”
She sat up, her brow furrowed. “You do?”
“I’m not going with you on the press tour. Without a mystery guy beside you, they’ll get bored.”
She blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You’re the attraction, not me. The fascination is that you’re dating a mystery guy. Probably this scarred writer named Griffin. But if that mystery guy isn’t beside you, he’s not interesting. So the press will forget it and move on.”
“You’re not coming with me? I’m going to be gone for a month. Six weeks, actually.”
“We’ll talk every day.”
She sat back, staring at him. “And what about the next time?”
“The next time?”
“When the film opens in Europe, I’ll be touring over there. Will you come with me?”
He swallowed. “That would stir it all up again.”
She nodded, her throat moving and her eyes unnaturally wide. “And let’s say this thing between us sticks—”
“I want it to,” he said firmly.
“—and I end up filming a movie in Vancouver. Or a TV show. And I’m there for months. Maybe years. What then?”
He said nothing. By her side, he was a target. Here, he could stay quietly out of the spotlight.
“I see.”
“Lots of people have long distance relationships. And you aren’t away forever. Even if you were filming out of town, there are weekend flights.”