Chapter Thirteen
Beverly spentthe rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday morning trolling the Internet. She started out cursing every single photographer, reporter, and Internet gossip who posted anything about her mystery man or Griffin or her love life at all. What business was it of theirs, and how the hell could they justify what they did, knowing that it would undoubtedly mess up peoples’ lives?
That pity party lasted until Tuesday evening. Then she moved on to the main event—Griffin. Specifically, her irritation, her anger, and her hurt because of him.
Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t the reporters’ fault. Or not entirely. Because if Griffin could just own the fact that he was scarred and step out into the world, then they could be together. For that matter, reporters might actually treat them kindly. And even if they were nasty, it would die down soon enough. Give the press nowhere to go, and they went nowhere.
But to do that, he had to put himself on the line first. And Griffin wasn’t prepared to do that. Despite everything he’d said to Jessie—despite the fact that she knew he truly believed it—he still couldn’t get past his own fears and insecurities.
And neither could she.
She wouldn’t risk a long distance relationship. She was too afraid it would break down. But notwithstanding that fear, she didn’t want to spend that much time away from the man she loved.
And that was the trouble.
She loved him. She was certain of it.
And she was terrified that she’d never find that kind of love again. That she’d never find another Griffin.
But, dammit, she wasn’t going to settle. She wanted it all or nothing.
She just hoped that at the end of the day, it wasn’t nothing she was left holding onto.
* * *
Griffin wantedto kick his own ass.
She was his—or she had been. And he’d lost her because he was too damn scared—and too damn scarred.
But, dammit, he didn’t want to live the life she did. He didn’t want to be in the spotlight. If he was an average guy, he could probably avoid it, even with a celebrity at his side. But he had two strikes against him—he was already a player in Hollywood and his scars gave him story appeal for all those damn reporters.
How the hell was he supposed to live like that? Like some ugly bug that a kid picked up to examine under a microscope? With the press wondering why a beautiful girl like Beverly would be with a guy like him?
The thought made his stomach twist.
The trouble was, the thought of not being with her made his stomach twist more.
He didn’t know what to do, and so he finished off a bottle of bourbon and watched bad action movies on late night cable. It wasn’t a cure, but it was an anesthetic, and he was grateful to dull his pain.
The sharp ring of his phone woke him the next morning, and he blinked at the sun streaming in through the windows. He snatched it up, certain it would be Beverly.
It wasn’t. It was Jessie.
“So what’s your damage?” she said, without preamble.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on. Do you think I spend all my time painting? I’m mostly on my phone. And now that Beverly’s my new best friend, I went poking around for her.”
He cringed, certain he knew where this was going.
“You’re all over social media these days, you know that, right?”
“Yeah. I noticed that.”
She snorted. “So, I repeat. What’s your damage? Because, seriously? A wig? And a hat? I mean, I listen to your podcast and you sort of look like you might be one of the characters, but I don’t think that was the point, was it?”
He had to bite back a smile. Which, under the circumstances, felt pretty good.