“Emma!”
“Zoey, you are to never do that again,” I said as I crouched down. “You stay with me, no matter who you see. You are not your uncle’s responsibility during the day. If something would’ve happened to you-”
“I’m sorry,” Zoey said.
I kissed the little girl on the forehead as a pair of feet landed quickly behind me. I scooted Zoey off to go sit and one of the parents took her. I turned around and saw Ryan towering over me, his eyes full of confusion and panic.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Could we talk for a second?” he asked.
“No,” I said plainly.
“Please? This isn’t what it looks like.”
“What does it look like?” I asked.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Typical. A man wanted to apologize, but not admit to anything.
“Layla’s a-”
“It’s none of my business,” I said.
“No. Emma. She’s only-”
“I have a field trip I still have to chaperone. The kids are hungry, and quite frankly I am as well.”
“Just a teacher?” he asked.
My heart fell to my toes, but I kept my outer demeanor calm.
“Yes,” I said. “Just a teacher.”
“So… that’s it? You won’t even let me explain?”
I looked back at the kids and saw the parents staring at me with a curious glance.
“That’s it,” I said. “It’s over.”
Ryan looked as if I’d slapped him across the face.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a day to salvage.”
Then I turned my back, walked away, and went to sit down beside Zoey.
I was hungry, and I needed something to distract myself.
Eighteen
Ryan
I’d been kicking myself for days. Fuck! Just the teacher? What the hell had I been thinking? Nothing. I wasn't thinking anything. I’d been caught off guard when Zoey rushed up to my side. I wanted to keep my personal life separate from the media. From the tabloids. Layla Patterson was the most ruthless journalist in the state, but she had a way of turning stories in my favor if I greased her palms enough. She had been looking for a story. Nothing more. Questioning me on why my life had been so quiet. And it wasn’t any of her damn business why my life had been quiet. I’d taken on three kids and given my heart to a wonderful woman. But that wasn’t her business. The last thing I needed was her twisting things into an unfavorable light.
Or worse, dragging my sister through the mud more.
I always kept my enemies close. That was how I controlled the narrative of the media. When I wanted to be a party boy, I made sure those stories dropped into her hands. They helped with the persona my hotels took on. But there were consequences to dancing with the devil, and part of that consequences was also having my dates picked apart. She analyzed every feature of them. What they wore. How they looked. Their body type. Their jewelry. Their lip texture. All of it.