She was certain she didn’t recognize any of them in particular. But as a group, they stirred something in her memory.
The thought troubled her while she descended the stone steps. A moment later, vaguely registering the sound of the courtroom doors opening and closing behind her, she saw the small crowd move as one.
Coming toward her.
Lifting cameras she hadn’t noticed before.
A moment’s confusion faded as it occurred to her why the group looked familiar. Flashbacks to her former life scrolled through her brain as she recognized the scavenger behavior of reporters in “entertainment media.”
And if they were here, it could only be to hound someone famous. Someone who, she slowly realized, must be behind her.
A sickening foreboding clamped her stomach in a fist. Catamount, Colorado only had so many celebrity residents.
Even as Lark thought it, she heard the first shout rise from the crowd of so-called journalists.
“Gibson! Over here, Gibson!” a woman’s voice called from the left. “Can you tell us what you’re doing at a courthouse?”
Gibson.
Lark froze in place on the stairs. Unable to take another step forward. Or backward.
Sort of like she’d been in the two years since her divorce.
Another reporter crowded closer, almost knocking Lark over as he lifted a boom mic above her head to a point behind her. “Gibson, is it true you’re going to reconcile with your ex-wife?” the man shouted.
Cameras whirred, flashes popping in a strobe light effect that catapulted her back to some of the most infuriating moments of her life. Being caught on film at the grocery store at midnight when she’d needed supplies to help a scared mother and her daughter to escape a dangerous partner. Being hounded about Gibson’s activities on a team road trip while Lark was in Los Angeles at a homeless shelter to advocate for one of her young patients.
But she couldn’t think about that now when—impossibly—her ex-husband obviously stood behind her. She should pull a legger, dart away before anyone with a camera realized that the same “ex-wife” they were asking about stood just a few feet away.
For once, she was grateful her unmemorable looks had failed to draw attention since no one seemed to have made the connection. Yet.
Her sense of self-preservation kicking in, Lark ducked her head and shifted left, sidestepping the throng while all eyes were trained somewhere else. Their raised voices drowned out every other sound, even the thudding of her heart and—thankfully—the sound of her ex’s voice if he bothered to respond to the questions. Even his voice was sexy, damn him. She pounded down the stairs, skirting the group, never looking back as she headed for the parking area. Screw the bar. She needed her car to escape.
Except,crap.
She’d left her rented vehicle on the other side of the building, only walking out the front entrance because her map app had pointed her this way toward the dive bar. Halting beside an extended cab pickup truck, she resisted the urge to look over her shoulder to possibly catch a glimpse of Gibson.
Think, think, think.
Squeezing her temples between her thumb and forefinger, she tried to settle her racing pulse. Told herself the reporters wouldn’t have seen her. That, more importantly, Gibson Vaughn hadn’t seen her. Had he?
A sudden clamor rose near the courthouse again. Lark glanced around to see the mob shifting in the opposite direction from her, like a swarm in pursuit of a new hive. Gibson must have moved away.
Lucky for her, he’d taken the mob with him.
Steadying herself with one hand on the gray fender of the big pickup truck, she wondered if she’d really escaped the media mayhem. Since when was she that fortunate?
Better yet, she’d dodged seeing her ex.
Shoulders slumping with relief, she debated returning to her car now. Would the path be paparazzi-free?
Adjusting the strap of her cross-body bag, she stepped out of the shadows of the pickup just as a low-slung sports car spun into view. Lark didn’t need to see through the heavily tinted windows to know who would be behind the wheel of a Porsche 911 in a shade she happened to know was called Adriatic Blue.
Her gut sank to her feet as the driver’s side window lowered.
Gibson Vaughn, in all his sexy glory, appeared in the driver’s seat. From his dark, shoulder length hair that begged a woman’s fingers to come through it to the kissable dent centered in his chin, the man had been the face of US hockey for nearly a decade for a reason. He not only played the game with a vengeance, but he was undeniably handsome. The scar through one eyebrow and the slight crook in his nose didn’t begin to detract from those chiseled good looks.
“We’ve got about twenty seconds before they catch up.” Gibson nodded toward the mob of reporters at the courthouse steps, all still looking in the wrong direction. “Hop in if you want to stay a step ahead of them.”