Adelaide
Adam Wainwright had lost his ever-loving mind.
If I hadn’t been done with him before, I was now. Siccing a bodyguard on me, changing my locks, installing a security camera doorbell—who the hell did he think he was?
Even worse—so much worse—he had dresses delivered to me. I had no clue how he’d worked so quickly, but I arrived home last night to several boxes filled with one gorgeous dress after another. He’d even found a Betsy from the same line as the one I’d worn on my last birthday.
I’d sat on my floor, surrounded by organza and silk and crinoline, and bawled my eyes out. This was Adam. Pure Adam. So damn thoughtful and generous, he kept making me fall deeper for him.
I hated it. I wanted to punch his beautiful face.
Instead, I made him wait for me. I didn’t rush out of work. I took my time helping Malik put equipment away, then I answered emails. Only when I’d sufficiently delayed did I shut down my computer and head outside.
Adam was there, leaning against a sleek, black SUV, his ankles crossed, a pair of dark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. As soon as he saw me, he straightened and opened the door for me.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” I brushed past him to climb into the SUV. He settled in the seat beside me and shut the door. The driver didn’t pull away from the curb, though.
Adam propped his sunglasses on top of his head. “How are you? Heard from your dad?”
“I’m fine.” I stacked my hands together on my lap. “And no, my dad hasn’t been in touch. His publicist, on the other hand…she’s making good friends with my voice mail.”
“Did you see the pictures?” he asked.
“Mmmhmmm. And I read the headlines and blogs. Apparently they think you like to be whipped and I make you participate in threesomes with me.”
I despised it. Every word, every dirty headline, made me sick. It wasn’t that I was an especially private person but seeing the speculation of my supposed sex life online was a gross invasion. If my coworkers had seen the pictures, they hadn’t said. That was the only thing that had saved the last two days from being a complete horror show.
He grimaced. “Yeah, I saw some of that. There’s more, though, and I’m thinking you haven’t seen yet.”
I frowned in confusion. “What does that mean?”
He turned his phone screen to face me. The same paparazzi shots were there, but the headline was different. Wildly different.
“Musical heiress, Adelaide Goodman, and The Seasons Change guitarist, Adam Wainwright are engaged.”
Beneath was a quote from Adam: “When you meet the right person, you just know. With Adelaide, I know.”
I pushed his hand away. “What did you do?”
“This wasn’t me. Your dad got there first.” He jerked his chin at the driver, who was eyeing him in the rearview mirror. “We’re ready to go, Bill.”
The car moved, but I was stock-still. What had he done?
“They have a quote from you,” I uttered.
“True. I was working with Elise, our publicist, on how to angle the story to draw attention from you when she got a call from a reporter. Your dad leaked our engagement to the press and they wanted a quote, so I gave them one.”
“You gave them one.”
“Mmmhmmm. What’s more boring than a committed couple fucking? It’s not a big deal, not like when they were speculating you and I having some sort of forbidden affair. The story will be out of the press in no time.”
I blinked at him as my stomach plummeted like an elevator snapped from its tethers.
“But everyone will think we’re engaged.”
“Yeah.” He scrunched his face a little. “A fact I don't mind.”