True. Her mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton balls for how speechless she felt.
He said goodbye, lowered the phone and prowled over to her. She backed up a step for every one he advanced. Until she bumped into the countertop and she uttered a weak, “Ow.”
She expected him to yell at her, which she deserved, but maybe she could explain herself before he started. Explain how she was no longer planning on writing about “Lightning” at all. How she had already written the piece and had instead focused on his new album. How she was telling the story of how amazing he was with his fans and his brothers—
“Heather Bell and I had a physical relationship and nothing more,” he boomed, speaking first and robbing her of the chance. “Unlike Carla, who gave me the physical but could also hold a conversation.”
Presley’s stomach did a barrel roll.
“Heather was so far in my rearview I didn’t expect to hear from her again. Ever. We burned hot, but fast. And then it was over.” His eyebrows were two angry slashes as he went on. “Imagine my surprise when she calls to tell me a reporter is asking if Heather inspired my song ‘Lightning.’ Excuse me, not a reporter. My fiancée!” He roared the word and Presley winced.
“Cash, listen to me. I didn’t think she’d focus on what you and I were to each other. I just hoped she’d trust me enough to—”
“You could have asked me,” he growled.
She flinched. Not because he was scaring her, but because he was right. She could have. She should have.
“You and me in my bed, on my boat, on my couch while it rained, Presley.”
His words, and the hurt lingering in the depth of his eyes were as good as an accusation. He’d trusted her, and now it appeared as if she’d slept with him solely to gain his trust. Why hadn’t she just been honest in that damn email?
Because you never dreamed Heather would call him and rat you out.A huge oversight, to be sure.
Her heart sank as tears warmed the backs of her eyes. Heather’s timing couldn’t have been worse. Pres had wanted to find the truth, but sleeping with him had never been about playing him. Now how was she supposed to convince him otherwise?
“So this—” he tossed his cell phone onto the counter “—is what you’re doing when you’re not having sex with me?”
“Cash, I swear,” she started but he cut her off again.
“You reached out to my ex-girlfriend and asked her instead of coming to me.” His voice, quiet but lethal, was ten times scarier than when he’d been shouting.
He loomed over her, fists balled at his sides. Guilt made her defenses climb sky-high. Rather than sing her version of his apology song, she yelled back at him.
“Would you have told me if I’d asked you?”
He straightened his spine and said nothing.
“That’s what I thought.” She folded her arms. “What do you care if the world knows if you sang ‘Lightning’ about Heather, or Carla, or both of them? It’s just gossip anyway. No matter what some reporter writes or doesn’t write, you could deny it.”
“Don’t you mean whatever my fiancée writes?”
“I was trying to sound credible. That was wrong,” she admitted, her voice small.
“You think? The meaning behind that song is personal, Presley, and none of the world’s goddamn business. I’m not protecting myself. I’m protecting the woman I wrote the song about. I’ve performed it a thousand times and I’m the only one who knows. I like that I’m the only one who knows.”
He wasn’t yelling anymore, but watching her with sad eyes. And instantly she knew she’d made a big mistake.
“You’re protecting her?”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His disappointed expression said it all.
“From people like me,” she concluded. “Ugh.”
She sank on one of the stools at the counter, her head hanging. Even though she’d changed her mind about pursuing the truth, at one point she’d intended to write that story. Somehow, she’d become the kind of person she least respected. A reporter who would compromise everything to get the story. Including her own integrity. The truth, in Cash’s case, wasn’t hers to share.
Double ugh.
“For what it’s worth, I gave up trying to find out.”