Trish frowned as Marla made no attempt to hush her reply. “Ryan, I don’t hate her.
And I certainly won’t hate the next girl, either. You’re young. You have the world at your disposal. It’s my job to guide the perception that the world has of you, so those doors continue to open for you.” Ryan raised his voice. “I’m telling you right now, there won’t be another one. Get that straight.”
Trish and I walked back into the dining room. She carefully placed the stuffed package on the table next to Marla’s arm, almost bowing as she set it down.
“Are these the new press packets?”
“Yes. I just came from the printer,” Trish said mildly.
Marla opened the envelope, taking her good old time scrutinizing the contents. She was just starting to complain about a mistake she found when Ryan interrupted.
“Are we done?”
I blinked in Ryan’s direction. Gone was the normal, even-tempered man I loved. In his place was a seething time bomb ready to explode. My heart pinched with fright hearing the menace in his tone.
Marla pretended not to hear him. How could she not?
“David, we need to schedule a meeting with Len Bainbridge. We’ve already received offers for exclusives on this. Celeste Craw-field left me ten voice mails;
Glam wants first dibs for a cover story. Huge offers are starting to pour in and we both know how messy engagement- and wedding-generated earnings can be. Len should start drafting a prenup immediately for Ryan before his fortune is compromised and—”
Ryan stood up; his chair crashed to the floor, jolting everyone’s attention. “That’s it.
We’re done here. Get out.
Everyone.” He grabbed the papers on the table and flung them at her. “And take this bullshit with you.”
She sighed like an unhappy, controlling mother. “You know things need to be formed legally, Ryan.”
“I don’t care!” Ryan yelled. “It’s none of your goddamned business!”
David was indifferent to Ryan’s order, taking the time to adjust his sleeves and peer at his watch. Apparently movie star temper tantrums were old hat. “I’ll call the lawyers and get things rolling. Your car will be here at nine and—”
“I said get out!
Out! ” Ryan shouted at him, the veins in his neck cording from the strain.
He nodded his chin at the door. I had never seen him this angry. If he’d yelled like that at me, I’d be running for the elevator.
Five seconds later, our bedroom door slammed shut.
I found Ryan leaning with both palms flat on the glass window, his head hanging between his arms, panting as if he’d just been released from a caged death match. I feared that even whispering his name might cause him to detonate.
I sat on the edge of our crumpled bed in silence, giving him ample time and space to calm himself while I mulled over how the news of our happiness had just turned into a twenty-minute patronizing lecture.
What should have been hugs and champagne and congratulations with smiles and pats on the back was the exact opposite—anger and heartless animosity mixed with ugly accusations and assumptions from the team he had managing his life.
Pressed against the glass like that, I wondered if Ryan was regretting his actions now.
I feared sooner or later, one of us would.
Not willing to take such chances, I stepped to his side. Ryan looked at me warily before clutching me to his chest.
Now was not the time for regret.
Chapter 2
Deviation
Ryan had just started eating his omelet when his little weasel manager, David Ardazzio, walked into the hotel restaurant to collect him. The hand that was tenderly stroking my thigh in private under the table suddenly stilled and tightened.
David, of course, had to adjust his wristwatch; his way of saying “it’s time to go” without appearing like a dickhead, I suppose.
My eyes narrowed, giving him my own silent message in return, one that boldly said,
“Mess with my man anymore today and I will dig my fork into your chest to find out if there really is a heart in there.” Hah! My first twenty-four hours in ll.A. and I was already becoming cynical and hostile.
Considering I had just spent the better part of the last forty minutes trying to get Ryan to lose the murderous scowl on his face—five of said minutes were spent just holding him in the shower so we could apologize for loving each other—my hostility was justified. I’d like to think that precious water supply could have been used for much better purposes, like to wash off the sweat from our interrupted wake-up sex or even better, initi-ate a second session of incredibly hot shower sex after incredibly hot wake-up sex.