Page 15 of The Pucking Grump

“Yes,” I hear myself breathe. I’m not answering his question. I’m giving him the go-ahead to do whatever he wants with me, and I sure as hell hope he realizes that.

But then he draws back, letting his hand fall from my body. Turning around, he flops down on the couch. He looks up at me, his face drawn back into an annoyed mask.

“There. I admitted to it,” he says. “Now put some clothes back on.”

I stare at him, humiliation stinging the deepest parts of my insides. What just happened?

He’s waiting for a response, but I’m too struck by his sudden shift in gears to even do anything. Finally, he lets out a conceding sigh and adds, “If you’re not going to do that, then at least you can explain to me why your dad just started a smear campaign against you.”

My dad. His words push away my attraction for him, along with the humiliation I feel. I’m reminded strongly of everything else, the mess I’m in and how I have no idea how to fix it.

“I don’t know,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. I’m newly disoriented again, thinking over my dad’s words. Even while fleeing from the wedding, I was certain that my father would do everything to protect my career, such as constructing a good lie that would convince the press to back off me.

He had lied, all right. Only he did it in a way that basically guaranteed my ruin.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, I cross over to the couch too, perching on the edge as far away from Blake as I can. I cross my legs, trying to ignore his intense gaze on my thighs.

He looks up at me again, suspicion in his eyes. “You said your dad knew Ben cheated.”

I swallow as the repulsive memory hits me. “Yeah.”

“And now, he’s going in front of cameras, lying to the world that the only reason you put a stop to the wedding is because you didn’t get the flowers you wanted.”

He doesn’t even look suspicious anymore. He looks . . . pitying.

I feel more goosebumps rise on my thighs. Everything about this makes me look like a pathetic little brat. I’m twenty-five years old. I shouldn’t be stumbling to explain myself like an overgrown toddler.

“I can barely understand you,” he says now.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re different from what I thought.”

“What did you think?” This conversation is distracting me from what I’m going through, and that’s more than enough reason to pursue it.

“Well . . . I don’t like you.”

His words hit me like a bullet in the center of my chest. “What?”

His gaze is unrepentant. “Everything about your public image is a nauseous fucking mess. You’re supposedly the sweetest little girl in America, the one who was lucky enough to be launched into a wonderful relationship as a teen and whose life now revolves around it. You?—”

I rise up, trying to resist the urge to throw a punch at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Apparently.” He stands up too. “Because now you’re here with a whole different story. You’re no longer the sweet girl America loves. You’re the battered young woman who has been lying through her teeth to the world, who knows that the idea of finding a perfect romance is as laughable as . . .”

“I never said I don’t believe in romance.”

A mean smirk forms on his lips. “You’re spending your wedding night stashed in a cabin with a stranger while your dad goes on a press rampage against you, and you still believe in the idea of perfect love?”

When he says it like that, he makes me sound like the biggest fool on planet Earth.

But the one thing my father did get right about me is the fact that I believe in love. And it’s going to remain true no matter what Blake says.

“Yes,” I say, meeting his gaze straight on.

He lets out a strangled laugh. “Guess it explains why you stuck with your dad while he treated you like a toy.”

His words feel like a slap to my face. Sudden tears of hurt start in my eyes.

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