Page 3 of The Love Chase

Now I was just scared of her.

But she was excellent at her job and had gotten me to where I am.

In the top ten country music singers of the year.

It was something I had always dreamed of, but never imagined would be within my grasp. Especially coming from little Meridel, Iowa, a town no one really knew existed.

My tongue was like a brick in my mouth, but I managed to quip, “No press is bad press?”

Bridget clucked her tongue in disgust. “I’m disappointed, Liam. After everything I’ve done for you, the least you could do is try not to attract negative attention. Do you want to be known as America’s bad boy? Do you want the reputation of being a womanizer?”

The titles had my stomach sinking.

No, I didn’t, but ever since moving out here, I had a habit of looking for attention in the wrong places or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And even more unfortunate was the fact that the paparazzi were relentless and were always right there to capture my mistakes.

I cleared my throat, clasping my hands together. “No, I don’t.”

Bridget arched a brow. “Then what are you going to do about this problem you’ve created?” She smacked a tabloid down on the mahogany desk between us and I winced.

Front and center was a picture of me kissing some woman I had just met, while another girl in a bikini clung to my arm. The headline read, “Country Music’s Bad Boy Liam Walker’s Streak of Women.”

The entire bottom half of the page was some journalist attempting to analyze my behavior, and why I went through women like a teenage boy goes through junk food.

I had become known as Liam Walker, country music star and womanizer.

Liam, you idiot.

Ever since I moved to California two years ago, I had felt like something was missing even despite my dream of making music coming true. At first, I assumed it was just homesickness, but after several months here and no change, I thought maybe it was love—a person by my side—that I was missing. I clearly started looking in the wrong places. The streak of women, as they liked to call it, always left me feeling emptier than before. None of them filled the aching hole in my chest.

Bridget sighed when I offered no solutions.

“All right, Liam. Here’s what you’re going to do. Until you can learn to control yourself, stay out of the negative spotlight, and not end up in the tabloids every single day, I’m sending you back home to lay low for a while. Let the dust settle.”

My stomach dropped to the floor. “What? You’re firing me?”

Bridget gave a shake of her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re far too talented for that, even if your brain leaves much to be desired.” She paused, rolling her eyes. “No, I want you to go back home and stay out of the press for a while. Let this ‘bad boy’ thing calm down and get you away from all these women who want to use you for their own self-interests.”

“But—”

“You can work on your next album, too, while you’re there. Should be easier to write songs without all the distractions of the big city. Right?” Her icy eyes dared me to contradict her.

I didn’t dare. My lips pressed together.

“Good. That’s settled then. I booked you a flight home. It leaves in four hours. Meanwhile, I will attempt to do some damage control and figure out a way to spin this into something good.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Like what?” While Bridget was a great manager, sometimes her tactics scared me a bit. There was no telling what kind of plan she’d concoct to make me look good again, but I knew it probably would be way too high on the scheme-y scale.

Bridget’s scowl reminded me of the Grumpy Cat meme. “I don’t know yet. Maybe adopt a rescue dog or something. Something that changes the public’s view of you from bad to America’s sweetheart.”

Yeah, I don’t think adopting a dog will accomplish that, but okay.

I opened my mouth but only a squeak came out. I coughed. “How long will I be gone?”

“I don’t know, Liam. It depends on how long it takes the paparazzi to get tired of trying to make stories about you and what we can come up with to turn your image around. My best guess is at least a few weeks, a few months at best.”

“Months?”

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