Page 97 of Bad Reputation

Maggie wanted Cole, and she wanted to do work that mattered.

Okay, she was ready for the damn test.

Maggie started back up the trail. The faster she got to the peak, the faster they would get to the coming-down part—and hopefully a big plate of french fries. “If you don’t like getting recognized, why are we on what’s clearly a super-popular trail?”

“Well, I normally arrive at dawn and jog, so I get stopped less.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault that you wanted to—”

“Yeah, I know.” He gave Maggie’s own, much shorter, ponytail a tug.

“You’re not very good at the whole keeping-your-hands-to-yourself thing.”

“I’m complete crap at it.”

And she didn’t want him to get better at it. She wanted to be confident enough that them being together wasn’t a problem.

“Let’s finish this damn thing so you can take me home and be crap at it some more.”

Chapter 23

EXT. TASHA’S HOUSE—EVENING

With its crisp-white stucco, red tile roof, and wrought iron Juliet balconies, Tasha’s house appeared to be a sophisticated Mediterranean palace built for a silent-movie star. But when she opened the front door for Maggie and Cole, it was Tasha’s outfit that was the real shock. She was wearing an apron and holding a chef’s knife, like an assassin who’d gone undercover as June Cleaver.

“Nice apron.” Cole gave his best friend a hug. “It took you long enough to get back to the States.”

“Would you have voluntarily left paradise?” she demanded.

“Probably not. So why did you?”

“Libby’s story drops in a few hours.”

Cole looked at Maggie grimly. They’d known this day was coming. A sick feeling roiled Maggie’s stomach. She’d been on board with Tasha talking to the reporter, and she’d supported Cole in doing the same thing. God, but she hoped that would prove to be good advice.

“In that case,” Cole said, “I’d think you’d want to stay inaccessible.”

“Eh, they would’ve found me. At least I have more control this way.”

Cole and Maggie followed Tasha through her house. While Cole’s bungalow was extremely nice and located in a seriously chicneighborhood, it still felt normal, like the regular-people houses on HGTV.

But this was a flat-out rich-person house. Every room was gigantic, and every piece of furniture was clearly luxe. Huge bouquets of fresh flowers graced the rooms, spilling out of gorgeous chinoiserie. The house was even sprinkled with actual marble columns and carved mantelpieces.

In the last six months, Maggie had gotten used to some stuff that would’ve had past-Maggie gasping, but this was almost too much. At some point, she was going to have to ask if Norma Desmond used to live here.

Tasha led them out the back door. On the covered veranda by the pool house—because Tasha’s house needed a second, smaller house, presumably for company—surrounded by the most perfect landscaping Maggie had ever seen, Ryan was grilling. When Tasha handed him the knife, he set his hand on her nape and stooped to kiss her cheek in thanks. It was utterly chaste, and yet so possessive and intimate Maggie looked away.

Those two were a matched set, as beautiful and deadly as throwing knives. But Maggie suspected that with each other, and probably only with each other, they could be soft.

Tasha poured a glass of iced tea and handed it to Cole. “I think we have to talk strategy.”

“For what? The story will break, and he’ll respond. And then we’ll figure it out.” Libby had insisted it would be better if Cole didn’t see the story ahead of time. It would add to the credibility if the sources hadn’t vetted it.

“Do you think I’m going to need a war room?” Tasha asked.

“Why? It’s Vincent who’s in trouble.”

“He’s going to try to torch us. You know he will.”

---