Page 65 of Where There's Smoke

“Oh, what have we here?” She flattened the paper on the counter in front of her. Resting her hands on either side of it, she scanned the article, probably oblivious to the way her collar puckered and revealed her frighteningly gaunt collarbones. With every silent moment that passed, her expression shifted from vague amusement to irritation to deep, teeth-grinding anger.

“Simone,” I said, treading carefully, “if it bothers you, just—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she growled, more to the paper than to me.

I exhaled. “What does it say?”

She shoved the paper across the counter. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it, maybe even set the pages on fire and forget they ever existed, but Simone was upset, so she’d interpret that as me blowing off her feelings as nothing.

I put my coffee cup down and picked up the paper.

BEAUTY AND THE BODYGUARD? the headline read. Below that, “Shocking images of Simone Lancaster and her bodyguard!” Three photos of varying clarity were plastered below the headlines. One showed Dean shielding her on the way through a crowd as they left an event, maybe with more physical contact than was necessary, but that was debatable. In another they exchanged smiles while I, looking like an oblivious idiot, faced the other direction and waved at the crowd. A third presented them having what must have been a hushed conversation; they were turned toward each other, heads inclined and gazes down, his brow furrowed as she said something to him.

Below the pictures, a caption insinuated these were proof that all wasn’t well in la casa de Lancaster-Cameron. And of course, there was the article, which I read aloud.

“‘Model/actress Lancaster, 34, has a long and difficult past but appeared to have found happiness and stability in her rock-solid union with husband Jesse Cameron, 32, the Democratic Party’s candidate for California’s governor. Now allegations have emerged that Lancaster is carrying on an affair with her bodyguard of three years, Dean Reilly, 36. Sources say the often troubled model/actress has found solace with Reilly during the busily campaigning Cameron’s long and frequent absences.’”

The article went on, but I grimaced and shoved the tabloid aside. “They’re just mining for a story to tell. It—” I paused, chewing my lip. “Well, I mean, is it true?”

“No!” She slammed her palm down on the counter. “I amnotsleeping with Dean, for God’s sake.”

“Okay, okay.” I put up my hands. “I’m not making any accusations. If you were, I’d be fine with it, you know that. But if you’re not, then they’re just spewing bullshit.”

She scowled and nodded sharply at the magazine. “Well, not everything they say is bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

She gestured at the magazine again.

Reaching for it like it was a snake, I eyed her, wondering if she’d elaborate rather than making me read it for myself.

“Look at the inset,” she muttered and snatched up her coffee cup.

In the middle of the article, an inset poured salt on Simone’s wounds: Lancaster-Cameron Baby? Medical Experts Say Time is Running Out. Dr. J. D. Ratner, also known as the OB of the Stars, says advancing age, drastic weight loss, and increasing stress could prevent Simone Lancaster from having the baby she longs for.

I winced and pushed out a breath as I shoved the paper aside again. Of all the things they could nitpick her about, they just had to go there. “Jesus, Simone. I’m sorry.”

“Do you think they’re right?” Her coffee cup rattled on the countertop as she put it down. “That I might be too old to have a baby?”

“I don’t know. My mom was almost forty when she had me, but…”She was healthy. She wasn’t so dangerously thin. God, Simone, I’m so worried about you.I shook my head. “I just don’t know.”

She laughed bitterly and looked into her coffee cup, holding it as still as she could with two unsteady hands. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Takes two, after all.”

Ouch.I shifted my weight, resisting the urge to drum my fingers nervously on the counter. “For the record, the offer I made before still stands. If you—”

“I amnothaving a baby with you,” she said with unexpected venom.

I drew back a little, eyes wide, and showed my palms. “All right, all right. I’m just saying the offer is there.”

“Great,” she muttered and picked up her coffee cup. “So if I can’t find someone who will stick around long enough to have kids, I can have IVF with someone who won’t fucking touch me.”

My throat tightened around my breath. It didn’t matter how much I told myself this was her defense mechanism, that she was lashing out and didn’t mean any of it, things like that still stung.

Simone exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, Jesse.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I didn’t mean…that was…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We stood in awkward, prolonged silence. Her coffee cup scraped on the tile. My fingers tapped out a subtle beat of nerves and discomfort. We had long ago perfected the art of throwing each other uncertain glances and timing them just right to avoid making actual eye contact.

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