Page 67 of Reckless King

Unease coils in my stomach. I never considered that the press would care about me. That they might dig into my life or follow me around.

A line etches itself between Tate’s brows. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I believe that. It’s just… overwhelming.” I’m in over my head. I’ve thought it before, but it’s even truer now. Still, if I just keep my end goal in mind, if I can just remember that I’m doing this for True Brew, then it will all be worth it.

Tate’s expression softens, and his thumb brushes my cheek. “I’ll make it as easy on you as I can, okay?”

“Okay.”

He nods and drops his hand. “Can you leave with me now?”

I go up on my toes and peer out through the window in the swinging door. The security guards are still standing like twin mountains by the counter, and from what I can see, the shop is mostly empty. “Jarrod and Sarah can finish up and close without me.”

“Let’s head out. We’ll swing by your apartment so you can pick up necessities for tonight, and then I’ll have someone pack up your clothes and anything else you need tomorrow.”

I don’t particularly like the idea of a stranger rummaging through my stuff, but I’m too drained to argue. With a nod, I untie my apron and throw it into the hamper by the back door. “Let’s do this, then.”

Out front, I check in with Jarrod and Sarah. While I confirm details with them, Tate instructs the security guards to stay here until the shop is closed and informs them that he’ll be in touch with their boss to organize a permanent presence.

Jeremy exits the shop first to help with crowd control, but luckily, most of the reporters have departed. When I scan the sidewalk, I relax a little. Maybe Tate’s mistaken. Maybe the flurry of activity following our engagement announcement won’t last long. Surely the tabloids will find something more entertaining to fixate on soon. I can hang out at Tate’s penthouse for a few days and then go back to my apartment.

The drive to my place from the shop is quick. When Jeremy pulls up outside my building, the tension that’s just begun to ease returns. Because Tate’s right. There are half a dozen more reporters camped outside.

“Wait here,” I tell him as I push the door open.

But he gets out right behind me. “Nice try.”

We’re still standing beside the car when one of the men shouts Tate’s name, and suddenly, every camera is trained on us. Jeremy gets out and hustles around to our side, shielding us with his bulk as well as he can.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

Tate wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him, then guides me to the entrance. Considering he’s the source of this problem, I shouldn’t relax at the feel of his hard body against mine. But I do.

Tate and Jeremy wait in my living room while I pack an overnight bag. I look around at my small but comfortable bedroom, feeling homesick already when I haven’t even left yet.

Our departure goes the same way as our arrival, with Jeremy leading the way and Tate shielding me from the questions and the cameras. I breathe a sigh of relief once we’re back in the car.

We’re quiet on the way to Tate’s place. I’m caught up with the whirl of thoughts in my head. It feels like my life is veering out of control, and I don’t know how to stop it. Tate seems to respect my mood. I catch his gaze on me several times, but he stays silent.

When Jeremy pulls the car over to the curb, I duck my head and take in the sleek, glass-walled high-rise we’ve stopped in front of. In the light of the setting sun, it’s an extravagant beacon—so different from my little apartment block. Just seeing it from here makes this whole situation feel surreal.

Jeremy opens the door, and I step out. Tate follows, bringing my overnight bag with him. He slings it over his shoulder, then tucks me into his other side and leads me toward the expansive glass entrance. An immaculately dressed doorman tips his hat at us as he holds the door open. “Good evening, Mr. King.”

“Good evening, Harold. This is my fiancée, Violet Sinclair. She’ll be living with me from now on.”

I open my mouth, ready to clarify that it will only be temporary, but I snap it shut again when it hits me. This is part of the act. If I was really his fiancée, thiswouldbe a permanent move.

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.

I smile at him. “It’s nice to meet you too, Harold.”

With that, Tate leads me toward the bank of elevators. When he veers toward the one on the right, he says, “This is ours. It only goes to the penthouse.”

Ours. Why does that word make my heart do a silly little flutter?

The ride up is quick and smooth, and when the doors slide open, we step out directly into the penthouse. The large marble-floored foyer opens up into a sprawling open-concept space bathed in warm westerly light, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one whole wall.

The incredible view steals the breath from my lungs. From here, the New York City skyline stretches out in front of me, broken only by the green expanse of Central Park. On the terrace outside the windows, a lap pool shimmers gold under the late afternoon sun. I shake my head in disbelief. How many apartments in New York have an actual private pool? “This is… incredible, Tate.”

---