Page 46 of Hold Me Closer
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Thank you for loving us," I whisper, my throat tight. "Thanks for trying to protect us—both of us—even when you didn't know how to do it."
"Zaika," Dad says, his voice gentle. "Of course we protect you. You both hurt. You both grieve. Neither of you can see it because you were both lost. We keep your secrets because they aren't ours to tell. But we always knew you would find your way back. You aresud'ba. That means what you have is special,zaika. It means forever, like me and mykisa."
"I love you," I say, smiling softly. My dad may be a big, scary man, but he's also a smart one, too. I love seeing the worldthrough his eyes. It's always kind of beautiful and a little bit magical, too.
"Ya tebya lyublyu," he murmurs.
I disconnect the call, preparing to slip my phone into my pocket, but I hesitate and then pull up Teo's number. There's no way he'll get a text from me right now—he's still mid-flight. But I send one anyway.
Me: I miss you already.
Surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly, since this grown-up version of Teo plays by his own rules—I get a response almost immediately.
Teo: So fucking much, butterfly. Forty-eight hours.
Forty-eight hours.After six years, it's not so long.
Somehow, it feels like a lifetime anyway.
My driver pulls up along the curb outside of Olive's building. I slip my phone back into my pocket and climb out, stretching my arms over my head as I thank him. Sunlight glints on the massive glass windows, blinding me. Then again, this part of Los Angeles is always blinding. It's so freaking big here, overwhelmingly so.
Shadows from buildings stretch across the street and tower overhead, blocking the bright blue sky. Back home, there's sky everywhere. Here, you only see it in glimpses in entire tracts of the city, like it's some ephemeral thing hanging like a pretty backdrop against the rat race.
I miss looking up and seeing the whole broad expanse of it stretching above me. More than I realized.
I head inside, taking the elevator up to Olive's office. Her receptionist immediately waves me in, not even pausing her phone conversation long enough to say hello. I don't take itpersonally. The woman is busy. Olive is busy. New York isn't the only city that never sleeps. And the entertainment industry never stops.
I tap on Olive's door, waiting for her to shout for me to come in.
I find her behind her desk, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her delicate nose. She's not much older than I am, but unlike me, she's a force of nature, born into a family that's been in this business for decades.
She glances up, her blue eyes settling on my face. "You said you weren't fucking him, Nadia."
Busted, I guess.
"I wasn't at the time." I grimace at her. "And then things changed."
"I can see that." She stares at me levelly for a long moment and then shakes her head, an exasperated smile touching her lips. "The whole world can see that right now."
I push the door closed, crossing her massive office on silent feet. I don't apologize, though. I won't ever do that, not over this. "How bad is the coverage?"
I refuse to look. I really don't want to know what they're saying about us. I learned long ago that it's better not to know what people say about me than it is to obsess over it. The only thing I'm liable to do by reading it is drive myself crazy.
"Well, whoever was outside your house last night got some great shots of his hands all over your ass while you two were making out in his car," she says, making me groan. "But the coverage itself isn't bad. The tide of public opinion seems to be turning in his favor for once."
"Really?" I slip into a chair across from her desk, relieved as hell.
"Mmhmm. Someone floated the idea that the bar fight the other night was over someone threatening you. The story caughtlike wildfire." She meets my gaze, hers frank. "It helps that you look really fucking happy at his side. People love you. They root for you. So seeing you lit up like that makes them want to root for him, too."
"Good," I whisper. "I want them to root for him."
"They think he's the football player from your music," she warns me.
I glance down at my hands. "He is."
"Shit."
