Page 68 of Threat of Danger
He wasn’t. Jess was the one asleep.
He reached out to smooth the lines on her forehead, but dropped his hand halfway there. He didn’t want to wake her. Instead, he padded into the kitchen, pulled the lasagna from the fridge, and cut a slice for himself.
He reheated the food in the oven so the humming and beeping of the microwave wouldn’t wake Jess. She woke anyway, just as he was quietly rinsing his plate. He heard her footsteps, but didn’t turn.
“How long have you been here?” she asked from the doorway.
He did glance at her then, over his shoulder. “Fifteen minutes?”
She was frowning even harder than when she’d been sleeping. Her bad mood definitely had to do with him. But before he could ask, gravel crunched in the driveway. Multiple arriving vehicles. Then a knock on the door.
She went to answer.
“Miss Taylor! How do you feel aboutDark Woods, Derek Daley’s latest novel? Were you the inspiration for the heroine?”
And, at the same time, a different voice: “Did the two of you discuss the telling of your story?”
Derek flew from the kitchen, his hands sudsy and dripping. He swore at the sight of two reporters, a cameraman, and a photographer. All trying to push in.
Jess stood frozen before them, her shirt wrinkled, her hair mussed from sleep—not exactly ready for the invasion. She was probably still half-asleep. And she shouldn’t have to wake up tothis.
In a couple of leaps Derek was there. “No comment.” He slammed the door in their faces.
The gutted look Jess shot him nearly felled him. She didn’t ask what book, what story. She knew.Shit. Thiswas why she’d been acting strange.
“Jess—”
“Why?” she asked in a ragged tone. “Why did you write that book? And don’t tell me it’s not about us.”
Seeing her pain, and knowing he was the cause, tore him up. He leaned his back against the door. He didn’t think she read his books. He’d hoped she wouldn’t read this one if he didn’t bring any attention to the release. In hindsight, he’d been an idiot. He should have told her and prepared her.
Her stormy gaze pinned him. “You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
He flinched. “Stupid, huh?”
“So you were just never going to tell me?” She was gathering steam.
He let his head drop back against the door, and ignored the knocking. “Honestly? I would have. Eventually. But then Eliot came; then Chuck went into the hospital. I kept getting distracted.”
“You make time for something like this.” Her eyes glinted with fury. “You shouldn’t have written the book in the first place. All of that isprivate. Ever thought that I might not want to become a public spectacle again? Because once was enough. In case it wasn’t clear.”
His gut churned from the obvious pain in her voice, in her stance. “I’m sorry, Jess. When I wrote the book, I had no idea you’d be back.”
She raised her eyebrows halfway up her forehead. “And if I wasn’t here, it would be OK?”
When she put it like that ... He stepped toward her. “Jess.”
She stepped back. Every inch of progress, every bit of softening toward him, was erased. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.”
“I can explain—”
“No.” She held out her hands, palms out, warding him off. “Please leave. Get out.”
“Jess.”
“Now.”
He glanced toward the door with trepidation. “The press is out there.”
