Page 14 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
“How long before the press is in a frenzy that you’re ‘missing’?”
“They probably already are. Check X and TMZ.”
Rand produces his phone, then thumbs and scrolls and scans the screen. He curses. “That didn’t take long.”
“It never does. Being famous is a bit like living in a fishbowl. Everything you do runs a risk of being highly visible, and everyone thinks they have the right to know every aspect of your life.”
“I can’t imagine.” He shakes his head. “We’ll figure this out and get you where you should be as soon as possible, okay?”
He’s sweet for trying to reassure me, but… “I don’t need you to sugarcoat this. I know keeping me safe won’t be easy, especially since I don’t have any idea who wants me dead.”
“Let’s focus first on setting up here.” He looks me up and down with a wry smile. “You look great in my shirt, but I’m probably going to need it back since it’s my only one. And I’m assuming you want something more your size.”
“That might be nice.”
“I’ll see what I can do. For now, peek in the closet in the back bedroom. Joe’s daughter probably keeps some clothes here. You’re a little thing. Something might fit.”
“Sure.”
“Take a shower if you’d like. I’ll make a grocery list.” He pauses and pulls at the back of his neck. “Um…you cook?”
“Love to when I get the chance. You don’t?”
“I suck at it.”
Honestly, I can’t imagine this man being lousy at anything. He just seems so all-around capable. But his grousing makes me smile. “You won’t starve with me. And if you’re nice, I’ll even show you a thing or two.”
“I’d like that. I could repay the favor by showing you a thing or two.”
Does he mean that as suggestively as it sounds?
“What kind of things?”
“Self-defense. Marksmanship.” He shrugs. “Whatever you need.”
Great sex?
At the thought, my cheeks turn hot. “I’d like that. Thanks. Um…I’m going to get clean now.”
“I’ll order groceries. Anything you’re allergic to? Anything you really hate?”
“Beets and pickles. I’ll eat about anything else.”
“You don’t have a special celebrity diet? You’re not a raw vegan? Or a fruitarian?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a singer, not a model. Besides, I grew up in Texas, so I love a good barbecued side of cow. Do you actually know a fruitarian?”
“I dated one for about ten minutes.”
I hate the instant pinprick of jealousy. Of course Rand has had a love life. I’ve had one, too. But hearing about his bothers me more than it should. “Why did you break up?”
He gives me a wry grin. “Because she didn’t like barbecued cow.”
I tsk at him, then head to the back of the house. My search through the kids’ closet doesn’t net much. I grab a few stretchy things I hope will fit, then hustle back to the master bath, passing Rand along the way, who’s taking stock of the refrigerator.
Once I’m alone, I go through the motions: grab a towel, wriggle out of everything I’m wearing, take down my hair, rip off the false lashes, then wait for the hot spray. Lather, rinse, and repeat. But every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots and screaming, I see people scattering—and I can’t escape the horror that someone was aiming for me.
When I was with Rand a few short minutes ago in the kitchen, I felt fine. Safe. We were even joking. Now that I’m alone, the terror of the day catches up with me. I blow out a breath and try to calm myself, but there’s no denying the ball of anxiety tightening my belly.
