Page 105 of Marry Lies
My head snaps to the photographer, and he’s watching Miles with pure hatred.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my voice sharp as the smile drips off my face.
“Let’s go,” Miles murmurs in my ear. “Drop it, Estelle.”
The photographer turns to look at me. “You heard me. How much is he paying you to play house?”
My cheeks heat as I pull away from Miles and walk right up to the photographer.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, feeling Miles tug on my hand. I ignore it. “My husband is one of the best people I’ve been lucky enough to know. You might know that if you spoke to him instead of dwelling on something his father did a decade ago.”
“Isn’t it exhausting to continue defending a manLA Weeklycalled a bully?”
My nostrils flare as my hands clench at my side.
“Estelle, he’s not worth it,” Miles growls from behind me.
“I love my husband. No amount of money or false reputation could change that.”
With that, I spin away from both Miles and the photographer, heading inside the restaurant alone. It takes me a moment for me to realize what I’ve said, and as Miles walks inside, he looks a bit dazed.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him, crossing my arms.
His lips twitch. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good.”
“Good,” he repeats.
The hostess brings us to our table, and like the car ride over, we spend the next few minutes in a tense silence as we decide what to eat. Miles orders us some wine as I deliberate, still furious that the photographer would say such asinine things.
Still furious that I told the world I love Miles Ravage.
I mean, I’m sure the public assumes it—we’re married, after all—but Miles doesn’t.
God, I am such an idiot.
A minute later, before the wine arrives, Miles sets his menu down.
“Fuck this,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.”
When I look up at him, he has a mischievous smile on his face.
My heart pounds against my ribs as I answer. “Sounds fucking great.”
We’re still laughing as we duck out of the restaurant, ignoring everyone as we climb back into Niro’s car.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
THE BEACH
Miles
If love is a tangible thing, I imagine it would look a lot like Estelle Deveraux eating a cheeseburger, barefoot on the beach, as she watches me with bright eyes and a large smile.
Every fucking time she smiles at me, my heart stutters. Like somehow, her mouth is tied to my heart muscles.
She has no idea how much fucking trouble I’m in now—how I’m at her mercy from this day forward.
