All the Feels, page 10
Not good enough. “Well, figure out how to react differently, and do it now. Otherwise, I’m requesting a different minder. I will not let you throw your life away for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Her eyebrows beetled further. “I don’t—”
“Don’t change the subject,” he snarled. “This is about you, not me, and the way you—”
She interrupted him without apology, and if he weren’t so fucking pissed, he’d be pleased by the effrontery of it. “My instincts aren’t going to change overnight. I worked over a decade in that emergency room, and I can’t simply—”
“You worked in an emergency room?” Goddammit, why didn’t he know this? Why hadn’t he asked? “I thought you were in some dead-end job and desperate, and that’s why you were willing to take work from your asshole cousin.”
And maybe he hadn’t wanted to hear about her dead-end job, because it would make him feel even guiltier for everything he had, especially once she left his side and went back to that job or its equivalent.
Fuck, he was a self-absorbed piece of shit when it came to the important women in his life.
“Yes,” she said and didn’t elaborate further.
Too bad. He was asking anyway.
“What did you do there?” He took a breath, the worst of his rage extinguished by guilt. “Are you a doctor? A nurse?”
He could see her as either. In fact, he could picture her excelling in any of a million jobs, each of them more important than watching over him, of all people.
“I was an emergency services clinician. Basically, a therapist at an ER.” Apparently spotting his blank look of incomprehension, she clarified further. “I saw people experiencing mental health crises who either walked into the ER or were brought there by the police or an ambulance. I evaluated their mental status. Some, I sent home with various supports. Others, I sent to an inpatient unit—voluntarily or involuntarily—or substance abuse treatment. Whatever best protected them from harm and served their needs.”
Her soft jaw worked. “Although—never mind.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter right now.” Her shoulders slumped. “Anyway, people would get agitated sometimes. I learned how to react quickly to potentially dangerous situations.”
Agitated wasn’t hard to decode.
Enraged. Hurting. Violent.
She lifted a shoulder and fell silent, and that, it appeared, was that.
Now he knew why her instincts for trouble were so honed. He also knew all his anger—at her, at himself—was justified.
Lauren Clegg was a good, good person.
Lauren Clegg was who he’d longed to be for over a decade now. A helper. A protector. Someone who noticed trouble and reacted quickly.
Which meant there was no fucking way she should have risked herself for him. But given those protector instincts, given how little she seemed to value her own comfort and safety, there was also no fucking way she wouldn’t risk herself for him.
“I talked to my lawyer while you were with the medic. I’m seeking an emergency restraining order against the asswipe who took you down tonight.” He leaned back against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “According to her, he’ll probably be charged with assault and battery, plead no contest, and end up with community service and mandatory counseling.”
It wasn’t enough. Not when the sight of that motherfucker slamming into her was still playing on repeat behind his eyelids, and she kept absently rubbing her ribs. But at least they wouldn’t have to deal with statements or forms until tomorrow, because she’d already been through too much tonight.
She pursed her lips. “Does he have a history—”
“I’m not done.” The hem of her dress was lying crooked, bunched to one side, and he straightened it. “Lauren, listen to me. I’m touched by what you did. Genuinely. Thank you for protecting me.”
One corner of that generous mouth indented. “I suspect I’m about to hear a but.”
No, he would not make a pegging joke about hearing butts. Dammit.
“But unless the threat is down by my ankles, like it was tonight, you can’t protect me,” he told her. “You’re literally half my height, and—”
“That is not true. Literally.”
“—if he’d attacked anywhere higher, there’s no way you could have stopped him, and—”
“What are you talking about? Do you expect attackers to leap over my head?”
“—I don’t want you hurt.”
She fell silent, and he did too, because there it was again. The sight of a large man ramming into her and knocking her off her feet, spitting and elbowing her, all while Alex tried in vain to get her out of harm’s way and prayed desperately that the man didn’t have a weapon.
Practicalities noted and summarily dismissed by his infuriating nanny, he went for the jugular. Guilt. He suspected she marinated in the stuff nightly, and he intended to add to the mix.
“I don’t want you hurt,” he repeated, “because Ron said my replacement minder would be much, much worse than you. Remember? And if your replacement is much, much worse, I don’t think I’ll be able to stay out of trouble. And if I can’t stay out of trouble—”
“Ron and R.J. will invoke your contract terms and get their lawyers involved.” She sighed. “I remember.”
“So I need you to protect yourself. For my sake. I don’t care much about you, but I care very much about myself.”
There. That should do it.
She emitted a sort of disgruntled hmph.
Then she angled herself toward him, and her shoulder brushed against his arm, and he shouldn’t feel it so precisely. Every atom of contact sharp and distinct. But he did.
“You don’t fool me.” Her voice was low and sure, and if she extended her accusing forefinger another inch, he could bite the tip of it. “I talked to Desiree while the medic treated me. I know what you did to make the auction a success. I know all the auction items you supplied and all the people you personally called. I know you keep the vast majority of your charitable donations quiet, and after talking to Carah, Peter, and Maria during dinner, I know how your friends and colleagues feel about you.”
He dismissed that with a snort of contempt. “Of course the charity said nice things about me. I occasionally give them money. And actors don’t tend to bad-mouth their colleagues. That’s a good way not to find work ever again.”
They also stayed silent when fellow actors complained about directors and showrunners, no matter how justified those complaints might be. He knew that for a fact.
He also knew why. If you raised a fuss, you quickly found yourself persona non grata at casting calls. The necessity of that fuss didn’t mean a thing to the power brokers in Hollywood. Which explained why, when he somehow landed the role of Cupid despite the All Good Men debacle, he’d considered it a stroke of unbelievable good fortune. Then again, he was often an idiot.
Lauren—a fucking therapist, for God’s sake—should know that by now.
“I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man who dresses up and plays pretend for a living, and I’m paid an absurd amount of money to do so,” he told her. “That’s it. That’s all there is to know about me. No matter what you believe, I’m not trying to fool you, so don’t fool yourself.”
And for seven years, he’d dressed up and played pretend on a show that told viewers they couldn’t escape from abusive relationships. Not for good. Not even after years of trying.
He was nothing compared to her. She needed to know that, so she never risked her safety for him again.
“I see,” she said, her gaze steady on him.
“I hope you do,” he told her, and meant it.
Then, without another word, he led her back to the ballroom.
11
RON WAS AN ASS ABOUT THE ENTIRE INCIDENT, OF COURSE.
Alex hadn’t expected better, which was fortunate, as he didn’t receive it, and neither did Lauren. The email he got early the next morning simply read, Congrats on effectively distracting the media from your drunken bar brawl. Ron had included a laughing-to-tears emoji and exactly zero inquiries about his cousin’s health or post-attack well-being.
After that message landed in his inbox, Alex stomped to the exercise room and worked out almost to the point of vomiting, because if he didn’t, he would write something he’d regret in response to his boss. Although, honestly, he wasn’t even sure he would regret it, despite the legal and financial ramifications.
For days afterward, he and Lauren mostly hung around the parts of his property hidden from public view, waiting for media interest in the story to die down. With predictable, gag-inducing discipline, she stayed offline and didn’t google herself even once, as far as he knew. And apparently, the paparazzi couldn’t manage to locate her number or email address, so she wasn’t getting phone calls or messages from randos. His lawyer kept him updated on the asshole who’d knocked Lauren down, and that seemed to be proceeding as predicted too.
Everything was calm. There was nothing to do, really, except hang out with his minder. By all rights, he should be bored out of his goddamn skull.
It was fucking awesome.
Months and months ago, dimly aware he was nearing total physical and emotional exhaustion, he’d ignored his agent’s hectoring messages and refused to schedule new jobs for this odd stretch of time, the gap between the end of Gates’s filming and the press junket that would accompany the airing of the final season. More work awaited him after the series finale had come and gone, but for now: nothing.
He had no call times. No auditions. No need to set three separate alarms.
Mostly, he just slept and read and worked out and browbeat Lauren into binge-watching baking competition shows with him and eating all their meals together.
To his shock, it didn’t even take a lot of convincing.
Something had changed between them during that hotel-hallway confrontation. She talked more. Smiled more. Snapped at him more. She seemed present more.
And somewhere in that lazy stretch of time after the auction, she started laughing too. Not by accident. Not because the world became a significantly more amusing place over the course of a week or two.
No, she started laughing because he’d formulated a new goal to define his days: He wanted to make her laugh as often as he frustrated her. Which was to say, frequently.
Both outcomes were equally enjoyable. Very enjoyable.
When she laughed, it was loud, her face turned pink, and she covered that face with her hands as she made little snorty sounds through her crooked nose, and it was the best. Sometimes, watching her laugh made him laugh too, for no fucking reason.
Today, he intended to earn her laughter by showing her Ian’s photos. In fact, when he’d first received the pictures, he’d walked halfway to the stables before realizing it was after two in the morning, and Lauren might not appreciate his waking her up for updates on Ian.
She probably looked cute, though, all rumpled in bed.
“Hey, Lauren,” he said as she approached their normal breakfast spot outside. “Ian sent the cast all-new pics of his home reno efforts last night.”
No doubt spotting the glee in his expression, she plopped down into her usual chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do, Woodroe?”
“I might have mentioned something about my dungeon.”
Her brow crinkled. “You have a dungeon?”
He sent her a chiding look. “If I didn’t, how could it have been on the cover of Modern Dungeons Monthly for their annual ‘Most Beautiful Dungeons’ issue? Last year, it was only number thirty-three on their ‘100 Oubliettes to Watch’ list, so this is a real triumph for me. And so I told Ian, shortly before he decided to do some home renovations.”
At that point, she bent forward and preemptively covered her face. “Please say he didn’t.”
He scratched his bearded chin reflectively. “I might or might not have had someone mock up an issue of the magazine. My dungeon had vaulted ceilings.”
“Alex.”
Over the past couple of weeks, his fondness for that scandalized tone had markedly increased.
“Ian, by sheer coincidence, has recently decided to dig out a dungeon of his own.” He produced his cell phone. “You should take a look.”
“Oh, jeez,” she muttered, but she peeked through her fingers.
Then her mouth dropped open, and she scrolled to the next photo, and yes. Yes, that.
Pink cheeks. Hands on her face. Little snorts amid gales of laughter.
His morning was complete.
“Is that—” She giggled more, then tried again. “Does he have a wet bar in his dungeon?”
“Don’t forget the gold-plated shackles fastened to the wall of each marble-floored cell.” He snickered. “In our cast chat, I called the dungeon his Gilt Room of Pain and asked when Christian Grey planned to pop by for a visit. At that point, Ian had some very unflattering things to say about my character. I was hurt.”
She shook her head at him, but she was still smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You have no idea.”
He offered her the serving tray he’d brought out earlier, which he’d used to carry their drinks and two plates of bagels topped with cream cheese, lox, thin slices of red onion, and capers. Her fingers paused over the bagel with the most cream cheese, but she reached for the other plate, leaving him the bagel she’d silently deemed best. He managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing.
He plucked her plate from her hands and claimed it for himself. “This bagel had the most salmon. Don’t be so selfish, you absolute shrew of a woman.”
The remaining plate, its bagel mounded high with cream cheese, he plopped in front of her, and she stared at it in silence for a minute.
“Thank you,” she finally said, very quietly.
“For what?” He scoffed. “Taking the most salmon? You’re welcome. Please feel free to thank me when I claim whatever slice of cake has the most frosting too.”
Lauren wasn’t really into frosting, he’d learned, which was preposterous. Possibly un-American.
“What are your plans for today, Nanny Clegg? Heading to Griffith Park and breaking up children’s birthday parties for unlawful displays of joy and levity?”
At some point in the near future, he intended to find a new nickname for her, although he wouldn’t entirely retire Nanny Clegg from circulation. But this version of Lauren, the one that laughed and chatted, deserved a different option.
“I’d thought—” she began, only to be interrupted by the chirp of her phone. “It’s Sionna. Give me just a minute to tell her I’ll call back after breakfast.”
As she got to her feet and moved away, he heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice say, “Wren! How are you doing?”
Wren?
How the fuck had he missed that?
All this time, he’d had the niggling sense he knew what type of bird she reminded him of, and he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.
But of course she was a wren. Of course.
A winter wren, specifically.
While she was still chatting with her friend—and it was oddly pleasing to see her animatedly talking and relaxed with someone other than him—he got out his own phone and did some research to confirm his memories.
Yes. That was it.
Winter wrens were very small: check. So round they looked like little balls: check. Brown and gray feathers: check. Loud and cheerful song: If her joyful, snorting laughter was an equivalent, check. Not particularly fast-moving on their feet: check.
Huh. Nests built by males were called cock nests. Better not to speculate about that.
When Lauren returned to their breakfast table, he complained, “You were so incredibly chatty, our bagels aren’t even hot anymore.”
She dropped into her chair. “Our bagels were never hot, jackass.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” He sat back and beamed at her. “Good harpy energy, Wren. Maybe even Big Harpy Energy.”
“You heard Sionna, huh?” She picked up her bagel and studied it, evidently deciding where to bite first. “Whatever. Feel free to call me Wren. It’s certainly better than Nanny Clegg.”
“Ice cold,” he whined through a mouthful of his own bagel. “Like chewing a glacier.”
When she failed to bite back more laughter, he was tempted to record the snorting merriment, just so he could replay it whenever he needed to smile.
He didn’t, since that would be creepy. But he tried to memorize the sound anyway, because soon enough, like the winter wren’s chirping song, it would be gone too.
LAUREN TRIED TO tell herself she wasn’t wearing her BE THE SHREW YOU WISH TO SEE IN THE WORLD tee on purpose, to please Alex. That would be a lie, however, since she definitely was. He just seemed to derive such joy from it. Even after three weeks in L.A. together, having seen all her T-shirts repeatedly, he grinned at the shrew tee’s appearance each time.
Other than that one evening, the previous week, when his brows had drawn together in thought instead.
“Do you consider yourself a shrew, then?” he’d asked. “Genuinely?”
They’d been watching the sunset from one of his outdoor sitting areas, and he’d been glancing toward her tee every so often, uncharacteristically muted.
She was honest in response. “Not particularly. But I’ve been called one before.”
He’d set his bottle of sparkling limeade down on the low, polished concrete table with extreme care, his jaw jutting beneath that beard. “By men?”
She nodded. “Most times. Usually when I refuse to go along with whatever a patient or coworker wants. I don’t tend to budge when I know something is wrong, so they call me a shrew or a bitch.”
There was an odd sound emanating from Alex’s chair. A rumble.
“It doesn’t offend me or hurt my feelings,” she added reassuringly. “If I get called a shrew or bitch for following my conscience and my training, so be it.”
“Well, that makes everything totally fine, then,” he said, his sarcasm thick enough to choke them both.
