Page 88 of Hideaway Heart

“Word has gotten out that Pixie Hart is here, and some of the waitstaff and even a few tables of guests are asking if it would be okay to get a picture.”

Xander looked at me. “Your call.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

He shrugged. “It’s obviously not a secret anymore that you’re here. And maybe if you let fans post their photos, those jerks who hide out and take them in secret won’t get any money for them.”

More photos of us had surfaced since Monday morning—getting out of Xander’s SUV at the marina, strolling down Main Street, sitting on the rocks at the seawall. We saw nothing that had been snapped at the cabin, and Xander and I were very careful never to be affectionate in public, so the pictures were all pretty mundane, even boring. It didn’t surprise me that hordes of photographers weren’t flocking here to follow me around. It seemed like it was just one or two, and they were keeping their distance.

But the luckiest break was that another scandal was blowing up in Nashville—one of the most committed couples in country music had announced their split. The wife had evidently fallen for her trainer, and the husband had been carrying on with a nineteen-year-old backup singer, who was already wearing a big rock on her finger. I didn’t wish anyone ill, but I was glad some of the heat was off me.

I touched my napkin to my mouth. “I don’t mind,” I said to Faye. “I’d just like a moment to use the ladies’ room first.”

“Of course,” she said, looking relieved and grateful. “I’ll show you where it is.”

I stood up and looked at Xander. “Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Faye and I walked side by side toward the restaurant entrance, where she gestured toward a door marked with a W. “There you are. Thank you so much,” she said. “I hated to ask you. You two looked like you were having such a nice, intimate evening.”

“It’s all right,” I assured her, glancing back at Xander. He lifted a hand. “It has been a lovely evening, but Xander understands.”

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

As I used the bathroom and freshened up, I thought about what I’d said.Xander understands.

And while I posed for photos for the next thirty minutes straight, he stood patiently to the side, always alert, always watching, always aware, close enough to step in if he felt someone was getting too familiar, but distant enough not to interfere.

Because he understood—this was part of my job, even when I was out for dinner, enjoying what should have been a private occasion. He understood that while it might not be my favorite part of the job, it was sometimes necessary. And he understood instinctively when I’d had enough, and he came forward and took my elbow. “We’re done here.”

With a nod to his aunt, he steered me through the room, out the door, and straight to the car. Once he’d tucked me safely in the passenger seat, he went around to the driver’s side. But after sliding behind the wheel, he didn’t start the engine.

“Is it always like that?” he asked. “Everywhere you go—coffee, shopping, ice cream, dinner...people are there wanting a piece of you?”

“Pretty much. But you know...” I lifted my shoulders. “It’s the price you pay.”

He looked at me. “I’m sorry I said that to you. This is a really high price. I don’t know how you keep paying it.”

“Sometimes I don’t either.” I reached over and rubbed his leg. “When it gets to be a lot, I think about when I was little and dreamed about hearing my songs on the radio, and signing autographs, and singing in front of huge crowds. Those dreams came true. So if I have to deal with some bad stuff in exchange, it’s okay. I’d rather deal with fans than suits at the label any day. Or sleazy producers.”

His expression angry, Xander started the car. “I don’t blame you.”

“Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I loved it. I hope what happened at the end didn’t spoil your night.”

“Not at all. I guess I just feel a little... possessive of you.” He shook his head. “Sounds shitty when I say it like that. I don’t own you.”

“Well...” I slid my hand up his thigh, grazing his crotch. “Sometimes you do.”

TWENTY

xander

The ride homeseemed longer than usual. Unnecessarily long. Cruelly long. Something wrong with the time-space continuum long.

I think it was Kelly’s hand on my cock.

The entire drive back, she kept stroking me through my pants, until I was so hard I thought my dick might bust right through the zipper.