Page 11 of Shallow

“You don’t like me, doyou?”

She maneuvers me forward with a heavy hand on my shoulder. “What’s to like? There are a different set of rules for your kind. You’re overprivileged, overpaid, overindulged, andshallow.”

Ifreeze.

Well, that didn’t take long. I thought I’d be back at least twenty-four hours before I heard that nickname again. Some things neverchange.

Clenching my jaw, I dodge another swarm of paparazzi and make my way toward the baggage claim carousel to collect my belongings. I managed to shove everything in two suitcases, leaving the rest in West Hollywood with a promise from Lena to ship more should I want to set fire to what I brought withme.

I’m not a minimalist or a glass-half-full kind of girl, but bringing everything with me just seemed too final. At least by leaving the majority of my things in the penthouse and persuading Lena to sublet, I’m able to give myself the illusion that I’m not stuck here for three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred and eightyhours.

Not that I’ve done the math oranything.

As I take a step toward the conveyor belt, Sensible Shoes grabs my shoulder again. The unnecessary display of dominance is irritating, and I whip around to let her know when she shoves me toward the double sliding glass doors that lead outside. An outside that’s crowded with the aforementioned protestors holding up signs encouraging me to go tohell.

Too late, bitches. Been there done that, crawledhome.

“Wrong way, princess. This is as far as I’mobligated.”

“But I need my bags,” I argue as she guides me toward a sleek blacksedan.

I plant my feet the minute the doors open and the warm, coastal South Carolina humidity crawls down my throat. I’ve forgotten how stifling it can be and how the salty taste seems to coat your tongue. It makes me long for California’s crispbreezes.

There’s an unmistakable sneer in her tone. “They’ve already been gathered and stowedaway.”

“By whom?” I raise an eyebrow, not sure whether to fully believeher.

“That would be me, MissWest.”

My body shifts as I gaze at the intimidating man leaning over the top of the sedan, an amused smirk etched across his face. He’s got to be at least six-two, and with his tailored black pants and charcoal-colored button-up, he seems to have taken a page out of Sensible Shoes’ fashion manual. His hair is dirty blond, trimmed professionally in the back and sides, while the longer length of the top dusts below his eyebrows, making him appear less thanprocedural.

Immediately, I know he’s not a townie. I lived here long enough to spot one a mile away. His demeanor is little bit Midwest ease and a lot of New Yorkcockiness.

Sensible Shoes raises her palms and takes a step backward. “My contract was for a safe delivery, princess, not babysitting. This is the end of the road for you and me.” She gives me an exaggerated salute and disappears through the glassdoors.

Shaking my head, I come out of my stupor long enough to fire back at both of them. “You’re just handing me off to somestranger?”

“I assure you I’m no stranger, Miss West,” the man offers in a deep voice. “Or at least I won’t be after you getin.”

“Are you my driver?” Ifrown.

His eyebrows draw together. “Are youserious?”

The blasé response irritates the hell out of me, and my hands settle onto my hips. “I assure you I’m quite serious, and also cautious. I’m a vulnerable woman standing outside an airport being lured into the equivalent of a candy-filledvan.”

“That was a rhetorical question. Cabs are over there.” He points in front of us toward a caravan of taxicabs lined up along thecurb.”

“Excuse me? I’m not taking acab.”

“You were expecting a pumpkin and some mice?” When I just glare at him, he continues. “Unless you want to answer to the mob over there, get in, Miss West.” Patting the top of the sedan with his palm, he lowers himself into the driver’s seat. “You’re alreadylate.”

He seems normal, but abduction isn’t on my agenda for the day, so I plant my feet and fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who youare.”

“I’m William Emerson, your probation officer,” he says, popping his head over the top of thecar.

William Emerson and I stare at each other as if he can’t believe I’m arguing with him. Finally, he shakes his head and rounds the car, his hand digging inside his pocket as he advances. I have no idea what’s he’s doing, but I wait until he pulls his hand out toscream.

“Don’ttouch—”