Page 75 of Shallow

Oh shit, this can’t begood.

I’m half considering walking down the embankment and asking one of the race participants if they know what’s going on when my phone starts blowingup.

BARRY:A newly fired junior accountant at your firm messaged your publicist, who thought it would be good for your image to send out a press release. Sorry,kid.

WILL:What the hell is going on? I’m watching the news. You promised nodrama.

BIANCA:I told you something like this wouldhappen.

As I read each text, tires screech, doors slam, and voices shout to the far left of me. Part of me already knows who they are, but I glance up anyway. Herds of equipment, big hair, and attitudes run toward the crowd like their asses are onfire.

Paparazzi.

Shit!

My self-serving and soon-to-also-be-fired publicist has screwed me in the worst possible way. That’s what the local news crews were reading on their phones. The national media already had a hold of the story of my donations and were on their way here before the walk even started. The news must have just brokenonline.

Please let that be all theyknow.

It’s hard to miss Malcolm’s limo. They know I’m here. The logical thing would be to run. Get in the car and get the hell out. But I don’t, because as I watch them make a direct line for Cary and swoop down like he’s Shiloh West roadkill, I know I can’t leavehim.

The moment they shove the microphone in his face, I lose myshit.

“No!” I take off in a sprint toward the tents, not giving a shit if I’m outed. However, everyone is so mesmerized by the Hollywood reporters and blood-sucking paparazzi that no one notices me weaving my way through the crowd. I’m trying to push my way to the front just as I hear Artie, the jerkoff anchor fromHollywoodExclusive.

“Cary Kincaid, what do you have to say about Shiloh West donating two million dollars to the Elizabeth Kincaid Center in memory of your latesister?”

I curl my fists by my side andwait.

“What?” Cary’s response is as shocked as I expected. Why wouldn’t it be? I worked hard to keep it fromhim.

There’s a lull in Artie’s response and, looking around at the rabid crowd, I’m rethinking my rash decision to throw myself to the wolves. Before I can leave, a rather large man in the front row glances over his shoulder. Our stares connect, and his eyes narrow thenwiden.

He jumps up and down—impressively well for a man his size—and waves his chubby arms. “Hey, everybody, it’s her! It’s Shiloh West!” He points back at me, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea, leaving me standing naked to two very blue and angryeyes.

Cary’s sharp jawline twitches, and he steps forward, then backward, as if he can’t decide if he wants to thank me or throttle me. Eventually, he settles on standing still and crossing his arms. “Why did you dothis?”

The turmoil in his eyes kills me. I did this to help him. Hearing his mom talk about losing their business, and his stress over his late bills hurt me. And even though I have a feeling he’ll refuse the donation, it seemed like a no-brainer to bail them both out when I have more money than I’ll everspend.

Trust me, I’vetried.

Before I can tell him this, Artie glides his hair-plugged head through the gap in the crowd and shoves his microphone in my face. “Our viewers want to know the same thing. Are you just that generous, Shiloh, or do you and Cary Kincaid have an office romancebrewing?”

I blink, suddenly blinded by the flash of multiple cameras. “What?”

I guess responding the same way to his questions isn’t doing much to dispel histheory.

“We did some digging,” he continues. “You went to high school together. Mr. Kincaid used to work for your family,correct?”

“Yes.” Microphones are pressed closer, and the second the words are out of my mouth, I want to shove them back in. “No! I mean, it’s nothing likethat.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.Shit.

They’re going to grab onto my indecisiveness like leeches and suck any credibility I have left. What’s done is done. I need damage control now. Taking a deep breath, I push my shoulders back and smile until my cheeks hurt. As I take one step toward the tent, the bitch reappears as if conjured by mypresence.

“Cary? What the hell is going on here?” Taryn sidles up behind him and drapes her hand over hisshoulder.

I can’t help but notice her fire engine red nails. No, they’re more like talons. Which is appropriate, because she’s like a vulture, ready to pick apart what’s left of Cary after the media is done withhim.