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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

LENA

Decker’s car isn’t as flashy as I anticipated.

Sure, the little silver coupe exudes luxury, but it’s an older model.

Most guys I know make a million, go out and buy the fanciest one on the lot, and still trade them every year for the newest model.

Or hire a car service. Maybe Decker doesn’t make as much as I thought he did, or maybe he’s just more financially responsible.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye, his angular jaw ticking as he scans the intersection before crossing through the fresh green light.

I don’t realize I’m still staring until he stops at another red light.

“What?” he asks.

“I thought you had a bug on you or something.” I flick my gaze out the window, but not before I catch his smug expression.

Another car pulls up beside us, and I recline in my leather seat, grateful he at least paid for the upgraded window tint to block out any prying eyes.

Half the people in this city don’t care about running into a celebrity.

With so many living here, it’s a regular occurrence.

The other half, however, will eat up any tiny morsel of gossip they can sell or use to go viral.

It’s hard to know which one you’ll meet, so I’ve found it’s better to avoid interactions if you can.

“Not wanting to meet any fans today?” he asks.

“Not if I don’t have to.”

He scoffs.

“What?” I ask, adjusting my chair back to an upright position. “Have you met some people in this city?”

“Just a few.”

“Then you already know how brutal they can be.”

“Oh, I do.” He sighs as the traffic light turns and we accelerate forward. “At least from behind their keyboards.”

This piques my interest, and I can’t help but to pry. I want to hear his take on the swirling rumors. “Oh, do you? I’m all ears.”

He glances over at me and rakes a hand through his dark hair. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard.”

I shrug, not willing to give up the fact that I’ve definitely heard. “I don’t pay much attention to online gossip.”

“Smart. I wish I had that self-control.” He smiles at me, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Oh, it gets pretty easy when half the things you read about yourself are lies.”

“Tell me about it. I should probably consider myself lucky for it to have taken so long, but I guess I didn’t realize how many superfans Ada Lane has. She’s only been in like three movies.”

“So you played Ada Lane?”

“I didn’t play her. We just weren't compatible.”

I hoot a laugh, my hand flying over my lips to stifle it.

“And she got her feelings hurt, and…” He trails off when he sees my hand is still pressed to my lips. “Are you laughing at me?”

I shake my head. “No, no. I just… It’s funny when the player finally gets played.”

His eyes harden, fingers squeezing the steering wheel. “I’m not a player.”

“I may not always read the tabloids, but what kind of girl would I be if I didn’t do a little research on my boyfriend?” I spin to face him, my seat belt cutting into my collarbone. “I assume you’ve heard what everyone’s saying. So, did you really stand Ada up and then ghost her?”

He scowls at me. “What happened to the whole ‘tabloids tell lies’ thing?”

“You’re avoiding my question. Did you or did you not?”

“I screwed up the time.”

“Uh-huh. If that’s true, then why not reschedule?” My eyes narrow. “Did you ghost her?”

“It’s kind of a long story.”

“I have time. I’m on break.”

He sighs. “I forgot we agreed to meet up and went to my buddy’s birthday thing instead, and there was this bottle waitress?—”

“You stood up your date to hook up with someone else?” My jaw nearly hits the floor mats.

“No. Nothing like that. There were some photos taken that didn’t look good. That’s it. Never saw the waitress—or Ada—again. She sent me a few fuming texts I didn’t know how to respond to, so I didn’t. And that was that.”

“That’s it?” I ask, waiting for the final blow.

“That’s it.”

“Wow. I was hoping for something a little more exciting. If you’re going to get dragged across the internet, you might as well make it count.” I eye him up and down before turning to face the dashboard again, ignoring the sympathy that’s sprung up. “You have a stain on your shirt, by the way.”

There’s a long silence as his eyes dip to his chest, then rise again. Only the GPS squawks at him to take a turn in a few hundred feet.

Finally, he asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of mean?”

“Has anyone told you that maybe you’re too sensitive?”

He rolls his eyes as he pulls into a parking spot. “Stay here, I already ordered.”

“Ordered? How do you even know what I like?”

“Be right back.” He presses the lock button on the door and bolts from the car and into some little deli I’ve never even heard of.

For a split second, I wonder if what I said to him was too harsh. However, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that men who aren’t gentle with women’s emotions don’t deserve gentle treatment. If the big oaf can’t handle getting a little crap, then maybe he shouldn’t be dishing it out.