Page 63 of Claim to Fame

“How could you? I didn’t tell you.” She looked up at him with his big, worried, blue eyes and his scruffy beard, and her heart swelled in her chest. “I liked that you didn’t see me that way.”

“What way?”

“Damaged. Broken.”

A low noise of disapproval sounded in his throat. “You’re not either of those things.”

“I liked that you didn’t get your worried face every time we ordered nachos from room service.”

“I don’t have a worried face.”

“You absolutely have a worried face.” She stroked her thumb between his brows. “You’re making it right now.”

He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

“You’re here now.”

“Did you let anyone be there for you, city girl?”

“Not at first. But eventually... Liv and my parents… and Jackson.”

He smoothed his thumb between her eyes. “Nowyou’remaking a worried face,” he said softly.

“My insurance sucks. And Jackson was—is—a good friend. He’d known other people who’d gone through eating disorder treatments. Pop stars and actresses. He got me a recommendation for the treatment center, and when I told him I couldn’t afford it, he paid for the treatment.”

“In exchange for you pretending to be his girlfriend?” Ethan asked, his lips pressing together and his jaw clenching.

“No. He would never ask for anything in exchange for helping someone. The fake dating was my idea. Part of the treatment plan was abstaining from new relationships for a few months. Especially physical ones. I sometimes...” She bit her lip again, looked away. “I sometimes used sex in the same way I used food. Overindulging to sort of numb out everything else. I was afraid that if I was single, I’d turn to those types of relationships to fill the void, and replace one self-destructive behavior with another. But if I was supposed to be dating Jackson, then there wasn’t any risk of me slipping up. He needed to make the press believe he had settled down, and I needed to know that the next time I called you, it was because of how much I liked you, and not because I wanted to hide from my feelings.”

“You used to do that with me?” He looked pained and she scrambled closer to him, cupping his face in her hands.

“No,” she said vehemently. “But in the middle of treatment, I wasn’t sure if the way you made me feel was an extension of my disorder or if it was real.” She scratched her fingers over his beard, and he closed his eyes, sinking into her touch despite the tortured furrow of his brow. “When I called you this last time to meet me in Boston, my therapist and I had finally decided I was ready. And I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. I knew then that what we had...what we have...has nothing to do with the disorder. I knew that my feelings for you were real.”

“Then why did you say no when I asked to see you again?”

“I was afraid.” Her voice wavered, but she continued. “I fought so hard for my recovery—I still fight for it every day—and I was afraid I’d mess it up by wanting you too much.” She looked away, tears stinging her nose and the back of her eyes. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

“Hey.” He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her to face him. “You asked for help. You did what you needed to do to take care of yourself. You should be so proud of that.” She dashed away an errant tear, and his eyes softened. “Don’t cry, city girl. I’ll be proud enough of you for both of us.”

FromThe Lady’s Knightsby A K Wild, narrated by Slade Hardcastle

For three days and three nights, Lady Windtorn slept by Sir Llewellyn’s side, his men taking turns keeping watch over their camp. On the morning of the fourth day, before the sun gilded the hill beyond their camp, its rays advancing like so many soldiers with blades drawn to slice apart their nighttime happiness, Sir Llewellyn woke. He brushed the hair from his lady’s face and told himself to prepare for the inevitable.

“I cannot sleep while you stare,” she said without opening her eyes.

He kissed her closed eyelids. “’Tis but a dream, my lady. You do not yet wake.”

“I do.” She opened her eyes, blue like the summer’s sky.

“It is not yet morning.” He lifted her hands above her head, held them fast as he moved to cover her with his body. She was soft where he was hard, smooth where he was rough, and when she parted her legs that he might settle between them, she was warm.

“The dawn has come, Sir,” she said, smiling, though there was a sadness in her eyes. “My hus— The castle awaits.”

She’d caught the distasteful word before it was fully formed, but he heard it still, felt the sting of it. “Do not speak of that life while I am inside you,” he growled.

She had to return to Lord Havenbrook. He knew it and yet he hated it.

When the time came, he would accompany her to the edge of the keep, see her safely returned to the life he’d stolen her away from, but not yet. Their interlude had been far too brief.

---