Page 122 of You and Me, For Real
“That was three weeks ago, Griffin! And you never found the time tomentionit?”
“I know. I messed up. I’m sorry.” He steps forward, this time gently touching my fingertips with his.
I pull away from his touch. “I need space. I need time to think. To process.”
His face looks wounded. His shoulders fall, and he exhales. “Okay. I can give you that.”
Luke barges through the ballroom door and stalks toward us. “What’s going on?” He stops short at the sight of my face. “What happened?” His eyes go from mine to Griffin’s.
“Later. Would you mind calling the limo driver to meet Ashton at the entrance?”
“Sure thing.” He whips out his cell phone and turns his back, saying a few words.
I tune it out as I study Griffin. He shoves his hands in his pockets. Hands that I know are dying to touch me, to hold me, because I know him. Iknowhim. Don’t I? He’s nothing like the lying, cheating, scheming Tanner.
And yet, tonight hurt all that much more because it’s Griffin. The man I love.
“Okay, he’s pulling up now.”
“Would you mind walking Ashton out?” Griffin’s tone is resigned.
“Sure.” Luke walks to my side and holds out his arm.
I slip my hand through his offered arm, look one more time at Griffin, and exit the door. We silently walk down the venue steps toward the garden, my heels clapping against the concrete.
“You okay?” Luke whispers.
“Not really.”
“Want me to beat him up?”
Despite everything, this gets a chuckle out of me. I swipe at my nose. “Maybe.”
At the base of the stairs, Luke pushes open the garden gate. Within seconds of rounding the expansive bushes, flashes of light fill my vision. Shouts yell at me from all directions.
“Ms. Blake. Ms. Blake—why’d you disown your family?”
“Is it true? You’re dating Griffin Ford?”
“Ms. Blake, how does it feel to break up America’s sweetheart couple?”
My vision blurs.
They said my name.
They know my name.
Lights blind me. My head spins.
Luke grips me tightly around the waist, his forearm shielding my face from the paparazzi’s onslaught. He straightens his arm, using it as a ramrod to push back the encroaching photographers. “Please, no pictures. No pictures, please. We have no comment.”
But it doesn’t stop their insistent shouting.
“Ms. Reid, look right here!”
“Ms. Blake, over here!”
“Ms. Reid!” One voice lifts above the throng of photographers.
