Page 50 of Faking the Pass
“He’s telling the truth,” she said into the microphone in front of her. “That’s what really happened.”
There were gasps of shock. Phones came out all over the room to post about it. Flashes went off in every direction, resembling indoor fireworks.
We’d just created an even bigger story—one that would dwarf the previous one.
Randy stood so quickly he knocked his chair over, and it fell from the back of the platform with a clatter. He picked up his own mic with a jerk, and yelled into it.
“I apologize for the confusion. Clearly my lovely bride isstillsick. I’ll have a statement for you soon to clear things up.”
Then he stormed from the room, leaving through a side door. Rosie got up as well and ran out a door on the opposite side of the room.
I tried to follow her, but the press mob had now turned, no doubt wondering what on earth Nauticals quarterback Presley Lowe had to do with the situation.
They were blocking my path, shouting my name, firing a volley of questions at me. I ignored them, using my superior size and strength to push through the throng and go after Rosie.
If Randy was in that hallway berating her or otherwise mistreating her, he’d have to answer to me.
When I finally made it to the door, I didn’t see him, but I did spot Rosie ducking into a room down the hall. I ran after her and followed her inside, closing the door behind us.
She spun to face me, looking like she was ready to fight off an attacker.
“Oh. It’s you.”
Her posture relaxed a fraction, but her head shook back and forth as her eyes bored into me.
“Whydid you do that?”
The real answer wasI have no fucking idea.
What I said to Rosie was, “I thought of an alternative.”
Chapter 12
The Alternative
Rosie
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You kept saying, ‘what’s the alternative?’ And until about five minutes ago, I couldn’t think of one. I thought of one.”
Presley’s tone was matter of fact, like it was no big deal that he’d just violated pretty much every facet of my NDA—in spectacular fashion.
And then I’d backed him up, sealing my doom. I wasn’t sure why—it must have just been instinct.
Back in that conference room, looking between the man who wanted to ruin me and the one trying—in a foolhardy way, granted—to defend me, it hadn’t felt like a real choice.
Of course I’d backed Presley up.
He reached out and took my hand, lifting and studying it as if searching for damage.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked in a low rumble.
My head was spinning, and I could barely catch my breath. I might have been in shock. I fell back into the chair behind me.
Presley maintained his hold on my hand, continuing to probe and stroke it.
“Do you think he broke any bones or sprained it? Your hands are so delicate.”
