"Miss DeVille?" I feel a shadow beside me and my eyes flicker to the right; it's another male reporter with thick wheat-colored hair and a face full of freckles. "Where will you get the money? After what happened with your family’s business—"
Something bright winks in my eyes, and I wobble backwards, bumping into a row of reporters and their cameras. Crap. These people are crazy.
“Could you please leave me alone?” I cry, holding my arms out. I side-step, trying to get out of the thick of them, and my hand smacks into Freckles.
"Where will you get the money?" Now he's in my face, and his tone is more insistent.
“That's not your business,” I snap. “Now go away!”
But he doesn't. He comes closer, and all of a sudden I notice that the thing he's holding in his left hand is a tiny camcorder with a flashing green light on the front.
“Oh my God.” I cover my face, feeling sick. It's bad enough being hounded, but to have it all captured on camera?
With my hands still covering my face, I dart between two SUVs and start to run. I'm clearing a row of cars, finally in sight of my own, when I hear the squeal of brakes and something hits me hard.
A compact car drives by, and I'm aware that I would have gotten hit were it not for the strong pair of arms around my waist. I glance up—into Hunter's face. As his hands close over my upper arms, I notice his expression. He looks like an avenging angel, with his strong jaw, soft lips, and ruffled gold hair. He's dressed in a suit that's clearly tailored for his shoulders and his chest, and even in the circumstances, I can feel the heat begin to gather between my legs.
I'm pulled against his chest and hurried the last few steps to my car. I can hear the reporters pounding the ground behind us, their shouts rising sharply over the noise of traffic, but all I see is Hunter's green eyes, widened with what looks a lot like concern.
"Where are your keys?" His voice is calm and rich. Mine, I think irrationally. The gentle strength of his arms is all for me.
"They're in my purse," I say, as the cameras flash all around us. I can actually hear them click, just like in the movies. My heart is beating so hard I think I might throw up.
My door swings open and I feel the solid heat of him behind me. With one hand on my shoulder, he says, "Get on in there, Libby."
The nickname makes me hesitate; for not the first time, I wonder if he thinks I'm someone else—but that doesn’t make any sense. Libby is a nickname for Elizabeth.
That next second, they are all around us. Faces and equipment and voices, closing in on us. Hunter rocks his body into mine, urging me into the driver's seat. As he does, I feel his hardness against my hip.
His face is right by mine, his low voice like a warm breeze in the crook of my neck. "Remember there's a back exit if you loop around," he tells me, pointing in the direction I should go. "Just make a U-turn and floor it. It'll take you right onto the main road."
I nod, unable, to move my eyes from all the faces leering through the windshield.
"Libby, look right here." I feel a hand close over mine and I lift my head to meet his eyes. They are softer than I've ever seen them. "Don't get in a rush," he tells me. "Take your time. I'll take care of these pricks."
And that's it. My door is closing before I can even thank him. As I look over my shoulder to back out, I catch a glimpse of him clearing the traffic around my car, his burnt gold hair ruffling in the wind as he raises his arms. They create just the barrier I need to escape the camera lenses.
*
Driving from San Francisco to L.A., the flowered hills seem to roll past me too quickly. The sky above is flat, pale blue. Watching the horizon line makes me feel dizzy—like I'm stuck on a carnival ride and can't get off. I try to swallow back the sensation, but it builds within my chest, making my hands tremble on the wheel.
What am I doing?
I can't do this.
I just said I would do this.
Suddenly tears are pouring down my cheeks, and I want to pull my car over by the tall grass with its tiny flowers and sob.
I feel a thousand years old as I speed toward Mom's rehab. I have an appointment with her care worker. To lay the groundwork for my grand deception. I have an appointment at twelve-thirty, and my mom's expecting me, but I don't go there.
Instead I find myself at Cross's cement high-rise. I'm signing myself in and I'm sprinting down the drab hall, toward his room. I think that when I get there, things will be different. The gauze will be gone. Maybe he'll even be sitting up and extubated. All I want in the world is to see my friend again before I go to Vegas. Or maybe, if he’s already awake, I won’t even have to go…
When I get through the door, he’s still in bed, and he looks much the same. The gauze is partially unwrapped, so I can see the tube is draining blood from his head. His eyes are tapped shut. His lips are super chapped, but I have lip balm in my purse. I'm reaching for it when I realize he is extubated! There's no more ventilator, just oxygen tubing in his nose. I want to scream with joy, and at that moment, the door cracks open.
This nurse is petite, with short, spiky pink hair and a diamond nose ring. She smiles at me and says, "I heard about you. Elizabeth DeVille?"
I nod, and she explains that she has seen me on TV. That makes my belly clench, but I try not to show her how rattled I am.
"Are you guys an item?" she asks quietly.
"No. We're friends." I step closer to Cross, taking his hand, which feels warm and surprisingly soft.
"She put some lotion on him right before you came."
I frown, my head snapping around so I can meet her eyes. "Who did?"
“She comes in sometimes at lunch. I think her name is Sari.”
Well, hot damn. That's news to me.
"She was here when we extubated him." The nurse smiles. "His eyes were open because they were changing out the medicine in them. To keep them from getting dry, you know? It might have been just reflexes, but she thinks he smiled at her."
I stroke my thumb across Cross's cheek and squeeze his hard hand in my small one. "Geez, Cross, you guys are keeping secrets."
The nurse eyes our fingers. “So you really aren’t a thing?”
“Really. He’s been my friend since first grade.”
“Well, I think he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”
Is he? I’m not so sure, but I smile anyway. “Do you know when they’re moving him?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
"That's amazing."
"Your friend thought so, too. She seemed really surprised when I told her what you'd done."