A Hollywood Bride(4)
“Of course,” he says, as though bleeding all over one’s skirt is an everyday occurrence. He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it to me. “Will this be acceptable to cover it up?”
Startled, I look at the proffered garment and him. He doesn’t look any less formal without his jacket, and I feel awkward, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Thank you.” I take his jacket. The fabric isn’t rich, but it’s not cheap either.
“I’ll wait for you in the hall. Please take your time.”
He walks out, and I quickly change into my outfit and wrap the jacket around my waist to cover the bloodstains. They’ll probably never come out, and I’m going to have to throw the skirt away. But I’m too grateful to care. My child is going to be okay. That’s all that matters.
I take my purse and step out. The chauffeur is waiting, standing with hands clasped and feet spread.
“I need to fill out some paperwork for the discharge and instruct the hospital where to send the bills.”
“No need to worry about that. Everything’s been taken care of.”
Typical Ryder: take care of the hospital bills, but forget a fresh change of clothes for me. He isn’t used to handling such details. That used to be my job, but he doesn’t have me doing it anymore. I doubt his new assistant knows what’s going on. It takes a while for people to earn his trust.
Perry puts a hand at my elbow and escorts me outside. On the curb is an idling black Bentley. It’s so waxed and shiny I can use it as a mirror.
He opens the door for me, and I slide in. Then I stop short.
Julian Reed is in the car. He moves toward the window, giving me ample space on the luxurious leather bench—a subtle dig at my size? Although he’s Ryder’s father, they don’t share many similarities. He is blond, while Ryder is dark-haired. He is of average height, while Ryder is tall. He is petty and snide, while Ryder is not.
“Mr. Reed.”
“Hello, Paige.” He smiles, but the expression isn’t particularly welcoming. He tilts his head at the driver. “Perry, let’s go.”
The door shuts behind me with a solid thunk.
Chapter Two
Ryder
The chairs in this room are just as uncomfortable as the ones in the waiting room. The harsh fluorescent lighting doesn’t help either.
It really does have an effect. I feel like some kind of criminal, waiting in an interrogation room for the cops to question me.
When I stand up, my bones creak like they belong to an eighty-year-old. I feel eighty after sitting in that horrible chair for hours. I should go check up on Paige. This is taking way too long, and I have to know she’s going to be all right.
The door opens, and the nurse who told Mrs. Marshmallow to behave slips inside. Her golden hair is down, curling around her shoulders. She seems a bit taller, and I realize she’s swapped out her shoes. A pair of heels encases her feet. She closes the door behind her and faces me.
The light shines directly on her features. Her powder is fresh, and a fresh coat of red lipstick glistens on her lips. In an apparent attempt to make her eyes look larger, she’s put on layers of mascara until there’s more makeup than eyelashes. A cheap perfume stings my nose, and all my internal alarm bells go off.
There’s no way she’s here to update me on Paige.
“Finally!” She takes the front of her blouse with both hands in a Superman gesture and pulls. The cheap fabric gives way, and I bite back a groan. What the fuck?
“You have no idea how serendipitous it was that you showed up right after I spent an hour shopping at Victoria’s Secret.” Serendipitous. Do all nurses talk like that?
She licks her lips. “It’s as if the universe wants us to be together.”
“No, it really doesn’t.” I try to walk around her. I have zero interest in hooking up with anybody. But the woman is not at all amenable to moving away. The ripped shirt reveals tits that don’t even bounce when she steps closer to press them against me.
“You know you want this…” Her breathing grows louder as she cups her silicon boobs. They’re too large for her narrow body. “I’ve studied your type. You like them with big breasts. And blonde.”
She is somewhat correct. I also like women with an ass, not something that looks like it’s been run over by a steamroller a couple of times. “Lady, get the fuck away from me before I call the cops.”
“Oh, you won’t.”
I give her my best level stare. “Try me.”
“Is it because I’m not her?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Is it because I’m not a fat cow like her?” Her voice is getting loud, and anger lends a razor glint to her eyes. Oh boy.