“I don’t want to go with anyone other than you, that wouldn’t make me happy either.”
He paused for a second before asking, “Then what’s the problem?”
I covered his hand with mine, and he immediately turned his palm upward, tangling our fingers together.
“If you decide to come with me, to the premiere, then everyone will know about us.”
“So?”
“So are you ready to lose your privacy? Are you ready for people to dig through your trash, hack into your phone, and take pictures of you at work? While you grocery shop?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice and mostly failed.
He shifted in his seat. I assumed his hesitation meant he was coming to the same realization as me.
Suddenly, I had a heartbreaking thought: Jethro and I had been doomed from the start. Or at least an open relationship was doomed.
My mind scrambled to find a solution. Maybe he would consider a relationship in secret, where his privacy could be protected. Maybe if we kept everything between us discreet . . . But we hadn’t been discreet. People on set knew. Strangely enough, it hadn’t hit the gossip mags. Could we contain things? Keep them here?
“Yes.”
I frowned, not knowing what question he was answering. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’m ready to lose my privacy and have people dig through my trash. I’ll have to warn Cletus, though. He disposes of odd things from time to time. Maybe I should move out of the homestead, get a place in Merryville.”
I gawked at him. “What? How can you even consider this?”
He looked at me, his eyebrows arched over hooded eyes; his gaze slid meaningfully up and down my body, like I was the crazy one. “I think I’ll suffer through.”
I grinned despite myself and despite the situation, but reality soon won out over his charm. “You don’t understand. We’re not just talking about now, Jethro. We’re talking about your past. Everything you’ve ever done would be turned into media fodder. Every embarrassing arrest photo, every painful story. You would be giving up your privacy—both past, present, and future—to be with me.”
His fingers tightened on mine. Now he was frowning. I tore my eyes from his profile because looking at him was starting to hurt. We drove in silence, and I could almost hear his mind working, going back over my words.
I wanted to suggest we go the secret relationship route to protect his privacy for as long as possible, and it was on the tip of my tongue, when he said, “You’re afraid my past will hurt your image.”
I flinched because his tone was heartbreaking, and I immediately contradicted him. “No! God, no. Nothing embarrasses me.”
He pulled his hand from mine. “But it would, right? I’ve been arrested plenty of times, there’s plenty of photos for them to use. Plenty of sordid stories from my past. I would hurt your image and your career.”
I gaped at him, baffled by the unexpected direction of the conversation. “Don’t worry about that. Don’t worry about my image.”
He said nothing, but was gritting his teeth, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
I was just about to reiterate that my image wasn’t at issue when he asked, “How bad?”
“What?”
“How bad would it be? Could you lose more film roles?”
I opened my mouth to respond but no sound came out. I didn’t want to lie and say no. The truth was I didn’t know because I hadn’t given the matter much thought.
But he took my silence as confirmation and cursed.
“Jethro—” I reached for him and he flinched away, startling me. I wanted to reach for him again, but it seemed my touch was now unwelcome.
A sharp, stabbing pierced my chest, my lungs rigid, inflexible. I couldn’t draw a full breath. I’d never seen him like this. He’d been angry during our first date, a bewildered, frustrated anger.
But this was different.
He was angry but also something else, unwieldy and dark. And he felt faraway, removed from me. He’d opened a chasm between us.
I tried again using a carefully calm tone, though panic made every beat of my heart painful and sluggish. “Jethro, it’s not about my image. I’ve never cared about my image, what people say.”
“Do you care about your career?”
I ignored his question. “This is about your privacy.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m taking you to the cabin.”
“Will you stay with me? Tonight?”
He shook his head but said nothing.
I pressed my lips together to keep my chin from wobbling, but couldn’t quite manage to keep my voice steady as I reminded him, “You promised me. You promised me that my celebrity wouldn’t send you running. You said I could trust you.”