Chapter 24

ELODIE

I awoke to my phone ringing. And ringing. I thought it went to voicemail, but it kept ringing. Mac groaned and rolled over in his sleep. I grabbed my phone and grimaced when I saw that it was Roy.

"Andrews!" he barked, making me jump. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Uh, care to elaborate?"

"Yeah, I'll fucking elaborate. I just saw you all over social media. You were spotted with that hockey player, holding hands and everything. I thought that story was dead! What aren't you telling me?" I had to hold the phone away from my ear since Roy was practically roaring at me. I scurried downstairs in the hopes that Mac hadn't heard any of the phone call. That would be a nightmare.

"Roy, I'm sorry, I should've told you." I scrambled to find an explanation, but my sleepy brain was struggling. For some stupid reason, I'd never thought Roy would care who I saw outside of work.

You're an idiot , I thought to myself.

"Told me what, exactly? You told me there was nothing on this guy, but now you're seeing him? Or are you just getting information from him? Tell me, Andrews."

"There's nothing to tell. There was no story, but Mac and I have become . . . friends."

I could hear Roy huffing and puffing. "Friends," he deadpanned. "Huh."

"Yes. Friends. That's all there is to it." I blushed. "Hey, I'll see you later, okay? And we can talk."

"You're not getting out of this that easily. I'm going to get to the bottom of this." Then he hung up on me.

I sighed, feeling a headache beginning to form between my temples. How had this situation turned into a hot mess? And was I going to lose my job over it? Roy can't fire you because you're dating a celebrity , I reasoned. But that didn't mean Roy wouldn't fire me when he discovered there were plenty of stories to be written about Mac . . .

I went back upstairs, but I stopped when I heard Mac speaking to someone. I felt the floor melt under me when I heard Mac say, "She's a reporter? You're sure about that?"

I went into the bedroom, a frozen smile on my face, and hoped that Mac wasn't talking about me. But when he met my gaze, I knew the jig was up. Mac was stone-faced. "Okay. Thanks. I'll talk to you later." He put his phone down, and we stared at each other.

I didn't know what to say. The room was swaying. Did I lie? Did I tell him everything? My heart pounded so hard I felt a little faint.

"That was my lawyer," Mac said slowly. He kept staring at me, like he was trying to see all my secrets. "Is it true? Are you a reporter?"

I sat down on the bed, feeling like I was going to piss my pants. "It's true. But I can explain."

That made Mac laugh darkly. "You can't be fucking serious. Elodie—are you telling me the truth? You're a fucking reporter?"

When I tried to touch him, it was like I'd triggered an explosion. He got out of bed and started pacing, energy coursing through him now. He looked wild-eyed. If I didn't know him as well as I did, I might've been afraid of him at that moment.

"I am, but everything between us has been real, I swear it," I began.

Mac held up a hand. "Start from the beginning."

I told him everything: being assigned to dig up dirt about him and his supposed affair with a married woman, discovering he was using a decoy, following him to The Scarlet Rope, and everything after that.

Mac stared at me in silence, his arms folded across his chest, his brow furrowed. I couldn't tell what he was thinking as I unloaded onto him.

"So you did know who I was when we first met?" he accused.

I blushed. "I did. I'm sorry."

"And then when I told you about my interests, how I wanted you to sign a contract with me, was that just for a story?"

I nearly catapulted myself off the bed now. "No! No. I haven't told my boss anything. Once we started to get involved, I told him that there was no story. Look me up. I haven't published anything about you."

"That doesn't mean you won't."

"I signed multiple NDAs, Mac. Why would I do that if I meant to break them?"

"People break NDAs all the time." Mac raked his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands. "And given who you work for, I'd bet they have great lawyers if push comes to shove."

"You have a lawyer, too."

"Because I need to protect myself. Your company is only interested in profiting off others' personal information. It's different."

I chewed on my lower lip, tasting blood. "What can I do to prove I'm not doing this for a story?"

"You can't."

I felt those words like a blow. My chin started quivering, to my humiliation. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

"I told you from the very beginning that I needed to be able to trust you, and vice versa. But you lied to me from the start. How do I know anything you've said is the truth? Why would I be different from any other person you've gotten dirt on?"

"You are different!" I grabbed his arm, but he just stepped away from me. "I've never cared about any of the people I've written about. I've never become friends with them, or had sex with them, or fallen in—"

I stopped myself. Mac stilled. The moment and silence lengthened until the tension was painful.

"Don't," he murmured, his tone harsh. "Don't fucking tell me shit like that when I can't know if you mean it."

Now, I was crying in earnest. "I'm sorry." That was all I could say, over and over again.

"BDSM is about trust. I told you that. Even my fucked-up relationship with Caroline was based on trust. I told you things in confidence that I never would've told a goddamn reporter—"

He started pacing again. I could only sit back down on the edge of the bed and try to stem the flow of tears. I sniffled and sobbed, hating myself for seeming weak, while also wishing I could make Mac believe me.

"I didn't tell my boss anything. I promise you. You have to believe me," I said.

"Why should I?" Mac's voice rose. "Why should I believe you? You've lied to me from the start! I don't fucking know who you are."

"You do know me. I'm no different from when we first met. I just didn't know how to tell you what my job was." I wiped away the tears, but they kept coming relentlessly.

"I thought I had feelings for you," he was saying, almost to himself. "I can't fucking believe this."

I stood, lifted my chin, and forced myself to stop crying. "What do you want me to do? Name it."

He stared at me, but his gaze went straight through me like an arrow. It was like the Elodie of just an hour ago no longer existed in his eyes.

"You can get out of my house," he said finally.

I swallowed, a huge lump in my throat. I knew I wasn't going to convince him. Not when he was too hurt to hear what I wanted to say.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorrier than you can ever know," I said.

He gave me a sad but almost wry look. "I know. That almost makes it worse."