to lay assault charges against Nate and to give Savannah an uncontested divorce if she kept her mouth shut about their tumultuous marriage. Yes, Liam had actually used the word “tumultuous”, as if they’d had a few rough patches, instead of the last few years of his escalating manipulative control and emotional cruelty. But as much as it burned her ass, she wanted out more than she cared for what the public thought of her marriage, and she’d conceded one final time to her husband’s demands. Freedom was worth it—though she hated that Nate had been caught in the backlash.
“Not many people know it,” she admitted. “Nate and I decided early on to keep the fact we’re related private.”
Josie gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She must’ve heard the rumors—as had the majority of people in this tiny country of only four and a half million. Especially since one of the trio in the scandal was a nominated contender for a women’s magazine’s New Zealand Bachelor of the Year contest, and had his own claim to fame being one of the country’s top photojournalists.
“Now Liam and I are divorced, it’s not such big news. Though I’d prefer to keep Nate and his family off the radar.”
“Won’t hear anything from us. Lauren and her little boy deserve some peace after everything they went through.” Wrinkles spread out from Josie’s eyes as she narrowed them into hardened slits. “And you too. What really happened between you and your ex is your business, but those of us who’ve followed your career from the beginning saw the light go out of your eyes a few years back. It’s no wonder your cousin reacted the way he did.”
Savannah’s throat thickened, remembering the viral photos of her wedged between Nate and her husband, blood pouring out of Liam’s nose, Nate’s expression fierce and possessive but not for the reasons the media had splashed around.
“The public chose not to see it that way.”
“Seems to me the public doesn’t really know you,” said Glen.
Truth was, most days it felt as if no one really knew her. She’d been burned by the media once too often after Liam had leaked strategic personal information to them to try to boost her flagging popularity.
So once again, Savannah adopted a smile she didn’t feel like smiling and angled her chin. “The public—those who troll trashy magazines or websites wanting to know the contents of my trash, or what my father’s address is, or the details of my sex life—can bite me.”
Glen’s gaze smoldered, suggesting that he, for one, was curious about her sex life.
“You tell ‘em, love.” Robbie chuckled and stabbed a finger at her. “People need to mind their own shit—pardon my French.”
The kettle began to wail, and Josie rose from her chair. “Amen to that. While we’re waiting for Robbie to boil up that cray, I’d love to hear about L.A, Savannah. I’ve always wanted to go there.”
***
Savannah slotted into easy conversation with Robbie and Josie—a surprise to Glen. Guess his assumptions her interactions with locals would be strained and awkward were grounded in bias toward the woman. After a brief stumble when her ex-husband was mentioned, Savannah had continued to relate to the elderly couple as if they were old, dear friends. Her self-depreciating sense of humor over some of Hollywood’s ridiculousness had him feeling like a jackass.
Apparently, the public weren’t the only ones who neglected to look beyond the toothpaste-ad smile and dreamy green eyes to the warm, funny, and forthright woman beneath. Had he also misjudged her? Or was this just another character role she’d donned in a scheme to soften him up and convince him to leave?
They’d left the house to wait for Robbie to gas up the tractor and bring it around. Savannah wanted to help with the clean-up, but Josie wouldn’t have a bar of it, asking only for a photo of her and Robbie with Savannah so she could show her grandchildren. Savannah had obligingly posed then hugged the woman goodbye.
Now, Glen and Savannah stood on the beach in front of the Aldridge’s little cottage, the tide having retreated to expose the rocky reef needed to return home. Glen pretended to study the distant line of white breakers in the moonlight. Correction. That’s what he was doing—staring at the sea. Because pretense suggested he’d have to admit to his awareness of the faint scent of summer berries rising off Savannah’s skin. Or the way her hair had curled in the humidity. Or the