Powerful (The Driven World) - Kathleen Kelly Page 0,16
The feel, scent, and taste of her are better than I remembered.
Parking the car in front of the hardware store, I climb out and slam the door behind me, frustration and anger surging through me.
“Kris! How does it feel to be back in your home town?”
It’s then I realize a swarm of media is surrounding me. I put on an award-winning smile and give them a two-fingered wave. Cameras click away as more of them throw questions at me. I hold up my hands, trying to appease them.
“No doubt, you know I’m back home to celebrate my best friend’s wedding. I would appreciate it if you could give me and the happy couple some privacy while I’m here.”
“Is it true that you and Sophia Thorne are here to get married as well?”
“Absolutely not. I’m here for Ares Boswell who is marrying the lovely Ashlea Lynch. He’s a lucky guy. Yes, Sophia is with me, but this is not a double wedding. I mean, come on, guys, we haven’t been dating that long.” I chuckle and shake my head.
“They say love knows no bounds, and time is meaningless when it comes to true love.”
Laughing harder, I shake my head. “In this case, love does have bounds. If and when I get married, I promise to let you all know.”
“Are the press invited to the wedding?”
“No, this is a small, private affair.”
Smiling broadly, I shake my head and walk into the hardware store. Unfortunately, I am followed by more than one of them.
“Well, if it isn’t Kris Livingston,” booms the owner of the store, Mr. Roberts.
“Hello, sir.”
“Good to be back?”
“Yeah, it is. I’m going to be—” I stop and look at the crowd around me and decide I don’t want them following my every movement. “Gloves, I need gloves.”
“Aisle three.”
I look over my shoulder at the press and shake my head.
Mr. Roberts narrows his eyes at them and, in a very loud voice, says, “Unless you folks are going to buy something… out!”
Leaving him with them, I stride down aisle three to inspect the gloves. I need a heavy-duty pair. When I find the ones I need, I grab two pairs and take them up to the counter. Mr. Roberts looks them over before ringing them up.
“Helping your dad out tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.” I lean over the counter and say quietly, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say where.” I cock my head backward to indicate I’m talking about the media.
Mr. Roberts taps his nose and holds out the card reader to me. Pulling out my wallet, I tap my card and head for the door.
“Do you want your receipt?” he yells at me.
“No thanks, Mr. Roberts. Good seeing you.”
What started out as ten reporters has now grown to twenty in the parking lot. They could ruin TB’s wedding by being intrusive. I climb into the car, dial my personal assistant, Gabby, and drive away.
“Hey, boss, how goes it?” asks Gabby in her usual upbeat voice.
“The press is here, a lot of them.”
“And?”
“Gabby, this is a small wedding, not a paparazzi free-for-all. Can you arrange some security to keep the vultures at bay?”
Her tinkling laugh filters down the line. “Well, you can thank Sophia’s people for that. The rumor is you’re getting married.”
“Fuck it all to hell. Sophia started that?” I grip the steering wheel tighter.
“Yep, afraid so. How is she?”
“She’s good. Gabby, can you fix this?”
“Sure can. Security, a statement from us, but you’re going to have to give them something.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Like what?”
“How about some photos of you two all dressed up before the wedding? That should help with some of them.”
“But not all?”
I’m driving past TB’s café and decide to pull into the parking area out front.
“Nope, some will want those exclusive photos, you know that.”
“Gabby, lots of security, please.”
“You got it!”
She ends the call, and I get out of the car and walk into the café. I can see TB working out back, so I make a beeline for him.
“Hey, brother, how’s your day?” asks TB cheerfully as he opens an oven.
“The press is here.”
TB raises his eyebrows at me. “And?”
“And they’ll try and crash your wedding.”
He pulls a cake out of the oven and puts it on the stainless-steel worktable in front of him. “If you ruin Ashlea’s wedding day, I’ll never forgive you.”
Picking up a cookie from his worktable that’s fresh out of the oven, I take a bite and shake my head. “I’m organizing security, but it could get messy.”
“Fix this,