formations to glow nearly red—it was the Valley of Fire, after all.
Ivy would like this, he decided. It was beautiful. He could acknowledge the fact easily enough, but he couldn’t enjoy the sight for himself. Not at a time like this.
Easton watched the bars on his phone, waiting until they said he could call. Getting up and out of the tent had quelled his anxiety at first. But now, with each additional step he took, his nerves became more and more agitated. The parking area was in sight now. May as well try to make a call.
Yet just as he moved to click on the screen, a text came in from his sister.
Chantelle: Thought you better see this for yourself.
It took a moment for the image to pop up, but once it did, a spark of amusement flashed through him. It was a magazine article of some sort, a tabloid probably, with the title “Runaway Bachelor” on the front. Less amusing was the photo they had of him. Some picture taken at the rehab center a few years back.
If this was supposed to pack some sort of punch, it had failed by a long shot. Easton would rather be some flash in the pan runaway bachelor who would—by any stretch of the imagination—fizzle out in days than have to go on that horrible show and make a fool of himself.
But then another image came up. It was a shot taken of the article spread inside.
A curse fell from his lips. And then another as he looked over the photo they’d printed of Ivy. “They had to drag her into it,” he muttered.
In the photo, Ivy was sitting up to a table, a plastic lobster bib tied around her neck, readying to take a fake bite from the shiny red lobster on her plate.
How they’d managed to find a less-than-flattering photo of a woman so obviously beautiful was beyond him. And why in heavens name would they do it? They probably assumed a woman who looked like her didn’t have an insecurity in the world. Little did they know…
A groan rumbled in his chest as he scrutinized the image some more.
Reluctantly, Easton read the small print beneath it.
Rumors have it that Ivy Ingles, assistant to Looking For Love’s producer Marsha Langston, got caught in a blizzard with this gorgeous bachelor while filming his interview. Lucky girl! I’m sure he knows how to keep a woman warm—just look at him.
The strange thing is that the interview never made it to Langston. Until Ivy’s co-worker sent it in.
Hmmm… sounds fishy to us.
Was this blonde-haired lobster-eater so obsessed with the handsome hunk that she tried to keep him off the show? Was she hoping he’d pick the pauperess over the princesses he’d find in the show’s castle-like mansion?
We think so! What do you think?
What kind of slanted garbage was this? How did Ivy get made out to look like that? He was the one who’d run off. And he was also the one who’d allowed her to withhold the interview.
His fist clenched so tight it hurt. His jaw did the same. It felt like fire was racing through his veins. This was an outrage. Ivy’s worst nightmare come to life and magnified a million times over. His mind raced for a way to fix it. To somehow champion Ivy in a way big enough for…for everyone who saw this ridiculous article to be set straight. For the slimy creator of the magazine to eat his or her words by way of public embarrassment.
This wasn’t about Easton dodging a lawsuit or a TV show anymore, this was about him defending a woman who didn’t deserve any of this. And he’d make it his life goal to do that very thing.
But first…
Easton exed out of the text thread, scrolled down to Ivy’s name, and pressed the call icon. Why call Marsha about making a deal when all he could think about was Ivy? He had to apologize. He had to make it right. He had to…had to at least hear her voice.
He put the device on speaker, a bit of déjà vu coming on as it went straight to voicemail once more, the same automated message that said her mailbox was too full. Only after seeing the article, that made more sense; probably a bunch of messages from vicious paparazzi. Should he text her instead? May as well. He could barely contain the anger coursing through him as he tapped out a message instead.
Easton: I’m so