He’d hesitated for so long before proposing. He hadn’t been sure if he could be the kind of man who deserved a woman like Ginger. But he hadn’t been able to give her up either. He’d told himself he could just improve. Become a man worthy of her by making her the happiest woman in the world because there was no way he would ever fall out of love with her.
“I couldn’t love you more if my life depended on it,” he’d told her, opening the ring box.
Instead, he’d hurt her.
Those fucking photos…
Shane tapped his fingers on the table as an expert studied each picture with care. He hadn’t seen anything that hinted that they were fake, but he’d probably missed something. Some people were just that damn good at Photoshop.
“If these were photoshopped, it’s a very good job,” the expert said, scratching his jaw. “I’m not saying they’re one hundred percent authentic either, but…” He pushed all the pictures back across the table. “I’d consider them authentic.”
Shane’s hand tightened into a fist. The man had to be mistaken. Even doctors screwed up now and then. “Thanks for your time,” he said tautly and paid the man. Shane slipped the pictures into his jacket pocket and got up. He’d prove that man wrong. Then come back and tell him so.
A second opinion…then a third…fourth…fifth…sixth…
Everyone said the same thing the first man did: the photos were authentic. And they all added a caveat to cover their asses in case they were wrong—“there’s a small chance…”—but it always came with a but.
But they were authentic.
Well maybe they were. And maybe there were good reasons why she was draped all over those other men. She might have been dizzy at that time. Or tired. Women did that all the time, right?
Ginger had no idea about the photos. Shane considered talking to her about them, just get the whole confrontation out of the way. But he couldn’t. Every time he tried to talk about the matter, his throat would close up. If he showed the photos to her…maybe she’d tell him the same thing all those damned experts had told him—they were real.
He had to leave for a while. Go somewhere far, far away so he could be alone and get some perspective. Staying in L.A. was torture—and he wasn’t as good an actor as his father. He couldn’t put his arms around his fiancée and fake a smile while wondering about the damned pictures.
Tears trickled down from under his hand. He was the biggest fucking failure in the world.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ginger got up at around nine, feeling incredibly well-rested. There was a scent of coffee in the air. She stretched, grinning, and went to the kitchen. “Hey, early bird. Mind if I steal some?”
“Go ahead,” Debbie said from the couch, her voice listless.
Ginger brought her coffee to the living room and sat next to her best friend. Debbie had a blanket wrapped around her, and she was staring into the middle distance. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. I know something’s up. Tell me.”
She sighed. “It’s Shane.”
Ginger almost spat out her coffee. Crap. Debbie had been threatening to confront him and beat him up for a while now. “What happened?”
“He came over.”
When she didn’t continue, Ginger said, “When?” Sometimes it required two mules and a wagon hitch to pull information out of Debbie, especially when she was in a funk.
“Last night after you went to sleep.” Debbie sighed again.
Ginger rolled her wrist. “Annnnd?”
“I spoke to him in the stairwell.”
“About what?” she said, when her friend didn’t continue.
“The photos.” Debbie blinked away tears. “Please don’t be mad, but it just infuriated me when he showed up and acted all normal. Like he didn’t destroy you with the things he did. So I set him straight. Told him everything.”
Ginger licked her dry lips. “Including my…” She couldn’t say the word. “The thing that happened in Amsterdam?”