“Maggie,” I prompt.
Still no answer. Face blank, she sips on her water.
“Goddammit, babe, will you talk to me?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, her face scrunched up in disgust. “They followed me home,” she says. “They’re outside the building.”
My fists tighten with frustration. “I’ll call my agent to see how we can get rid of them.”
“Don’t bother.”
She blows past me and settles on the living room couch, leaving me to stare after her in bewilderment. Why is she acting so calm? Her privacy is being violated, her good name slandered, and she doesn’t care?
I rub my temples, unnerved by her reaction. I don’t like this. I don’t like the vacant look in her green eyes or the way she’s brushing all this off.
“I won’t let them say all this bullshit about you,” I finally growl. I pace the hardwood floor, fists still clenched. “We need to put a stop to this. Maybe we can file a restraining order.” But I know how unlikely that is. I’ve been dealing with these assholes for years. If they smell a scoop, nothing will stop them from getting it.
“Do you care about me, Ben?”
I frown.
“Do you care about me?” she repeats.
I sweep my gaze over her. She looks young and vulnerable in her blue jeans and V-neck T-shirt, her face free of makeup, her pretty features imploring me as she awaits my response. She wore her hair loose today, and it’s falling down her shoulders in soft waves, straight and curly at the same time. Wild and guarded, just like Maggie.
“Of course I care about you,” I say roughly. “Hell, I—” might be falling in love with you. But I don’t say that out loud. This woman has been a flight risk from day one. Any declaration of potential love will probably send her spiraling.
“Good.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and our eyes lock. “Then you need to leave.”
I stumble back. “What?”
“You need to leave, Ben. If you leave, they leave.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. Yes, my presence in her life is currently causing an enormous mess, but I can make it go away. I’m Ben Barrett, for chrissake.
That’s the problem, pal.
I try to silence the harsh criticism that surfaces, but it won’t go away. It won’t go away because it’s the truth. Maggie is right. The problem isn’t whether I can get the paps to leave her alone—it’s that I placed her in the spotlight to begin with. My celebrity is ruining her fucking life.
If I weren’t Ben Barrett, but just a normal man with a normal life, Maggie wouldn’t be suffering right now.
“Gloria asked me not to come back to the center.”
Fuck. “Because of the paparazzi?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Yeah.” Maggie pauses. “Look, I can find another waitressing job, but I can’t be a social worker if I’m being followed and hounded by reporters. It’s not fair to the kids I work with.”
“Maybe you can put social work on hold for a while? Just until this all dies down.” I almost cringe at the desperation in my tone.
“On hold?” She casts a withering look in my direction. “It’s taken me six years to finish school. Attending classes part-time so I could work to pay my own tuition, so I wouldn’t be drowning in student-loan debt when I graduate. I’ve sacrificed friendships and relationships to keep up my schedule. I don’t have a goddamn life because of it, and now you’re telling me to put it on hold? That’s like saying all those years of hard work meant absolutely nothing.”
“I know.”
“I won’t throw it all away.”
“I know.” My throat tightens to the point where swallowing actually hurts. I know she’s right. I just don’t want her to be right.
“I don’t fit into your life, Ben. You said so yourself—you live in a plastic world.” She rises to her feet and eliminates the distance between us. “I can’t live in a plastic world. I need my life to mean something. Especially since I felt so meaningless growing up.”
Maggie reaches up and strokes my stubble-covered cheek. I haven’t shaved since we returned from Nassau, and the feel of her fingertips scraping over my two-day-old beard is torture.
“You need to leave,” she says again.
How perfectly ironic. I’ve starred in dozens of movies where I play the savior who always gets the girl, but in real life it’s the exact opposite. I won’t get the girl this time. And instead of saving her, I turned her entire world off-kilter.
“If you want me to go, I’ll go.” I choke on the bittersweet lump in my throat. “But I want to thank you first.”
“For what?”
“For being there when I needed somebody.” I gulp. “And for being so damn real.”
Her bottom lip quivers. She blinks a couple times as if she’s fighting back tears. Somehow this makes me feel slightly better, knowing that saying goodbye is as hard for her as it is for me.