So why didn’t she hate him, damn it?
A day working with the kids was what she needed. Sundays weren’t usually her days to volunteer, but she needed to be out of the apartment, away from Ben and the conflicting emotions he stirred inside her. For some reason, kids always had the strangest ability to clear your head and help you gain perspective on life.
Paying the cab driver, she stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. The temperature was surprisingly hot for May, the sky a clear blue and the breeze warm as it snaked through her hair. Yet, in spite of such a perfect New York City day, an ominous cloud hung in the air.
As she neared the community center, the cloud thickened, bringing a chill to her body and making her stop in her tracks. There was a crowd milling in front of the Broger Center. Not just a crowd, but a crowd with cameras and microphones and news vans. A crowd that rushed toward her the second she walked up.
“Maggie!” one reporter shouted.
Oh God.
“Ms. Reilly, how long have you been seeing Ben Barrett?”
“Are you aware of his affair with Gretchen Goodrich?”
She wanted to melt into the sidewalk and become one with the cement, but the press wouldn’t let her. Before she could blink, they’d surrounded her. Stuck microphones in her face. Grinned at her like a pack of hyenas about to devour a carcass. Her carcass.
“Maggie, did Mr. Barrett pay you for sex? Is that why you were with him at the Lester Hotel?”
Something very sharp pierced her heart. They were implying she was a prostitute?
Unable to breathe, she pushed one of the microphones out of her face and stalked forward. “I won’t even dignify that with an answer,” she spat.
She zigzagged through the mob, her steps getting faster and faster the closer she got to the door. Once inside the community center, she hurried down the corridor and waited until she was out of sight from the front windows before she sagged against the wall and gasped for air.
Why the hell was this happening to her? Why did these strangers even care about her?
“Maggie?”
She lifted her head and saw one of the counselors eyeing her with concern. “Hi, Karen,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“Gloria is in her office.” Karen looked hesitant. “You should probably go in and see her.”
“All right.”
Collecting her nerves, she walked toward the main office and stepped inside. The counselor who doubled as a receptionist greeted her with a sympathetic smile. An omen of things to come, obviously.
She headed for the center facilitator’s open doorway. The tiny Hispanic woman behind the desk gestured for her to close the door then said, “Have a seat.”
Maggie sat. Waiting.
“Apparently you’re something of a celebrity.” Gloria’s tone wasn’t angry, but mild. Her gaze not accusatory, but concerned.
“Gloria…I’m so sorry about all this.”
She wrung her hands together, laced her fingers, then unlaced them, then tucked her palms on her knees, but no amount of fidgeting could stop the river of guilt flowing inside her. Damn it. The kids at the center didn’t deserve to have a bunch of slimy reporters snapping their pictures. Nobody here deserved all this unwanted attention.
“So you’re dating a movie star,” Gloria continued, offering a small smile. “To be honest, I’m not sure I envy you or pity you. Having the media on your back must be awful.”
She gulped. “Yes, it is.”
“Maggie, I’m going to be honest here. All this attention isn’t good for the center.”
A sigh lodged in the back of her throat. “I know.”
“You also know that the reason we try to remain low-key is to protect the families who come here.”
Maggie nodded, knowing exactly what Gloria meant. Though the Broger Center, on the surface at least, seemed like every other community center in the city, it also provided shelter for victims of abuse. Women came here to escape from abusive husbands or boyfriends, and the center had a few rooms on the third floor where they could stay until they figured out their next move.
Needless to say, the center wouldn’t be a safe haven as long as its picture was splashed all over the papers.
“None of the kids who come here, or their parents, deserve to be pulled into a celebrity scandal.” Gloria’s voice drew her from her troubled thoughts.
“I agree,” she said. “And I promise you I’ll straighten all this out.”
“I know you will.” Gloria leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. “But, until you do, it might be a good idea for you not to come in.”
Maggie’s heart squeezed. “Okay.”
“I know you wanted a permanent counseling position here, honey, but right now isn’t the time to discuss it. Why don’t we let the media storm die down before we talk about anything permanent?”
The facilitator’s words were like individual little gunshots. They penetrated her flesh and left a feeling of raw emptiness in Maggie’s stomach. Piece by piece, her life crumbled around her. Everything she’d worked so hard for. Everything she’d dreamed of achieving. Gone.
Losing her job at the Olive was bad. Losing her place at the community center absolutely crushed her.
“I guess I’ll be in touch then,” she murmured, fighting hard to stop the tears prickling her eyelids from spilling over. She rose to her feet and extended her hand. “Thanks for being so nice about this.”
Gloria shook her hand. “This isn’t personal, honey. I’m just trying to protect our kids and their parents. Give me a call when things settle down, okay?”
“Sure.”
She left Gloria’s office with her chin high and her shoulders stiff, but it took all her willpower not to collapse on the linoleum floor beneath her feet. Somehow her legs managed to carry her outside, where she pushed through the reporters and uttered the words ‘no comment’ so many times she wanted to scream.
They followed her. Actually followed her to the curb, hurling questions at her. Ben Barrett. Gretchen Goodrich. Lester Hotel. Sex. Affair. The words all mingled into one pounding bassline, making her head hurt and her stomach churn.
Only when she flagged down a cab and slid into the backseat did she finally allow the tears to fall.
Ben already knew about the reporters at the center when Maggie walked into the apartment. He’d seen it on the news, and he’d never felt so powerless as the segment flashed across the screen. Never felt so enraged when he’d seen Maggie’s wide, confused eyes and the expression of sheer shock she’d donned when that one reporter asked if Ben had paid her for sex.
The accusation left him sick to his stomach. Getting paid for sex? Maggie did not deserve to be humiliated like that, and on national television no less.
“Mags,” he started as she dropped her keys on the hall table and silently headed for the kitchen.
He followed her, uneasy, maybe even a bit scared as he watched her open the cupboard under the sink and rummage around. She pulled out a bottle of Jamaican rum and twisted off the cap.
“Maggie…”
Still no answer. Face blank, she found a pink plastic cup, poured the dark liquid into it and lifted the cup to her lips.
“Goddammit, Maggie, will you talk to me?”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her face scrunched up in disgust. “God, no wonder I don’t drink. This tastes awful.”
She turned around and dumped the contents of the cup into the sink, then returned the liquor bottle to its place in the cupboard.
“They followed me home,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “They’re outside the building.”
Ben’s features creased with frustration. “I’ll call my agent and publicist to see how we can get rid of them.”
“Don’t bother.”
She blew past him and settled on the living room couch, leaving him to stare after her in bewilderment. Why was she acting so calm? Her privacy was being violated, her good name threatened, a
nd she was lounging around on the sofa?
He rubbed his temples, unnerved by her reaction. He didn’t like this. Didn’t like that vacant look in her green eyes or the way she was brushing all this off.
“I won’t let them say those things about you,” he finally burst out. He began to pace the hardwood floor, fists clenched, breath ragged. “We need to put a stop to this.”
“Do you love me, Ben?”
He froze.
“Do you love me?” she repeated.
He moistened his dry lips and swept his gaze over her. She looked young and vulnerable in her snug blue jeans and V-neck green T-shirt, her face free of makeup, her delicate features imploring. She’d worn her hair loose today, and it fell down her shoulders in soft waves, straight and curly at the same time, wild and guarded, just like Maggie.
Did he love her? He sure as hell did.
“Ben?”
“Yes, I love you,” he said in a rough voice, moving toward her.
“Good.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and their eyes locked. “Then you need to leave.”
He stumbled back. “What?”
“You need to leave, Ben. If you leave, they leave.”
He couldn’t believe she was saying this. Yes, his presence in her life was currently causing an enormous mess, but he could make it go away. He was Ben Barrett, for chrissake.
That’s the problem, pal.
He tried to push that harsh voice out of his brain, but it wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t go away because it was right. Maggie was right. The problem here wasn’t whether he could get the press to leave her alone, it was that he’d placed her in the spotlight to begin with. His celebrity was costing her so damn much.
If Ben Barrett hadn’t been the 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.”
Her soft voice sliced through his disconcerting thoughts. “Because of the press?” he sighed.
“Yep.” She paused. “Look, I can find another waitressing job easily, but I can’t be a counselor if I’m being followed 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.” He almost cringed at the desperation in his tone.
“On hold?” She cast a withering look in his direction. “It’s taken me seven years to earn this degree. Attending classes part-time so I could work to pay my tuition. I’ve sacrificed friendships and relationships in order 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 would be like saying all those years of hard work meant absolutely nothing.”
“I know.”
“I won’t throw it all away.”
“I know.”
His throat tightened to the point where swallowing actually hurt. He knew she was right. He just didn’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 rose to her feet and eliminated the distance between them. “I can’t live in a plastic world. I need my life to mean something. Especially since I felt so meaningless growing up.”
She reached up and stroked his stubble-covered cheek. He hadn’t shaved since they’d returned from the Bahamas and the feel of her fingertips scraping over his two-day-old beard was torture.
“You need to leave,” she said again.
How perfectly ironic. He’d starred in dozens of movies where he always played the savior and always got the girl, yet in real life it was the exact opposite. He wouldn’t get the girl this time. And instead of saving her, he’d turned her entire world off-kilter.
“If you want me to go, I’ll go.” He choked on the bittersweet lump in his throat. “But I want to thank you first.”
“For what?”
“For being so damn real.”
Her bottom lip trembled. She blinked a couple times as if fighting back tears. Somehow this made him feel slightly better, knowing that saying goodbye was as hard for her as it was for him. With a small smile, he traced the seam of her lips with his thumb, then lowered his head to kiss the trembling away. It was the slowest kiss they’d ever shared, the softest one, and something inside him shattered when he finally pulled his lips away.
The thought of walking into Maggie’s bedroom and gathering the items of clothing he’d brought over was too damn distressing, so he simply took a step back toward the door. He glanced at her over his shoulder, shot her his best Ben Barrett grin, and hoped she couldn’t hear the sound of his heart cracking open in his chest.
“Ben?”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He gripped the door knob with one unsteady hand. “Goodbye, Red.”
“The prodigal son returns!” Miranda Barrett chirped as Ben trudged into the front hallway of his childhood home.
It was nearly one in the morning, but somehow Ben wasn’t surprised to see his mother up and about. She was the ultimate night owl, and Ben couldn’t even count how many times he’d slithered into the house at three in the morning thinking he’d orchestrated a successful sneak-out, only to find his mother baking cookies in the kitchen.
In fact, as he kicked off his shoes and walked toward her, the scent of baked goods floated into his nostrils. His mom’s long red apron and the white flour sticking to her gray-streaked hair confirmed that she’d been baking up a storm prior to his arrival.
“You should have told me you were coming to visit,” Miranda chided with a shake of her head. “I would’ve baked another batch.”
As a half-smile reached his lips, Ben removed his leather jacket and tossed it aside, then stepped forward to embrace his mother. He kissed the top of her head, and then linked his arm through hers and they strolled through the oak swivel door leading into the kitchen. After receiving his very first million-dollar paycheck, he’d offered to buy his mother a new house, but she’d refused. She loved the small bungalow she’d raised Ben in, and he had to admit he liked it too. It represented a warmth and coziness his life lacked these days.
“I know I should have called,” he said as he rounded the counter and flopped onto one of the tall white stools. “Coming here was sort of last-minute decision.”
“Every decision you make is last-minute, Benjamin. You’re nothing if not spontaneous.”
Well, she had him on that one. His spontaneity was how he’d ended up with Maggie, how he’d forced his way into her apartment—and her life—without even knowing why he was doing it. Look how that turned out, though. He’d fallen in love, sure, but he’d also cost Maggie her job, her dreams and her privacy.
So much for being spontaneous.
“So, what have you done?” Miranda asked as she poured a tall glass of milk and set it on the splintered cedar counter in front of him.
“What makes you think I did something?”
She chuckled, then slid two fluffy oven mitts on her hands and removed a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven rack. “You’ve got guilt written all over your face,” she tossed over her shoulder, setting the baking tray on the stove to cool. “And please don’t tell me you got another tattoo. One is enough.”
“No tattoos.” He released the sigh lodged in his chest. “I fell in love, Mom.”
The kitchen went so silent you could hear not one, but thirty pins drop on the tiled floor. Gaping, his mother turned to face him.
“Seriously?”
He nodded glumly. “Seriously.”
After another second of bewilderment, his mother’s dark blue eyes lit up like a string of Christmas lights. She whipped off her oven mitts, marched over, and rested her palms on the counter. “Tell me everything,” she ordered with a huge grin.
He told her. About Maggie. About the hotel room mishap that threw them together (though he did leave out the details of w
hat happened during that room mishap). He finished with the entire paparazzi mess and Maggie’s request that he leave, ending with, “So basically, I screwed up her life.”
He let out a groan and reached for the milk in front of him, feeling like a little kid again as he sipped the cold liquid.
“You didn’t screw up her life,” Miranda soothed. “It will all settle down sooner or later.”
“Yeah, until the next scandal hits the newsstands.” He tightened his grip on his glass, then, fearing it would shatter, set it down gently. “Maggie doesn’t want to be part of my lifestyle, Mom. She doesn’t want that kind of attention.”
Miranda assumed that knowing look of wisdom he’d grown used to over the years. “The only reason you receive that kind of attention, Benjamin, is because you go out looking for it.”
“I certainly do not.”
“Sure you do.” She shrugged at his indignant frown. “You date floozies, my dear son. And when you date floozies, the media likes to take pictures of you with your floozies.”
“Stop saying floozies,” he grumbled.
“Don’t sulk, sweetheart. You know I’m right.”
Fine, so maybe his mother had a point. There were plenty of other celebrities, actors far more famous than him, who didn’t find their faces splashed across the tabloids every week. Ben didn’t go out and solicit the media’s attention, but he could see his mom’s point. The women he dated were gorgeous, flashy, demanding to be noticed. Like Sonja, who ought to be wearing a sign that said ‘notice me, take my picture’.
“This Maggie sounds very down to earth,” his mother added. “And I don’t mean this as an insult, but she also seems like the type who wouldn’t make the media drool. They need teeny-bikini models to sell covers, not your average Jane type. She’s too normal for those jerks.”
Ben smiled. “You’re right about that.” His expression quickly sobered. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that they’re still all over me. Especially ever since Gretchen died.”