Page 79 of Wrong For Me

She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even smile. Barely seems to register that I’m standing there. Instead she stares straight ahead, her mouth pressed in a flat line. “Tequila, actually.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re downing straight tequila all by yourself.”

She shrugs. “Guess so.”

Something isn’t right. I don’t have to look in her eyes to know that. Everything about her right now is screaming it—the rigid set of her shoulders, the blank expression, the tension I feel radiating from her.

“Rose, what happened?”

She doesn’t move. “Nothing that hasn’t happened a hundred times before.”

I frown. I don’t like the lifeless sound of her voice. “Did someone do something?” I think about the sweater vest douchebag and a jolt of anger zips through me. “That guy you were with—did he—did he mess with—”

She finally turns her gaze from the empty spot on the wall where it had been focused. She studies my face for a moment before her’s softens. “No, Leo. No one did anything to me. No one messed with me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Tell me what’s going on.”

She lets out a long breath, her eyes closing for just a moment. “Someone recognized me, that’s all. Kevin was going to get me a drink, and these guys came over, all excited about my dad, wanting to ask me a bunch of questions.”

I try not to focus on the jealousy that thrums through me at her casual mention ofKevinand the fact he was getting her a drink. Like he’s her date or something. The important thing is that Rose is upset. Not that I want to choke that guy with his own sweater vest.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, remembering how vulnerable she had seemed that day in our office when she mentioned her dad’s band. How tense she’d gotten when those girls whispered about her family in the lecture hall. The fucker who had his hands on her outside the psych building that day.

“That bothers you, doesn’t it? When people bring it up?”

She takes another sip of her drink, a little slower this time. “It’s not so much the bringing it up. I mean, I get it. They’re famous. They’ve been around forever. People love them and love their music. It makes sense they would want to get closer to them.”

“But it sucks when people try to get closer to them through you.”

She looks down at her lap. “It just…it makes me feel exposed. I was really hoping here, at least, I could just be me and not have to deal with any of it. I hate having my picture taken and having people write about me and—” Her sigh is weary, older than her years. “Our parents have always tried to keep us out of the press. But once we turned eighteen, there wasn’t much they could do.” Something passes over her face and I know there’s more to this, more she isn’t telling me.

“Anyhow.” She shakes out her arms, some of the tension leaving her. “It makes me uncomfortable, talking to strangers about my family.” A wry smile twists her lips. “Poor me, right? You can go ahead and call me princess—I know I sound spoiled.”

“Rose.” I swallow, hating myself for ever making her feel that way. I reach over and place a hand over hers, trying not to think about how damn good her skin feels under mine. “It’s not spoiled to want your privacy. You’re allowed to feel however you want about people invading that.” She looks at me, the beauty of her blue eyes threatening to render me speechless. “I’m sorry that happened to you tonight.”

When she smiles, it looks a lot more normal, if not entirely happy. “It’s okay.” Then she slips her hand out from under mine and I feel the loss of contact with every fiber of my body. “I’m not really up for all that bullshit, though.” She gestures in the direction of the reception. “I think I’m going to go up to the room.”

I can’t stand the idea of her being up there alone, feeling like this. Whatever she may have said about it not being a big deal, I know that it is. Something about being recognized hurts her, way more than she’s admitting to me.

“How about this,” I tell her. “We give the reception a half hour or so and then we can go up to the room and, I don’t know, you can make fun of my comic books or something.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Wow, I must really look pathetic if you’re offering up that. We both know how strangely protective you are of your precious comic books.”

I roll my eyes and grab her wrist, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, princess. I met an author the other night who knows Dr. Williamson. I bet he’ll introduce us if we kiss his ass about his stupid self-help book for a while.”

She stills. “Williamson? As in the Williamson Psychology Institute? The grandson of thefounderof the Williamson Psychology Institute?”

“That’s the one.”

She’s looking at me strangely. “And you want to bring me with you. To meet Dr. Williamson.” When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “You understand I’m applying for the same fellowship as you are, right?”

I shrug. The truth is, there’s a part of me screaming that this is stupid, that I shouldn’t let Rose Ransome get within twenty feet of that guy. That I need to protect this possible advantage, keep it to myself.

But the bigger part of me, the part that would do just about anything to keep Rose from looking as sad as she had earlier, doesn’t really give a shit. I can’t let her go back up to the room to sit alone for the rest of the night, not when I know she’s feeling vulnerable. If I have to share the coveted introduction, I’ll do it.

Even if it comes back to bite me in the ass.

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