Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Mallory

When Mason turns onto Broad Street, my heart performs acrobatics inside my chest. I've been anxious all evening for entirely different reasons, but the swarm of paparazzi outside the restaurant may as well be flesh-eating zombies with the way dread embeds itself beneath my skin.

"Fuck," Mason mutters, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Someone must've tipped them off. I should've made the reservation under a fake name."

I take a deep breath, running my fingers through my hair, unintentionally ruining the beachy waves it took me three hours to do. Who knew it was so hard to achieve a natural, just-went-for-a-swim surfer look?

The paparazzi are fiddling with their cameras, checking the lenses and film. Men and women exit their luxury vehicles, hand their keys to the valet, and head inside the restaurant. They're dressed to impress, with form-fitted eveningwear, flashy diamonds, and solid gold watches. But the paparazzi don't pay Philadelphia's rich any mind, waiting for the moment Mason decides to show his face.

And I'll be on his arm.

Quite frankly, there's nowhere else I'd rather be, but I don't want the whole world to know. One photo with him, and I'll have reporters prying into my personal life, trying to discover what's so great about me that I've managed to capture NFL superstar Mason Reeves's attention. If they dig deep enough, they'll inevitably get to the nitty gritty. They'll find out about our children. Our faces will be splashed across gossip rags, news channels, and late-night sports networks.

As we inch closer to the valet, I have to swallow back the bile rising in my throat. Blood rushes in my ears, tightening my chest to the point of pain. There's no coming back from this. We both agreed it was best to keep the kids out of the spotlight, but it's nearly impossible in this day and age, especially if we're seen together.

It'll look like Mason is hiding us from the world. Which he is, but for entirely noble reasons, like keeping us safe from outside scrutiny. It doesn't matter. Reporters will twist the story, making it seem as though Mason is leading a shameful double life.

"Fuck this," Mason hisses, placing his hand on the back of my headrest.

Before I can turn to look at him, we're peeling out of the queue. Mason spins his palm on the steering wheel, catapulting us into street traffic with ease. We fly by the paparazzi, who glance up disinterestedly, seeing nothing past our vehicle's tinted windows. Mason heads south, placing his hand on my thigh and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"We're not eating there?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder at the rapidly receding restaurant.

He shrugs, grinning lopsidedly. "Didn't feel like paying six hundred a plate anyway."

My mouth pops open. "Six hundred? What are they serving, endangered elephant hearts?"

"Probably."

I study his profile, trying to discern whether he's disappointed. His grin has disappeared, the sharp lines on his face breathtaking in their severity. He doesn't appear angry, but he also doesn't seem particularly happy. He obviously saw my turmoil and made a decision to benefit my anonymity.

"Are you upset?" I ask, threading my fingers through his, if only to keep his hand in my lap. I like him touching me, which is good because he rarely removes his hands from my body.

Ever since he told Blake he was taking me on a date, he's gotten bolder. He snakes his arms around my waist while I'm making coffee. He hooks his ankle around the leg of my chair at the dinner table, dragging me closer to him. He kisses my shoulder, my forehead, my cheek, my neck anytime he passes by. Blake continues to whip his head around, confusion evident in his expression. He's wondering why I'm not slapping away Mason's advances, but I've already explained that I want to date Mason.