Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Heat crawled up Cam’s neck, equal parts embarrassment and irritation. No, of course it wasn’t the reason. It wasn’t, damn it.
“I agree with Daniel,” Alice said. “Keep away from Scott Palmer.”
“What I do is none of your business,” he said coldly, his irritation flaring. “Either of you.”
Daniel sighed heavily. “Jesus Christ, Cam. We’re not your enemies. We’re trying to help here.”
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he snapped—and immediately felt guilty when they flinched.
Fuck.
He knew they meant well. He shouldn’t bite their heads off for doing their jobs—for trying to save his career. He knew he should be more appreciative of it.
But fuck, he was exhausted. Exhausted from constantly fighting himself, from trying to convince himself he’d done the right thing. A month ago, keeping his distance from Scott had seemed logical. Necessary. But all it had done was make him feel vaguely furious all the time. Furious and restless and stressed and distracted as hell.
Like something important had been ripped out of his life without warning.
Something he couldn’t actually live without.
***
Cam knew what he was doing could technically qualify as stalking.
The rational side of his brain kept insisting it was creepy, but after more than a month without seeing Scott, that rational voice was getting quieter and quieter.
Which was how he found himself sprawled across his hotel bed two hours later, deep in the rabbit hole of stalking Scott’s friends’ Instagram accounts in hopes of catching a glimpse of him.
In his defense, Scott’s own Instagram page had become oddly inactive lately. Cam was used to waking up to a new post every morning. Scott had posted constantly—ridiculous selfies, pretentious black-and-white photography, blurry photos of expensive cocktails with captions that made no sense. Sometimes entire dramatic quotes about things Cam had no clue about.
Cam had spent months pretending those posts annoyed him. Apparently they’d become part of his routine without him noticing. Now their absence felt wrong. Then again, everything felt fucking wrong these days. It felt beyond wrong that he didn’t know what was happening in Scott’s life. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like not knowing where he was or who he was with or—
Christ, he sounded like a psycho even in his own head.
He had never considered himself controlling. He’d never cared what his girlfriends did when they weren’t with him. Half the time he forgot to reply to their texts for days because racing consumed most of his life.
But with Scott it was different. With Scott it was like an itch beneath his skin, persistent and impossible to ignore no matter how hard he tried. He kept trying to rationalize it. Scotty was loud and lively and impossible to miss. Of course his absence felt noticeable. Except that explanation fell apart under scrutiny. Cam knew plenty of loud people. Plenty of charismatic people. He had never once felt compelled to know every tiny detail of their daily lives.
Cam stared at a picture one of Scott’s friends had posted from some premiere a few hours ago.
His thumb hovered over the screen as his gaze traced Scott’s face obsessively.
He didn’t even know what he was searching for. Signs that Scott was unhappy? Signs that he missed him? Signs that he hadn’t already moved on?
Scott looked… beautiful. His dark hair was artfully tousled and swept back, an expensive gray suit draping perfectly over his frame. A champagne glass rested loosely in his long fingers as he smiled at someone just outside the frame.
Who was he smiling at? Another man?
His jaw tightening, Cam zoomed in. He stared at the curve of Scott’s full, pink lips and felt his own fucking ache with the urge to kiss them, suck on them, bite them.
For fuck’s sake.
What was wrong with him?
Chapter 23
Scott found out about the Daily Mail article during the premiere.
Honestly, he should have expected it. The moment he stepped onto the red carpet, cameras had started flashing harder than usual, reporters suddenly far more interested in him than the actual film. At first he’d assumed it was because Palmer Corp had financed part of the production.
Now he realized they’d probably already smelled blood in the water.
He was halfway through his second champagne flute when his old friend, Tony, appeared at his side with the grin of a man about to deliver gossip he considered hilarious.
“There you are,” Tony said, slinging an arm around Scott’s shoulders. “You slut.”
Scott blinked. “Excuse me?”
Tony shoved his phone into Scott’s face, laughing. “You’re apparently fucking Cameron Richter now.”
For one disorienting second, Scott genuinely stopped breathing, his body going completely still.
Tony, oblivious, kept laughing as Scott stared at the giant Daily Mail headline on the screen.
DOUBLE WORLD CHAMPION CAMERON RICHTER IN SECRET ROMANCE SCANDAL WITH BILLIONAIRE HEIR?
The blood drained from Scott’s face so quickly it made him dizzy, fear knotting his stomach up. Not for himself. For Cam. His first coherent thought was: Oh god. His career.