Page 30 of Gunnar

I clench my jaw, refusing to confirm or deny the accuracy of his statement. Jagger knows me too well. For all the shit he gives me, he has seen me at my worst and my best. And right now, I hate him for the clarity of his observation.

“She’s not speaking to me,” I admit finally. “Hasn’t said more than a handful of words in two days. Not since she blew up the other day.”

“And that bothers you.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“But it does.”

I slam my palm against the counter, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen. “Yes, it bothers me. It bothers me that she’s walking around this house acting like I don’t exist. It bothers me that she won’t so much as look at me. Won’t fight with me. That she won’t do anything but give me that cold shoulder and those wounded eyes.” I drag my hand through my hair, frustrated with my inability to handle this woman. “I carried her out of that restaurant because she needed to be removed from that situation. I did my job. And she’s punishing me for it.”

“Or is she punishing you for something else?” Jagger asks quietly.

I look at him, confused, and he sighs, running a hand through his own dark hair.

“Gunnar, you didn’t just carry her out of that restaurant. You manhandled her. You threw her over your shoulder like she was property. Like she was your property. You want her to talk to you? Stop being so fucking stubborn and admit that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t handle it perfectly.”

I stare at him, hating that he’s right. About all of it. “I don’t know how to do this,” I confess, the words barely above a whisper.

“Do what?”

“Want someone I shouldn’t. Need them to…” I trail off, unable to finish the thought and acknowledge how deep this goes.

“Yeah,” he says, his expression softening. “You do. You just don’t want to admit it because it scares the hell out of you.” He moves toward the door to the terrace, pausing to clap a hand on my shoulder, his cocky grin sliding back into place. “The silver at your temples finally paid off, old man. Turns out, the whole brooding DILF thing really works.”

He leaves me alone with my now-cold coffee and my colder realizations. Devyn Martin is slowly unraveling everything I thought I knew about control and discipline, unknowingly tearing down the walls I’ve built to keep the world at bay.

The makeup artist dabs powder on my nose with a brush that flitters over my skin like butterfly wings. Her face is scrunched in concentration as she chases away the shine the studio lights will create. I stare at my reflection in the mirror—smoky eyes, nude lip, and hair cascading over one shoulder in calculated waves—practicing my smile. The one that says “I’m approachable but untouchable, available but unattainable.” The Devyn Martin that America has come to expect.

“Two minutes, Miss Martin.” A production assistant hovers at the edge of my vision, headset askew, clipboard clutched to her chest.

I nod, my throat tight despite the peppermint tea I’ve been nursing for the last hour. Late-night talk shows are part of the job, as routine as breathing, but this one feels different. The weight of the last week sits heavily between my shoulder blades, knowing the conversation is going to focus on the photos and the relentless speculation about the new man in my life.

I catch a glimpse of Gunnar in the mirror. He’s leaning against the wall several feet behind me, dressed in black, his arms crossed over his chest and eyes methodically scanning the room. Jagger is beside him, scrolling through his phone with the casual air of someone who doesn’t realize he’s supposed to be working.

Gunnar’s gaze meets mine, his grayish-blue eyes flickering with irritation. He hasn’t really spoken to me since my outburst in the kitchen. At least not anything of substance. I have—very poorly—attempted to apologize, but no matter how much I rehearse, the moment I’m in his presence, it dies on my lips.

“Miss Martin?” The stage manager appears, hand extended to guide me. “We’re ready for you.”

I stand, smoothing the lines of my outfit—a black jumper with wide legs and lace top with a plunging neckline. It’s a deliberate choice after the Sunset Boulevard debacle. No short dresses to ride up, in case a certain someone finds it necessary to toss me over their shoulder again.

The guys fall into step behind me, Gunnar close enough that I can feel his presence as though he’s pressed against my spine. He’s close enough that distinct woodsy smell that makes me want to lean into him and inhale until I’m dizzy.

The crowd roars when I emerge from behind the curtain onto the blinding stage. I wave and smile, navigating the steps in my stilettos with the grace of many years of practice. Trevor Chase meets with a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek, before guiding me to the guest chair with the ease of a man who has done this a thousand times. Hell, I’ve been here six times in the past decade.

“Devyn Martin,” he says into the camera, and the crowd cheers again. “Looking absolutely stunning, as always.”

“Thank you, Trevor.” I cross my legs, angle my body toward him, and settle into my public persona. “It’s good to be back.”

The interview flows like water, easy and predictable. We talk about my latest project—a romantic dramedy that’s testing through the roof. We talk about my charity work, the nursing advancement foundation I started in my mother’s name. We talk about everything and nothing, the safe topics and approved talking points.

“So,” Trevor drawls, leaning back in his chair as his smile spreads, telling me we’re veering off script. “I have to ask. The whole world is asking, really.”

My stomach drops, but my smile stays fixed. “Ask away.”

“The photos.” He gestures to the monitor beside him, displaying a photo of me folded over Gunnar’s shoulder. The crowd reacts with a mixture of gasps and laughter. “Sunset Boulevard. Who is this mystery man, Devyn? Because I have to tell you, I’m not going to lie… he rivals Colton Cross for me.”

Same Trevor… Same. He definitely smells better.