angry at her, not even angry with himself, just angry and frustrated.
No more than ten steps in and he’d been noticed. Cheers started in a wave, from the first to spot him, the advance warning system for the crowd, until it was all heads and flashbulbs.
And he could feel his brows furrowing. It wasn’t the time for that, it was time for smiles.
This would be easier if...he didn’t have to do it.
Wave. Smile. Stop for pictures. Shake hands. Don’t show the pain grinding up his leg or the conflict churning through his gut. It had all worked out for the best anyway, Grace deserved someone who could stay forever, and his relationships came with an already determined expiration date. Something he couldn’t do to her, even if he could get past all the family conflicts.
When this was over, when he got back to the hotel, Grace would take care of him. She might lecture him, but she’d do it with her gentle hands and a level of exasperation that told him she still gave a damn. Even if the mortification of that night had stayed with her more strongly than he would have liked, she still gave a damn about him.
That was something to feel lucky about. Something to feel grateful for.
Even if it would make things harder.
THE TIME BETWEEN Liam leaving and the time that Grace had managed to make it to the theater swelled to the point that now, despite the fact that she’d not arrived for forty-five minutes after Liam had, she wedged herself through the crowds enough to catch sight of him still working the carpet.
Granted, he wasn’t running up and down the length of it, but he did move from one side to the other, shaking hands, taking pictures, signing anything that people thrust at him.
Shopper Tom, or as she called him now, Tom, had come barging into Liam’s suite about three minutes after Liam and his crew had left, then had insisted on making Grace try on clothes to figure out what gave the best fit. Were these shoes the right size? Did these slacks ride too high at the hem to wear with the heels he’d picked up for her to pair them with?
Did she even know how to walk in heels?
What about this color?
How did she like blouses to hang—did she prefer a very close fit that showcased her figure or did she want to go for the old Hollywood style with flowing material?
Did she even know how to put her hair up in anything but a ponytail?
By the time she’d managed to usher him out of the suite she’d had a scalp-stretching bun forced on her, as well as more than half the clothes that he’d brought with him.
This nonsense was going to last two days. Two days. Not twenty. In two days, she’d be back home and in her own clothes, she wouldn’t have to blend in with Liam’s Group. She could wear what she wanted. She didn’t need five pairs of slacks. She didn’t need blazers and blouses, and why in God’s name had Liam included accessories and shoes for every outfit?
Grace flexed her toes up and then gave them a wiggle in the strappy sandals she’d still managed to succumb to wearing with the suit—aka the last thing she’d agreed to try on. She didn’t blend in. The crowd dressed casually. She looked like she’d come straight from closing down a tenement for the poor and disenfranchised. Or, actually, she probably looked like she was trying too hard to look important.
While Liam looked tired. And in pain.
And like he needed to be knocked out, since that apparently was the only way she was going to get him to behave and actually take some time to heal.
Anyone who watched him right now would likely come to the same conclusion. He tried, bless his little idiotic heart, but his limp was still there. Pain had a way of overriding willpower and concentration. It also distracted from a person’s ability to judge anything accurately, like how well he was doing pretending it didn’t hurt.
By the time he made it to the double doors and out of her vision, Grace’s irritation had turned to worry and her head ached from the way her brows refused to un-pinch.
No matter where she stood in the crowd, she wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on him now. The only thing she could pray for was that Miles, the assistant who hated her, would keep an eye on him and not let him overdo things.
As if that would happen. It’d mean going along with her demands, and if she’d picked up anything from him this afternoon it was that his last priority was pleasing her. Liam wanted to keep going, and Miles would facilitate that, regardless of whether or not it was best for Liam.
With a growing sense of dread she turned to push her way back through the crowds. They were sticking around to be there and see those shining people they’d come to see on their exit back out of the theater. One trip, two chances to catch sight of them, no matter if they had to stand waiting two or more hours in between.
Not Grace.
Let Miles help keep him on his feet. The trouble with having no control over a situation? No matter how much she told herself that he’d be fine, that he was an adult and could make his own decisions, she still worried about him all the way to the street to catch a taxi. And likely would continue to worry for the remainder of the night, while she sorted out only the clothes she’d wear in the next two days and lumped the rest together to be messengered back tomorrow.
But at least that would give her something to do besides fret.
* * *
Two hours later, Grace dragged the crutches out from beneath the cream-colored sofa. She’d intended on doing so when Liam hobbled in the door of the massive suite she’d been pacing since the ten minutes it had taken her to sort the clothes out.
But, amazingly, he’d called and asked her to bring them down to the back entrance.
She couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. Passing her bag of supplies, she grabbed it for the splint and implements stashed inside, just in case it was a bad thing.
A short ride down, and she hurried to the back entrance.
A small part of her wanted to believe this request for the crutches was a positive thing. That he had decided that he should do what she wanted, and had given up on whatever macho idiocy that had him feigning invincibility.
When she stepped out the back, the limo was waiting. He hadn’t even hobbled inside without them.
Liam sat sideways at the opened back door, pale and slouching, his tie undone and his shirt half-unbuttoned.
“Good grief, you look horrible.”
“Thanks,” he muttered, glancing down.
His look led hers and that overwhelming urge to shake him reared up again. “Oh, God, Liam. Did you try to chew through this tape?”
“It’s cutting off circulation, which I would have thought would make it hurt less. But it doesn’t!”
She propped the crutches against the
