Not If I Date You First

Chapter 4

LIAM

It should take a guy by surprise when his girlfriend chucks a cup of green juice at his head. But after almost two years of dating Mia—two years of dodging anything from cell phones to entire plates of food—I've developed a sixth sense. I probably realize Mia's going to throw that drink before she does.

I duck just as it leaves her hand. Drops of juice rain across my back as it sails overhead, leaving a trail of cold, tacky splatters soaking through my shirt. There's a splash, and someone behind me gasps.

I jump to my feet, whirling around. Oh, shit.

A girl stands a few feet behind me, blinking. Her mouth is drawn in an almost comical 'O.' She's soaked head-to-toe in Mia's juice. It runs in rivulets down her skin, puddling on the concrete. Her ponytail is congealing in a green, gooey clump. She might be attractive if she didn't look like something that just crawled out of the Black Lagoon.

My stomach sinks. I'm not the one who threw the damn drink, and I feel like a complete ass. I turn back to see if Mia's going to bother apologizing, only to watch her vanish into the waiting SUV. It pulls away from the curb and into the stream of traffic, abandoning me to the wolves.

I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. Panic crackles through me as people swarm, pressing closer, phones raised. Proof that I ditched out on the press conference is probably plastered across the internet already. I'm so screwed.

Burying my face in my hands, I groan. This day couldn't be a bigger train wreck if one of the show's writers scripted it. Briggs fights to keep the mob at bay, yelling at anyone who gets too close. When I left the apartment, I didn't plan on needing a full goddamn security detail. I catch his eye to ask him to call for a car, but he's already pulling his phone out of his pocket.

The eyes of the crowd sear my skin as I turn back to the girl who just got juice bombed. She's crouched next to a potted tree, frantically examining her camera as though checking for damage. I zero in on it, and the blood rushes to my head in an agonizing throb. That's no tourist's camera. Not with a lens like that. If I didn't know better, I'd say it belonged to a pap. But there's no way. A girl that young couldn't possibly...

She shoves the camera into her bag, slinging it across her shoulder and grabbing a to-go cup from the sidewalk. As she turns, I see the words written across the cup in big, black letters. 'Paparazzi Queen'

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. My personal life was just obliterated in public, and this girl—no, this soul-sucking photog—was standing behind me taking pictures?

It's one thing for fans and randoms to take their shots. Running into a celebrity is probably the highlight of their year. But it's another for someone to exploit the worst, most painful moments of my life to make a buck. I mean, sure, I should've known better than to let Mia drive me to the point of combustion in such a public place. But she pulled the one trigger she knew would cause a nuclear reaction. My dad.

Part of me wonders if she did it on purpose, thinking a little spat would get her some publicity she didn't even need. It was clear from the expression on her face that she didn't expect me to end our relationship over it. She tried to hide it, but I know Mia. She's genuinely wrecked over what just happened. I can't feel bad about that right now, though. Not with the anger sparking inside me like a lit fuse, and definitely not with dozens of cameras still trained on me. 

I should go back inside the juice shop, find a table in a corner, and put my head down until the car arrives. But I can't think clearly through the white-hot fury clouding my mind. Instead, my dumbass decides to set a new record for bad decisions made in a single morning.