The Vixen and the Vet (25 page)

***

Asher stepped jauntily into the kitchen, wiping his muddy sneakers on the welcome mat that Miss Potts kept by the back door. There was hot coffee, and Savannah was awake. He hated that she’d woken up with tears in her eyes, and he knew that today would be a little sad for them, so he’d made a decision on his walk. Although he wasn’t ready to ask her to marry him, he wanted her to know that that was his eventual intention. He wanted to reassure her that she was his forever; that what they had was so precious, as long as they protected it, they’d find each other at the end of their half-year separation.

When the phone on the wall rang, he jumped, surprised, then looked around for Miss Potts. When she didn’t come bustling into the kitchen to answer it, he reached for the receiver himself.

“Hello?”

“Is this Asher Lee?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Lee! Hello! This is Jennifer Durant with
Fox and Friends
, and we were wondering if we could book you for—”

“Whoa!” he said. “Slow down. You’re on the television show
Fox and Friends
?”

“Mm-hm. Now, do you prefer Asher or …
Harrow
?”

“
What
? What are you—”

She giggled coquettishly, then continued in a more professional voice. “We’d like for you to come on the show. Tell us all about how you two met and about how those sparks flew, from
your
point of view.”

“Sparks flew? Are you talking about the article? The IED explosion?”

“Oh, no. No, we won’t touch on that. What America loves is the love story.”

“The love story?”

“‘Savannah and Asher: An All-American Love Story.’ Mr. Lee, did I catch you at a bad time?”

What? What in the world was she talking about?
“You did, Miss Durant. I need to go. Call back another time.”

He put the phone back in its cradle before she could answer, trying to figure out what that was all about. He reviewed the facts. Yes, it was the Fourth of July, and Savannah’s article about his time in Afghanistan and his bitter hometown reception had been printed today. He was waiting until she woke up so they could read it together. Maybe the media was trying to read into the fact that the story had been reported by a single young woman? He shook his head, filling up the two coffee cups, when something occurred to him that made him freeze.

Now, do you prefer Asher or …
Harrow
?

His face flushed, thinking about some unknown woman using the pet name that Savannah
occasionally used. Perhaps she was a fan of the same program that had featured Richard Harrow and was making an association based on the similarity of their injuries? His heart started thumping faster. Something didn’t feel right.

Ring. Ring.

Ring. Ring.

He crossed the kitchen purposefully.

“Hello?” He was terse. He was feeling confused and thrown off, and he didn’t like it. He needed to get upstairs and talk to Savannah, try to figure out what this was all about.

“Asher Lee, this is Clifton Winter, vice president at Van
Cleef & Arpels.”

“What? Who?”

“Van Cleef & Arpels, the premier jewelry store in Manhattan. We here at VCA are big supporters of returning veterans, and we want you to know that if you’re in the market for an exquisite engagement ring for Miss Carmichael, we have—”

“Mr. Winter! I think you have the wrong …”

His voice was muffled as he spoke to someone else. “Damn it, I told you to get me Asher Lee in Danvers, Virginia!”

He heard a woman’s voice in the background. “That’s him.”

“Is this Mr. Lee?”

“Yes, but …”

The line went dead. Asher looked up to see Savannah’s finger pressed over the hang-up button. She reached out without a word to take the phone from him and place it gently on the kitchen counter. Her eyes were stricken and resigned as the phone started to beep out an angry busy signal.

“Savannah,” he asked, searching her eyes, “what the hell is going on?”

***

“Come sit down,” she said, crossing the kitchen to pick up the coffee mugs he must have just filled.

He sat down at the table and she set a mug in front of him before taking the other cup off the counter and sitting across from him.

“Asher--”

“Why are television shows and jewelry stores calling me?”

She bit her lip. She had no idea where to start. “I used pseudonyms. I swear to God, Asher. I didn’t use our real names.”

“You mean, in the article?” He stared at her, confused. “I don’t mind that you used my name. I gave you permission to interview me.”

“I know. You did. About your, um, your in-injuries and Afghanistan and coming home.”

He nodded. “Right. So …”

“That wasn’t what the story was about, in the end.” She searched his face, but it hadn’t changed from cautious and curious. He still trusted her. He still hadn’t put it together. She clenched her eyes shut, wishing she could figure out a way around this, but she couldn’t. She was stuck.

“Well, what
was
it about?” he asked.

“Asher,” she started, looking up at him, her eyes swimming.

“What was it about, Savannah?” he demanded.

“Us.”

His eyes darkened, and his lips narrowed into a thin line. “Us.”

Savannah reached out to cover his hand, praying to God he’d find a way to understand how this whole mess had happened. “
Us
. How we got to know each other. How we started spending more and more time together. How we became friends and fell in love and …”

“Jesus Christ, Savannah.
The
story is
our
story?”

She nodded sheepishly as he pulled his hand back.

“I never said you could do that.”

“I never told them
they
could do it the way they did. The title I sent to them was ‘Cassandra & Adam: An All-American Love Story.’ I made it clear to them to use pseudonyms. The original draft never mentioned Danvers. I protected your privacy. I swear.”

“It feels
really
protected right now.”

“I’m sorry … I …”

“Let me read it.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief. Yes. Yes, he could read her original version, and he’d understand that she’d used their story, but she’d protected their identities and written beautiful things about how they got to know each other, how they fell for each other, how his injuries had never mattered to her once she’d gotten to know him. “I’ll go get my laptop and show you my original—”

“No, I want to read what was printed this morning for the whole world to read.”

“But …” She swallowed. “They changed it a lot.”

His eyes challenged her. “The essence of what you wrote will still be there, won’t it?”

“Please don’t read it,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not what I wrote.”
Bogeyman. Teenage daughters.
She looked at the dignified, amazing man in front of her, and her heart bled for how he’d been portrayed. “It was hacked up. It’s not what I wrote. It’s not what I think of you. Of
us
.”

His eyes flashed with worry, then fury. “Get your laptop.
Now
, Savannah.”

She turned and walked from the kitchen, only to find Miss Potts sitting on the stairs.

“I don’t know how he’ll ever forgive you,” she said quietly as Savannah walked past.

“Neither do I,” said Savannah.
And I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive myself.

***

Asher felt her eyes on him the entire time he read the article. It was a fairly trashy piece, ramped up to be as sensational as possible. He was portrayed as a partially deranged Quasimodo, and she was painted as an all-American beauty who took pity on the beast.

Every time he read a snippet of their life together, he’d quietly conceal a gasp of surprise. The first time he reached for her hand between the two wingback chairs. Their first kiss.
The first time he said he was falling in love with her. The grove. Their car ride into the mountains. Watching
Shag
. Beating up Lance. Spending the weekend in Maryland. Telling him about Richard Harrow. It was all there. And the way it was told, she’d humanized an animal, fallen in love with his blatant imperfections. She was such a paragon of feminine virtue, she’d somehow managed to look beyond his disfigurement to see his heart. And there was a cloying happily-ever-after vibe to the whole piece that he resented:
He got his hand and face blown off, but oh, what a honey he has in his bed. Wink, wink.

Some of it made his breath catch because it reminded him of perfect moments with her, but then his face would tighten. The best moments of his life, splashed across the Lifestyles section of a newspaper, picked up on the newswire by every paper that wanted a tearjerker of a story for the holiday.

‘Beauty and the Beast’ with “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing in the background.

Whoever wrote that line has talent, he thought ruefully. He finished the article, which ended with Savannah’s hopes that a future was in the cards despite Asher’s severe agoraphobia and a face that caused children to scream.

The confusion and anger he felt toward her were so keen, so sharp, he wondered how to speak to her without saying unforgivable things. And he was in so much pain from her betrayal, from the way she’d used their beautiful story for fodder, he wondered how his guts were still inside his body. How were they not sprawled around for the world to see? Oh, that’s right. They were. He shut the laptop slowly until it latched with a quiet click.

“I didn’t write that,” she said softly, twisting her hands together.

“That’s funny.” He looked up at her. “It says you did.”

“Can I show you the original?”

He shook his head. “Don’t much feel like reading anymore.”

“Asher, we’re in this together. I swear, I’m as much a victim as you.”

His eyes shot up to meet hers, and he shook his head with a slow-burning fury. His heart clutched with pain because she was so beautiful and he loved her so much despite the humiliating, emasculating, betraying exposé. He pinpointed his anger and clung to it. “No, baby. You’re not. You had a choice. I didn’t.”

It was the first time he’d ever called her baby with anything but love, and she winced, while he remained carefully impassive.

“Asher, I can’t do anything about the fact that they printed it with our names, or how they butchered it with their edits to create caricatures rather than people. But can I please explain why I did it? Why I wrote that piece?”

He nodded, desperate that she say something—anything—that would allow him to understand, to still trust her, to still love her, to still have her in his life.

“I needed this story, Asher. I needed this chance after what happened with the Patrick Monroe story. I needed to prove myself. I needed to prove that I wasn’t just some talentless hack who got taken by a source. And you remember that day I came over and I told you that Maddox McNabb wanted sexy, and—”

“Stop!” Asher felt his face flush with heat. “Please be careful what you say next.”

“No, it’s okay. They wanted sexier, so—”

“So you screwed the cripple—the
bogeyman who attacks teenage girls in the dead of night.”

“Asher! Stop it!” Her face whipped back as though he’d smacked her. “No! God, no! I never wrote those words, and that’s
not
how it was. Don’t you
dare
use words like that about us.”

“What? Words that are
true
? Yeah. I can see how that would be uncomfortable for you.”

Tears brightened her eyes, and she closed her mouth, staring at him. Her breasts rose and fell quickly. She was breathing so fast, he could hear little sobs at the back of her throat, but he desperately tried to ignore them.

Something inside him was starting to hurt, and it felt strangely like it had during those first few months in San Antonio when he had to decide whether to live or die. And for a moment, when he looked at the situation and realized it was possible this entire beautiful relationship had been an act on her part, he
wanted
to die.

He took a deep breath and collected himself. Maybe she kept writing the IED story for weeks; maybe that
was
her story, and she’d changed it at the eleventh hour when they refused to print it.

“Okay,” he said, attempting a level voice. “Answer me one thing. How long have you known?”

“Known?”

“That this was your angle? That
we
were your angle and not the IED explosion and my unwelcome reception back to society?”

She must have known what he was getting at because her face fell. He wanted to know if their relationship began before or after the new angle. And yes, she was about to tell him that it had started after. He closed his eyes.