LOL: Laugh Out Loud (After Oscar, #2)(6)

But first, I had to make sure neither of us got arrested. I returned my focus to the cop. “I’m so sorry to be causing such trouble for you today, Officer Maltman,” I said, reading the name tag quickly before shaking the officer’s hand. “I’m sure you have much better things to do than press charges against this poor man. We can hardly blame him for racing away from the pursuing crowd of reporters,” I said, tilting my head toward the swarm of photographers and people holding up phone cameras. “I’m sure he was concerned for his safety.”

The carriage driver—Scotty—balked. Twin spots of red rose in his cheeks, making him look even more adorable. “What? Are you freaking—”

I cut him off with a look. “Besides, he was being compensated by the production company. I’m sure they have all the proper paperwork in hand.” While Oscar was no miracle worker, he was a sly fox when he needed to be. I was sure he was already on top of things in the background, Paulo or not.

The officer looked unsure. “But—”

I spotted an angry-looking man approaching us with a no-nonsense expression on his face. He seemed to be Officer Maltman’s superior because Officer Maltman began kissing ass. “Captain Baker, this is—”

“I know who this is. Mr. Burke, sorry for the misunderstanding. You’re free to go. Officer Maltman, why don’t you give Mr. Burke a ride to his set so we can start clearing the crowd away?”

The officer shrugged and started toward his car. I smiled at the captain and opened my mouth to thank him, but he stopped me before I could get it out.

“I think we can both agree it’s in our best interest to call this a misunderstanding and get the hell out of here, correct?” he said low enough that he couldn’t be overheard by the press.

I blinked. “Yes, sir,” I immediately responded. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Good day.” He began to walk away, but I stopped him.

“And the carriage driver?” I asked, sneaking a peek at the young man in the gray scarf who’d ferried me through the city streets. “I would hate for him to get into trouble because—”

The captain turned to the young man. “Mr. Pinker, you’re free to go. Your medallion owner would like a word with you at the stables.”

Scotty’s face dropped, the color in his cheeks draining. He spun and climbed back into the carriage without saying a word. His entire demeanor had changed. I wanted to call after him, but I was acutely aware of the cameras snapping. I didn’t need to drag him into my mess, and if I made a big production of going after him, that’s exactly what I’d be doing. Instead I made a mental note to have Oscar follow up with him to make sure he didn’t get in trouble.

I followed Officer Maltman to his car and was just climbing into the passenger seat when one of the reporters broke through the line of cops trying to hold them back. “Mr. Burke, is this at all related to Polly Macari’s claim that she’s carrying your love child?”

I froze and snapped my head around, trying to find out where the question had come from. It was breaking the cardinal rule that one should never feed the paparazzi, but I couldn’t help it. The question had come out of nowhere.

Before I could locate the reporter, another one called out, “You look surprised. According to her agent’s press release a few minutes ago, you’re the father of her child. Are you denying her claim?”

Surprised was an understatement. What the hell was Polly thinking? A press release? Claiming I was the father of her child?

She and I hadn’t even dated for fuck’s sake. Much less slept together. In what world would Polly and I have a “love” child?

But I knew better than to say anything. All my years of public relations training to keep a neutral face were put to the test as I schooled myself not to react. If Polly had told the world I was the father of her unborn child, there had to be a reason. And it had better be a good one.

I just needed to find out what it was before saying anything publicly. “No comment,” I ground out between clenched teeth before slipping back into the cop car.





3





Scotty - Two Weeks Later





Sorrel Spotted Stalking SoHo!



I hated alliteration with the heat of a thousand suns. As I strode up West End Avenue in the predawn hours, I tried not to notice the stupid tabloid headline screaming at me from every newsstand. You’d think two weeks would be long enough for everyone to forget about my little jaunt through the park with Roman Burke, but apparently not. And every single headline was a reminder of just how much my life had been fucked the day that man jumped into my carriage.

When I finally found the brownstone I was looking for—which wasn’t difficult since a handful of die-hard paparazzi were camped out in front of it—I wrapped Nugget’s lead around the handrail and raced up the few steps to the front door before pounding on the thick wood with my fist.

“Open up, asshole!” I barked. I gave exactly zero shits about what his neighbors thought, or the photographers for that matter.

I found the doorbell and laid on it with my thumb, pressing in and out over and over until it was time to bang my fists on the door again. My steel-toed boots found the kickplate and taught it a few lessons too. This motherfucking asshole was going to answer to me.