Chapter 154
Nora's POV
Me: Don't believe everything you read. He almost crashed into me during the game and the photos are from weird angles. That's it.
Julian: I know.
Julian: Doesn't mean I'm thrilled about the internet deciding you're his new girlfriend.
Despite everything, I felt my mouth curve upward.
Me: Are you jealous?
Julian: Of a twenty-year-old? Please.
Julian: ...Maybe a little.
I laughed out loud.
Me: He's a kid. Sweet, but a kid.
Julian: Good. Keep it that way.
I started to type a reply, but my phone rang before I could finish. Julian's name flashed across the screen.
I answered, suddenly breathless. "Hi."
"Hi." His voice was low, rough in a way that made my pulse quicken. "I wanted to hear your voice."
"You're hearing it now."
"Yeah." There was a rustling sound, like he was settling into a chair. "Tell me about your day. The real version, not the sanitized text version."
So I did. I told him about the game, Andrew's spectacular save and the near-disaster, the medical office and the dinner invitation, and Benjamin's enthusiasm for networking. I mentioned the Instagram post, trying to keep my tone light and unbothered.
"It's just gossip," I said. "It'll blow over in a day or two."
"Maybe." Julian didn't sound convinced. "But if it doesn't—if anyone gives you trouble—you tell me. Immediately."
"Julian—"
"I'm serious, Nora. I don't care if I'm in ten hours of meetings a day. You call me."
The protectiveness in his voice made my chest tighten. "Okay. I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He exhaled slowly. "Good."
We talked for another twenty minutes—about nothing and everything.
"I miss you," I finally said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
"I miss you too." His voice softened. "Pathetically."
"How pathetically?"
"I stared at your photo on the plane for ten minutes. Ethan had to physically take my phone away."
I laughed, warmth flooding through me. "That is pretty pathetic."
"I know." He sounded pleased. "What are you doing right now?"
"Lying on the couch. Procrastinating editing photos."
"Go to bed, baby. You sound exhausted."
"I will. Soon."
"Now," he said firmly. "I'll stay on the line until you're settled."
I rolled my eyes but stood up anyway, wincing as my ribs protested. "Bossy."
"You like it."
He wasn't wrong.
I went upstairs, phone pressed to my ear, Julian humming something under his breath—some old song I didn't recognize. By the time I'd changed into pajamas and climbed into bed, my eyelids were heavy.
---
Over the next three days, the Instagram post kept circulating. It didn't go viral—just... persistent. Every time I thought it had died down, someone would repost it or add their own commentary.
On Wednesday, a second photo surfaced—this one from the team dinner. The shot showed me and Andrew sitting side by side, both laughing at something off-camera. Whoever posted it had cropped Benjamin completely out of the frame, making it look like a date.
The caption read: "Basketball star and NPR reporter getting cozy after the game. Sources say they exchanged numbers. 👀🔥"
I screenshotted it, added it to my evidence folder, then muted the notifications and tried to focus on work.
By Friday afternoon, I'd almost forgotten about the photos entirely. I was in the editing bay, fine-tuning a segment about local flood recovery efforts, when Vincent poked his head through the door.
"Hey. Someone's here to see you downstairs."
I frowned. "For me?"
"Yeah. A group of teenage girls. They specifically asked for you."
My stomach sank.
---
I found them on the steps outside the NPR building—four or five girls, maybe fourteen or fifteen, all wearing matching T-shirts with Andrew's number on them. They huddled together, pointing at the entrance and whispering.
When I walked out, the tallest one—a blonde with a high ponytail and about six friendship bracelets on each wrist—immediately locked eyes with me.
"Are you Nora Grey?" she demanded.
"Yes." I kept my voice neutral, professional. "Can I help you?"
"Stay away from Andrew."
The other girls nodded in agreement, their expressions ranging from hostile to smug.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
The blonde stepped forward, holding up her phone. The Instagram post glowed on the screen. "We know what you're doing. Trying to use him for attention. He's twenty years old and you're, what, pushing thirty?"
"Twenty-four," I corrected automatically.
"Whatever. You're too old for him." She crossed her arms. "We're not going to let you manipulate him just because you're some reporter. Andrew belongs to his fans. To us. So back off."
Another girl chimed in shrilly: "Yeah! We've been following him since middle school. You don't even know him!"
I stared at them, caught between disbelief and exhaustion. They were kids. Literal children, standing on the steps of my workplace, threatening me over a basketball player I'd met once.
"Listen," I said slowly, "I understand you're passionate about Andrew. But those photos are misleading. He and I are not dating. We're not even friends. He almost crashed into me during a game, we had an apology dinner with the team, and that's it."
The blonde narrowed her eyes. "Then why did you exchange Instagrams?"
"Because he asked? It's polite?"
"Convenient excuse."
I felt my patience starting to fray. "I don't need an excuse. I don't owe you an explanation for my professional conduct."
"Professional," the blonde scoffed. "Right. So you're smiling at him in all the photos."
"Because I was being polite!"
"You're a liar." Her voice rose, drawing attention from a few passersby. "Everyone knows older women go after younger men because they're easier to control. You probably think Andrew is some naive kid you can manipulate—"
"Okay, stop." I held up a hand, my voice sharp enough to cut through her tirade. "First of all, I'm twenty-four, not forty. Second, I have zero romantic interest in Andrew. Third—" I paused, letting my gaze sweep over the group, "—shouldn't you be in school right now?"
The blonde faltered. "It's Friday afternoon—"
"It's 2:30 PM." I pulled out my phone and held it up, displaying the time. "Most high schools don't let out until at least 3:00. So either you're skipping class to come here, or your school has the most lenient attendance policy in the state."
A few of the girls exchanged panicked glances.
"That's what I thought." I crossed my arms. "Here's some free advice: if you're going to skip school to harass a stranger, at least pick a better target. Someone who's actually done something wrong."
The blonde's face flushed.