Cullen slams on the brakes for a red light. My body lurches forward and catches on the seat belt.

“Excuse me?”

“Vega made you look like a Death Mob stalker. Created a level of suspicion you don’t want,” Cullen says, all serious.

His perception throws me. “You don’t know me or what I want,” I say, my back flattened against the passenger’s seat.

“Sure I do.” He turns toward me while I stay clenched, anticipating the light turning green. “You want the press to go away, which they’re not going to do. Like it or not, you have thousands of people desperate to read anything with your name in it.”

“You realize you’re contradicting yourself.”

“Don’t interrupt. You can bet the press will exploit a citywide audience like that. So either you give them something to talk about, or they’ll start digging.”

My nails claw into the leather. I fixate on the red signal and try to appear nonchalant. “I have nothing to hide.”

“You and I both know you have plenty to hide. But you still have control here.”

I glare at him from the corner of my eye. “What are you talking about?”

“Were you online last night at all? We’re a hit. I woke up with two hundred more followers than I had yesterday. Everyone loves us, and they want more. The press eats that stuff up.”

That’s exactly why I avoided the Internet. Blogs. Social media. Tabloid frenzy. I can only imagine how I’ve been portrayed, dissected, profiled. It’s enough to make me reconsider leaving my house. Ever. Again. And Cullen’s relishing it.

I watch the light, bracing myself for the moment he takes off. “You act like you’re doing this for me.”

“I am.”

“You like the attention.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’d do it for any girl at our school with sixteen camera crews camped in her front yard.” Cullen turns back to the road and the light, now green. He slams on the gas. The car peels off, and I jam my fists into the seat cushion, fighting to stay upright.

Cullen flashes a smile. “Or maybe I like you.”

I want to vomit. His intentions are one hundred percent self-serving. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Have you watched your sad attempts at lying? That bit about your reason for being on Navy Pier? You’re lucky I rescued you.”

I refuse to defend myself and give credit to his claim as Cullen swerves in and out of rush hour traffic on the two-lane road.

“Doesn’t matter why I’m doing it. It’s good PR.” He winks. “Which you could use after Vega’s interview.”

We jolt to a stop behind a line of cars and inch our way toward a busy four-way stop.

“Your dad knew how to handle the cameras. I’m sure you inherited some of it.”