"What's going on?" Britney lowered her window halfway and looked ahead; the Hilton Hotel entrance was choked with a crawling line of cars. "A jam this long?"
The driver peered forward. "Seems there's an event at the hotel today.
Britney glanced at her watch, anxiety flashing across her face. She muttered under her breath, "Matthew's waiting! We're already past the agreed time!"
They haven't seen each other in ages. After finally rushing back to Los Angeles from out of town, they'd arranged to meet at the Beverly Hills Hilton—only for a major function to clog the small plaza and driveway with cars.
Another five minutes crawled by. Unable to wait any longer, Britney shoved the door open. "I'll go on ahead and see," she told the driver.
"Miss Spears..."
Before the driver could finish, Britney was out and the door slammed shut.
She'd left in such a hurry she hadn't grabbed sunglasses or a sun-hat. Though it was only nine a.m., the sun was scorching, stoking her irritation. Luckily she'd been clutching a parasol; she flicked it open and started toward the hotel. She'd gone barely forty meters when someone behind her seemed to call her name.
"Britney..." a man's voice rang out. "Britney, over here!"
Instinctively she turned. An SUV's window slid down, a camera lens poked out, and the click of shutters rattled off.
Realizing she'd run into paparazzi—or reporters—Britney spun to leave.
The reporter aboard couldn't believe his luck: Britney herself outside the Hilton. A few shots weren't worth much; she'd been touring nonstop, her photos everywhere.
But he was quick. Recalling last year's headline feud between Britney and Christina Aguilera, he shouted, "Britney, Christina Aguilera won Best New Artist and Best Female Pop Vocal at the last Grammy—what do you think?"
The barb struck home, lethal and dripping scorn. Britney halted, whirled, and marched toward his car.
Heat, frustration, and the reporter's taunt snapped her last thread of control.
Britney folded her parasol, glanced at its pointed metal tip, then at the car ahead, ready to teach the man a lesson—"Miss Spears!"
A familiar roar cut through the air. Recognizing Matthew's voice, she froze. A man in ordinary sunglasses was sprinting over.
Matthew had hit the same jam; he'd parked his second-hand ford in a nearby lot and jogged the rest of the way. Spotting Britney's car, he'd asked her driver and hurried after her—just in time to stop her.
Head down, he rushed in like a bodyguard, shielding Britney and steering her toward the hotel. One look at him and she forgot all about revenge.
"Damn it!" the reporter cursed. "That idiot was about to bite, then some goddam bodyguard shows up!"
He still raised his camera, snapping their retreating backs—those shots might sell.
"Shh..." Matthew signaled for quiet.
Thinking he was joking, Britney pressed her lips shut and followed him inside.
"Why'd you come from behind?" she asked, gazing up at him as he led her to the elevators. "Traffic. I parked and walked."
An elevator arrived; she stepped in beside him.
"Same here—so annoying," she said.
Remembering the scene, he asked, "What just happened, babe?"
"That reporter bad-mouthed me! Said Christina Aguilera snagged two Grammys..."
She recounted every detail, including what she'd nearly done.
The doors opened on their floor. His suite was just steps away; conversation died. The moment they were inside, they tore at each other's clothes.
Too long apart, they swiftly erased every inch of distance between them.
From morning till dinner, they never left the Room, venting longing in the rawest, wildest way.
At last, drained, they showered and collapsed on the suite's sofa, trading stories of the past months.
In half a year, their time together had never matched today's.
Talk drifted back to the incident outside.
"That reporter was vile!" Britney still fumed. "If you hadn't stopped me, I'd have shown him!"
Matthew frowned. Reporters who bait stars are scum, yet Britney's impulses often baffled even him.
He laced his fingers through hers. "Darling, ever think what tomorrow's headlines would've been if you'd jabbed him with that umbrella?"
She lounged against him, shaking her head. "Nope. I just wanted him hurt."
Exasperated yet patient, he said, "Think about it now."
"Hmm..." She blinked her bright eyes. "He'd have photos, and tomorrow's papers would scream about it?"
"Exactly." He kissed her forehead. "Media everywhere would shred the image and reputation you've built. Some would even scheme to ruin you."
To most people Britney's logic was unfathomable. She shot upright. "Christina Aguilera would jump at it! That witch is here for the MTV awards—I know she's staying in this hotel!"
Matthew nodded. Before he could speak she demanded, "Was that reporter working for her?"
"Whoever's pulling strings," he cut in, dragging the topic back, "you'd have brought big trouble on yourself."
She pouted. "So what should I do?"
He stroked her golden hair. "Ignore them. Don't let a reporter's bait hook you."
"But..." she looked up, "their questions are infuriating."
"They're just clowns worshipping a queen." He didn't want her falling for such tricks again. "You're royalty. Why look at clowns? A queen only needs to show her proudest, most beautiful side."
Britney pondered. "I think I get it."
Relief washed over him—he'd outdone himself.
"Don't worry." Understanding dawned; she kissed him. "I won't let reporters rile me anymore."
She rose to find clothes. "Let's eat—I'm starving."
Matthew dressed too. "Steak here's supposed to be good—let's try the second-floor grill."
They took the elevator down. The restaurant was half-empty; most tables sat vacant. He chose a spot by the glass wall, ordered for them both, then his phone rang.
It was Helen Herman—work. Excusing himself, he stepped to a quiet corner near the restrooms.
Helen told him the fast & furious Crew had emailed: in a few days he'd start training with them.
"Got it."
He hung up, used the restroom, and returned—only to find a long-haired blonde seated at their table, locked in a death-glare standoff with Britney.