Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
“No one thinks that.”
I leveled him with a stare. “Hale.”
“Fine. But they don’t know you. And they don’t know me. They only know what my PR team and publicity handlers have intentionally chosen to show them. And I prefer it that way.”
“So, was it your PR team that shared the picture of me in the purple hoodie and told them to call me Grimace?”
“I’m not talking about that crap.”
“Well, that crap is why the world sees me as the embodiment of a purple milkshake.” I rubbed my temples, convinced these professional photos would undergo the same level of scrutiny.
It had always been Remington in the news and Barrett blasted across social media, but never Hale. He was always the low-key one in the background, the tall silent type everyone missed. Now, I felt like I had to mark my territory before droves of gold-diggers showed up to steal the other hot Davenport son.
But I had him first. And I wasn’t one for competition—mostly because I usually lost. “I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“What are you saying? I thought we both agreed we were ready for the next step. This is us.”
“No, I’m ready to marry you. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“This.” I waved a hand at the expensive equipment. “Who are we? I don’t even recognize myself. And why is everyone so obsessed with you lately?”
The side of his mouth kicked up. “Because you make me a more desirable man. It’s not about me. It’s the beautiful woman at my side.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and rubbed my hands in his. “Baby, they’re intrigued by our chemistry. Let them obsess over what they can’t possibly understand. You get it and I get it. That’s all that counts.”
His words eased a bit of the pressure in my chest. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s you, baby. I’m far from perfect, and no one expects you to be perfect, but you and me…” He kissed my hands bundled in his. “We’re perfect for each other.”
“Right there. Don’t move.” The photographer rushed in with his camera and snapped several shots as I looked adoringly at the man I love beyond my heart’s usual capabilities.
I didn’t have pretty words to say back, and I was grateful that we were told not to move so there was no expectation for me to speak. But in my heart and in my head I made many promises. I vowed to love this man with every ounce of my being and then I made a mental promise to blow his doors off that night.
After the photo shoot, we were taken to a glass studio with a stark white conference table shaped like a boomerang with orange chairs. The overhead lights were clinically bright. Mugs of water were brought out, and we were told to wait for makeup.
“Why do we need more makeup? Isn’t this a print interview?” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, pretty sure this thong was giving my vagina rug burn.
“They’re just covering their bases.”
My toes were numb and I wanted out of these shoes. “What does that mean?”
Before Hale could answer we were both fitted with little paper capes to protect our clothing—the kind they used at the dentist's office.
Symone touched up my lip gloss as a man attached a tiny microphone to the lapel of my suit. Then a camera rolled close to the table.
“Hale,” I whispered, fully aware that we were mic’d. “Are they recording this?”
He appeared completely at ease while I did camera math in my head. If the television added ten pounds and there were currently three cameras pointed at me like sniper weapons, how did that translate to smartphones and why the fuck were they videoing a print interview?
“Did we negotiate this?”
“It’s a part of the option. They want to market the article on social media. That requires videoed soundbites and clips.”
“But they’re not airing the entire thing, right?”
“Correct. Only the good parts.”
Or the embarrassing parts, I feared. My mouth was suddenly dry and the water in my cup was already warm from the overhead lights.
I squirmed, the lace strap of the thong buried between my labia like a cheese slicer carving through a wheel of brie. By the time this was over I was going to need to ice my cooch for an hour.
“Are we about ready to begin?” A young woman appeared, moving quickly to take her seat at the table.
She wore multiple earrings, an edgy vintage T-shirt screen printed with an old Rancid label, and a black blazer. Lowering into the vacant chair, she crossed her legs in a hip fashion that screamed youth and plenty of time for yoga in her life.
I instantly knew she was cooler than me. And while she appeared only a few years younger, she was so at ease in her retro eyeglasses and onyx nail polish, that I subconsciously blamed her for why women in their thirties were now called ma’am.