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)
“I’m referring to your daughter, Elara,” she finished and I instantly relaxed. Of course, she was talking about Elara. Duh.
“Rayne was with me the night my daughter was born and she’s been a part of her life ever since.” He took my hand and squeezed affectionately. “I’m very grateful that my daughter has such a kind and loving role model in her life. Elara and Rayne have an excellent relationship.”
“Do you think of yourself as Elara’s mother, Rayne?”
This woman had no qualms about getting personal. “I love Elara as if she were my own.”
“And how does her biological mother play into your arrangement?”
Her question was met with dead silence. Hale’s PR people knew what topics were permitted and which ones were off-limits. No way this woman wasn’t provided a list before the interview.
Everyone knew Hale didn’t have a baby alone. But no one suspected he wasn’t Elara’s birth father. Dropping any mention of Jasmine into conversation would forever be the equivalent of a church fart. Something everyone knew was there but most were too polite to discuss or acknowledge.
Frankie, however, just stopped the sermon to play a game of Smelt It Dealt It.
Hale wore a serene expression of professional indifference. But he was not unaffected by the mention of his ex. That impenetrable mask was harder than armor and only appeared when he was about to go to war.
Casually, he leaned forward and kept his voice low so Frankie also had to lean closer. In a cool but lethal tone, he whispered, “Stray from the approved questions again, and this interview is over—and so is your career. Do we understand each other?”
Her dark eyes widened as she looked up at Hale with palpable regret. “Y—yes, sir.”
I exhaled, knowing there would be no more lines crossed at this table. Frankie might be cool, but no one was cooler than Hale. And if there was one thing Hale took very seriously, it was protecting those he loved.
The conversation turned to wedding plans and Hale kept his answers brief, stating that we were getting married on the East Coast in a non-disclosed location and the guest list would be extensive and exclusively high society.
I could tell Frankie wanted in on that action, but after her mention of Elara’s birth mom, there was no way she was getting a press pass.
Ugh. The actual term press pass in association with my wedding day turned my stomach.
When the topic turned to business, Hale was truly in his element. The man could talk about water turbines for days.
I was looked to for simple responses and, honestly, I preferred it that way. If anything, this interview taught me just how uncomfortable and unprepared I was for a life in the limelight.
When that microphone finally came off my lapel I was relieved. Apparently, this was all very normal in the sphere of affluence. Billionaires didn’t just do save-the-dates—they did press junkets and publicity tours.
The article would run sometime next week and the payout Hale’s people had negotiated was substantial—more than the cost of an ordinary wedding, but probably just the tip on the bar bill at a monstrosity the size of ours.
As soon as we were allowed to change I rushed back to the dressing room and stripped out of the jumpsuit like it was on fire. I tore the thong off and sighed with relief. My poor lady bits were swollen and sore.
Champagne sat in a bucket of ice on the vanity. I grabbed the bottle, choking it by the neck, and shoved the chilled glass between my legs. “Yahahahah.” I shivered with relief.
Thongs were clearly built for speed rather than comfort. From now on, I was sticking to my ergonomic granny panties.
When I left the dressing room in street clothes with my hair still done and my makeup still on, I felt oddly out of place. I could have washed my face and brushed out the hairspray, but I just wanted to go home. That was until I spotted the table at the opposite end of the hall.
I swear, angels sang and trumpets roared, then I was levitating on a cloud and being carried directly to the enormous display of desserts.
I’d been debating my diet a lot lately, strictly in my head, of course, but I found myself in a constant struggle of hunger versus bride. There was no law saying brides had to be a certain size, but the more I looked at photographs from high-profile weddings the more I realized most wives had waistlines the size of my thigh.
I’d been strongly considering asking Elle to train me into shape after all. But making such a request felt like signing up for an unnecessary root canal.
I stared down at the platter of cookies longingly, knowing there was also a tray of vegetables on the table. Shortbreads, macarons, biscotti, chocolate chip—they were all calling my name. I glanced at the celery and broccoli. The vegetables were strangely silent. Then I was distracted by a tower of cannoli.