Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
But sometimes, letting someone else do it is like catching a whole new side of yourself. A side of you that other people see, which you maybe hadn’t even noticed yourself.
“You’re a wizard,” I murmur.
Over my shoulder, Marcel laughs. “Please. I had a lovely canvas.” Then he swats my shoulder. “Let’s get going before your Prince Charming has my head for making you late.”
My stomach tightens again at the reminder. But fortified by Marcel’s handiwork, a fresh face of makeup, and with his words buoying me—it’s time for Lark to win over his future—I feel a little bit readier than I did before.
Outside the dressing room, the studio has exploded into a whirlwind of activity. Camera crews, set design, and assistants hurry back and forth in every direction, heels and steel-toed boots alike clacking across the wooden flooring. Someone set up a buffet table near the main stage, laden with pastries and fruit, along with several carafes of coffee. Just the sight of food makes my stomach do an unpleasant backflip.
But then I catch sight of who’s standing beside it, and that backflip turns into something more like a washing machine tumble cycle. My whole body switches to high gear, churning.
Marcel doesn’t wait for me to recover. He leads me by the elbow to the corner of the snack table where Lark is waiting, and then he announces, “I’ve got to go talk to the stage manager,” and vanishes.
Lark looks good. Better than I remember, even, which is saying something. Because I’ve had a lot of very detailed fantasies about him in the days since we parted.
He’s dressed in a suit, his tie done up, and his hair freshly swept to one side, beard shaved close. But when I look closely, I catch signs of distress. Faint reddish lines in the whites of his eyes, and a hint of a shadow beneath them, like he hasn’t been sleeping well.
I blink, realizing I’m staring, but that’s okay. Because he’s doing the same thing. Gazing at me like I’m some kind of apparition, or a puzzle he can’t quite work out.
“Hey,” I say, after an awkwardly long pause.
“Cassidy…” But whatever he’s about to say is cut off when a woman appears at his shoulder.
“We’re about ready for her, if you’re done prepping,” she says. Then she’s gone, as quickly as she appeared, and I notice her drifting toward Marcel. Stage manager, I guess.
I expect Lark to just listen to her and lead me up on stage to the chair where I’m about to give a live television interview—and damn him, that should be the most exciting thing for me right now, I should be thrilled about it, excited about it, losing my mind with nerves about it.
Instead, all I can think about is that he smells the same. A deep, almost smoky scent, cologne mingled with a salty note that’s all him.
He steps closer, raises a hand as if to brush my shoulder, and sparks ignite throughout my body, before he even so much as touches me. He lets his hand fall again, and disappointment dampens that rush of sparks. “Can we talk?” Lark asks quietly. “After the interview. Please?”
Maybe it’s the quiet desperation in his eyes. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve been wanting the same thing. At the very least, a chance to hear the truth. To say my piece, too, and to let him know that I’m not the kind of girl who plays second fiddle to anybody.
Or the kind of person who breaks up marriages, either.
“Okay,” I murmur. Just one word, but it brightens his whole countenance. His eyes light up, and the corners of his mouth lift in the first thing approaching a smile that I’ve seen from him yet.
It almost makes me feel guilty. Almost.
Then a few more stagehands appear to wave me toward my chair, and I lift my hand in a weak little farewell, and let them sweep me off to the interview.
All the while, as I go, I can feel Lark’s gaze burning into my back. And somehow, I get the feeling that whenever I turn my head during this interview, I’ll catch sight of him watching me the entire time.
I would have thought that would make me even more nervous, but as I settle myself in a little pouf on stage and wait for one of the world’s most famous models to join me… it actually feels reassuring. At least I know there’s one person in this studio watching who’s here for me, and not the other famous people I’m sharing the stage with. And regardless of whatever happened between us outside of this room, I know that in here, at least, when it comes to my business?
Lark has my back. Always.
On stage, I settle into the middle big pouf of a chair. Supermodel Jackie Shell will be on one side of me, and the host will be on my other side. The lights are brighter than I expected, and they feel warm on my cheeks—or maybe that’s just my own blood rushing to my face in anticipation.