Total pages in book: 196
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
Ah. He wants a decoy while he’s half in and half out of the closet. It’s a small price to pay in exchange to live in a nice house and have a man in mine and Lyric’s life, even if only as a friend.
“I guess I can do that. Will you do the same for me if I need a good-looking guy on my arm?” Finally, I could have a date for the company holiday party.
“Hell, yeah.”
“What if you get involved with someone and want them to move in? Nobody is going to want to live here with me and a three-year-old and a dog and a cat.”
He blows out a breath and shakes his head. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about. I have no plans of getting involved or wanting to live with someone for a long time, trust me.”
“What if I meet someone?”
As if.
“If you’re dating someone and you want to hang out here, I’m totally down with that. I don’t want anyone moving in, though. If you get to that point, you’d have to find a place.”
“That’s fair,” I agree. “Can I think about it for a few days? This is a lot to absorb.”
“Sure. I’m not going anywhere.”
I already know I’m going to say yes, though. Josh is handing me the perfect situation on a silver platter: a fake boyfriend that I can hide behind while I wait for Blue to come back.
Chapter Twenty
2003
“What are the chances we can have those new ad layouts by noon?”
I spin my chair around to face Dave, a thirty-something, average-looking account manager who’s leaning casually against the doorframe of my office, wearing a smile on his face like he didn’t just ask to completely derail my day.
“You know damn well I just got out of the Monday morning status meeting, Dave. You were there. That only gives me two hours to go through all these changes.” I gesture to the project folder on my desk that has about fifty red sticky flags poking out of it.
“Don’t kill the messenger. Production is pushing us to belt this out today. Do what you can.” He walks off before I can rattle off a list of reasons why this process shouldn’t be rushed.
“Dammit,” I swear under my breath, wheel my chair across my office to open the window for some fresh air, then scoot back to my desk to tackle this new deadline. I switch on my desk radio to my favorite station and dive into the layout change list.
As stressful as my job can be, I love everything about it. I’m never bored, and the time flies by—a massive difference from when I worked as a receptionist, which seems like forever ago. I sing along softly to the radio as I work, glancing at the clock every so often to gauge the likelihood of me finishing by noon. So far, things are going smoothly.
I’m leaning over one of the documents, trying to decipher someone’s incredibly scribbly handwriting, when a rock ballad playing on the radio rips my attention away. Dropping my pen, I snap my head up and raise the volume a little.
“Slayer of my heart,
Wish of my soul….”
Goosebumps spread over my arms, and my pulse beats rapidly in my veins as I stare at the tiny speaker in a state of disbelief.
I know those words. I know the sound of that guitar.
And I would know that voice—that unique, gravelly, sexy voice—anywhere.
Blue…
With my breath caught in my chest, I listen intently to the lyrics, and the voice, that captivated me so long ago, to the melody I still play on that tiny music box. Hot tears sting my eyes as the song nears the end, and I silently beg the DJ to come on and announce the band and song name.
“That was the new hit single ‘Slayer of My Heart’ by No Tomorrow that climbed to the top of the charts last week.”
Holy. Shit.
My entire body is shaking from shock, and my heart is thumping wildly in my chest. This is real. Like really, really, real. I’m not suffering from some kind of stressed-out Monday morning hallucination. I just heard Blue—my Blue—on the radio, singing and playing guitar. And not just any song, but a song he told me he wrote for me. About me. The DJ just called it a hit single, on the top of the charts.
The edges of my vision blur as I stare at the radio. This is surreal. Like a dream. My head feels like a balloon—empty and floating off into a place so far out of reality that I can’t reach it.
I press my fingers into my temples and close my eyes.
I take a deep breath.
A pop song comes on the radio next—a song that’s on my aerobics playlist.
It grounds me somewhat. Brings me back from the shock.