Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Knox thought sending them away would stop them from accessing Laken’s DNA, but he underestimated Isabelle and Ryan’s determination when it comes to justice for the innocent.
The blood they illegally took from Laken the day of my impromptu performance proved he wasn’t the father of Colette’s baby, but even they were shocked by the turn of events that unraveled after the federal officers stormed the rooftop.
They were there to arrest Laken.
And they begrudgingly did exactly that an hour after we landed in Ravenshoe.
Laken pled guilty to a crime he didn’t commit. Although the charges he admitted to the second time around were lower than the ones Knox and his father were about to face, there are legal ramifications when you lie to law enforcement officers.
The time Laken had served behind bars mercifully meant his newest conviction was more a formality than anything. His record was adjusted, and he tried to move on with his life, unaware any criminal record would hamper his ability to have River’s guardianship in his name.
He fought the courts for weeks, his victory only awarded when I put my name on the guardianship order he was endeavoring to get approved.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Nicole?” he asked that day, his shock blatantly obvious. “This means you’ll be stuck with me for eternity. Where River goes, I go. We’re a package deal.”
I nodded without pause for thought. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”
It hasn’t exactly been smooth sailing since then. We had an album to produce to ensure I could return the funds Knox obliterated from River’s trust when he paid off Laken’s mother, and the eyes of the world were on us.
We should have fallen flat on our faces.
Thankfully, creative minds feed off tension. In weeks, I had a songbook filled with pressure-cooker moments, and my relationship with Laken became unbreakable.
He didn’t mock my ideas or tell me they weren’t sellable while producing my album. He encouraged my growth as an artist and let my voice be heard with a wide range of genres.
My favorite genre is country pop. Almost every song I’ve released in the past year has risen to the top of the country music charts. But the song I performed tonight, the one I wrote about my sister, doesn’t slot into one genre. It’s a ballad—a symphony. A true example of love like the thumb Laken tracks across my cheeks to make sure they’re dry.
I always get teary-eyed when performing “It Should Have Been Him.”
“Are you okay?” Laken asks once he’s confident my cheeks are streak-free.
After twisting my lips, I sheepishly nod. “I think so.”
“Only think?” He guides me back to my seat, his walk not stalled by the paparazzi, who have learned the past eighteen months that they either move out of the way or Laken will force them to. He still sees himself as my bodyguard even with his title being officially upgraded to music executive. “What’s on your mind?”
In a dead-serious tone, I reply, “Frank and beans.”
Laken’s swallow is audible, but he remains quiet.
“And how many paparazzi I’ll need to bribe to keep them off the front pages of every gossip magazine in the country.”
When my elbow lands in his stomach, his boyish laugh does wild things to my insides. “Why am I getting blamed for this?” He continues talking before I can tell him that part of the guardianship order should include him not letting his little brother leave the house in skintight leather pants. “It’s your fault.”
“My fault? How is it my fault?” I lower my voice when we reach the audience eagerly awaiting the Artist of the Year announcement.
An award is the last thing on my mind when Laken tugs me back before he crowds me against the outer wall of the stage. He doesn’t kiss me or make me want to pretend the bleachers aren’t packed with the who’s who of the music world. He just stares into my eyes until my brain turns to mush before he whispers, “Because he thinks my frank and beans were what attracted you to me.”
I could point out all his other finer points.
I could stroke his ego like the announcement of my name for Artist of the Year for the second year in a row does mine.
But instead, I cock a brow and say, “Only thinks?”
The End!