Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“Hey.” I bring my brows together. “I wouldn’t say I’m exactly proud of my mediocre line dancing—”
“Stop it. You were great,” Nora says, turning her smile—the one that touches her eyes—on me.
My heart leaps. How in the world did I ever think she was making fun of me? She’s somehow managed to turn an embarrassing hobby into an asset instead of the liability I always believed it was.
She’s not a nightmare. She’s a fucking magician.
“Fine,” I say. “I wouldn’t say I’m proud of my excellent line dancing. But if you like Brooks & Dunn as much as you say you do, Brian, then I’m going to have to ask you to try it before you knock it. The Boot Scootin’ Boogie just might change your mind.”
Mike lets out a mean little laugh.
“You got a problem with line dancing, Mike?” Nora asks pointedly. “Maybe if you gave it a try, you’d actually get laid for once.”
My eyes go wide. I bite my lip to keep from guffawing, because I’m not sure how Brian’s going to react to Nora calling out his associate.
The guy she’s calling out for making fun of me.
Holy shit, is Nora Frasier actually defending me right now? In front of an incredibly important client? I sure as hell don’t deserve it, but a lightness takes hold in my center nonetheless.
Mike’s face goes red, but Brian only laughs. “She’s got a point, Mike.”
In reply, Mike slides his phone out of his pocket and says, “I’m going to get an Uber.”
“I’ll join you,” Brian says. He holds out his hand to Nora. “I’m not saying we’re back to business as usual, but I look forward to taking your calls.” He turns to me. “Yours too, Morgan. I appreciate you being upfront about everything. It shows real character. Maybe we catch a concert together at some point? I heard a rumor Trisha Yearwood’s going to join Garth for a tour.”
I take his hand and give it a solid shake. “I’ve always wanted to go to Stagecoach. Three days of country stars playing at the best outdoor venue in California sounds like heaven to me.”
“That could be fun,” Nora says, lighting up. “Especially if Maren Morris is playing. I’m dying to see her.”
“She’s great, isn’t she?” Brian says.
“My current favorite.”
Noted.
Brian and Mike leave to grab their Uber while Nora and I wait at the bar for the nightcap bill. It’s almost midnight—three a.m. our time—but I’m buzzing. Not so much from the drinks, but from a job well done.
From witnessing Nora slay it firsthand.
From being made to feel comfortable just as I am. No finance-bro bullshit necessary. Feels like freedom.
Freedom, and something sexier.
I feel wild.
“You killed it,” I say.
She looks up from signing the check. “Give yourself some credit, Morgan. You did pretty well too.”
“I merely held your purse so you could walk the red carpet.”
Her eyes soften. “Always Be My Maybe. You really like your romance, don’t you?”
“Three sisters,” I say with a shrug. “Never really had much of a choice. But I’m glad, because now I’m a huge Ali Wong fan.”
She scoffs, shaking her head as she turns back to the bill. “Of course you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t add up.”
I don’t know why the words land like an arrow in my chest, but they do. Maybe because I’m realizing that playing a role for the past decade and a half has taken a real toll.
Maybe because I want to share how hard it’s been, becoming someone else so I could provide for the people I love. Nora would get it. She really would, because she’s had to become someone else too to make it in this business.
I cover the ache with my fingers and say, “I’ll get us an Uber back to the hotel?” It’s the wildness blooming to life inside me that makes the words come out as a question rather than a statement.
I have no business extending our time together. I’m being reckless, I know that. Just like I know Nora is still gunning for the same promotion I am. She doesn’t have to be an enemy. But she can’t be a friend. She definitely can’t be more than a friend. Even if she is kind, and smart, and searching—she’s interested in what’s real. What’s true.
Which makes her annoying, and also hot as hell.
The woman is hot as hell.
I should feel relief when she closes the padded black folio and says, “An Uber would be great, thanks.”
But I don’t feel relief. My gut swims with disappointment as I tap the app with my thumb. What the fuck did I expect, her to invite me for a moonlit walk on the beach? Get real. This is a work dinner, not a date.
Still. Does she feel the tension between us when I slide into the back seat of the black car beside her and our knees touch? Does the charged silence between us make her pulse kick up a notch too?