Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“After all these years, I knew you’d come back to me.”
I hug her, laughing as her purple hair swishes past my cheeks. “I’ve been gone less than a year.”
“I measure time like a dog. In Helen years, it’s been forever,” she says, then lets go, only to hold my face and pinch my cheeks. “Are you well? Eating enough? You’re quite trim and toned, but be sure to eat some scones now and then, love.”
“Scones hate me.”
“Scones love everyone,” she says, smiling warmly. “I’ve been making plans for my Oscar watch party. Have you got your speech done yet? It’s in two weeks. You need to be ready for when you get that statue.”
I won’t listen to her and tempt fate. “I haven’t written a speech because I won’t win.”
“Nonsense. You have my vote.” She swings her gaze around the store. “Now, are you looking for something for your fabulous man?”
I love that she figured me out just like that. “I am,” I say, and it’s such a relief to be out of the public eye and in the haven of Angie’s. I’m not stressed one bit about my image with Helen. “If you have a shirt his size with fox illustrations, I’ll pretty much love you forever.”
She bops me on the nose. “You already love me forever, but as it happens, I do have a shirt just like that.” She beckons me to a rack by the dressing room. “Come along.”
“You’re a goddess, Helen.”
“The goddess of scrummy clothes for scrummy men.” She stops at a rack, flicks through shirt after endless variety of shirt, then grabs a yellow one emblazoned with tiny cartoon foxes, tails held high.
I can’t even handle its hipster perfection. TJ will lose his mind. “I’m in love. I’ll take it,” I say.
“Good. Now, tell me everything,” she says as we return to the counter and chat.
I catch her up on the details of my life—from moving to New York to reconnecting with TJ to our trip to Vegas. “And then he made this private Instagram account for us.” I grab my mobile and show her our pics. “Want me to send you the link?”
“Obviously. I’ll be checking it every day. I consider myself your matchmaker,” she says, then blows on her fingernails. “And I’ll be taking credit at your wedding.”
I jerk back, hold up a stop-sign hand. “No one is talking marriage.”
She laughs sagely. “Not yet, but someday. He’s the one for you and you’re the one for him . . . as I’m sure you let him know every day.”
I gulp, chagrined.
He is the one for me. But I haven’t said those words in no uncertain terms. “I will tell him,” I say tentatively, bracing myself for the blowback.
Helen tugs on my earlobe. “Shame on you. You must tell him. Life is short. You eat the chocolate. Get the shirt. Tell the man he’s yours.”
Those are some words to live by.
I’ll start with the shirt.
On Friday morning, Slade whisks me to the Savoy Hotel for an early Q and A. Reporters fire off questions about the movie, the Oscars, Unfinished Business.
But also . . . TJ.
You were supposed to be on this tour with him. Everything okay?
What’s the latest with you and the author?
You were inseparable for a while, and now you’re separable?
His work on the script is under wraps, so I keep my answers vague but truthful. “Everything’s great with TJ.”
“Rumor is you’ve broken up. Care to comment?” one man asks.
Before I can reply, another reporter shouts, “Yeah, what’s the real reason he’s not here?”
I haven’t been this anxious in ages. I steal a glance at Slade in the front row. He pastes on a big grin. Smile and wave.
But I don’t smile. I tackle the obnoxious question head-on.
“I assure you we didn’t break up. Everything is fantastic. In fact, it’s never been better,” I say, fueled by the memories of Vegas and my dreams for this coming weekend. “He has a deadline and needed to work on his book. He’s incredibly supportive of me. So, I wanted to be supportive of him.”
There. All completely true.
Slade stares sternly at me, shut up written all over his face. But I wanted to answer honestly, and I don’t regret what I said.
Another reporter presses on. “But he’s been seen in Los Angeles. He lives in New York. William and Christian live in LA.”
It’s a slap in the face. That’s where honesty gets me.
Behind the podium, I clench and unclench my fists. “The great thing is he can write from anywhere,” I say, injecting cheer into my tone.
“Why not here, then? With you?” the reporter continues.
Why do they care so much? It’s like I’m naked on stage, the way they pick apart every word.
Slade strides to the front of the room, cups his mouth, and booms in his big voice, “One more question is all we have time for, folks.”