Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
"My life is a shitshow," I explain. "No matter where I go, someone wants something—photos, autographs, a quote. I walk down the fucking street back home, and I'm in the paper the next day. I thought if no one knew I was here, we could skip all that. I could convince her to fall in love with me, and she never had to see firsthand how insane it gets."
"If you want to be with her, she's going to see it eventually," Lilah says.
"I had a plan."
"Oh, this should be good," Jazz mutters. "Let's hear it."
I sigh heavily, pretty sure she's going to crucify me when she hears it. I see it written all over her face. "The plan was to wait until after I announced my retirement to be seen publicly. I figured by then, no one would give a shit, and they'd leave her alone. But I never bothered to ask her what she needed. I just decided for her that it was better for her that way."
Jazz and Lilah exchange a glance that says I'm an idiot. Which…fair. I am an idiot. We've already established that. Now, I need to fix it.
"You're retiring?" Lilah finally asks.
"Yeah."
"Does she know?"
I shake my head. "I might have fucked that up too."
Jazz sighs, rolling her eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Be nice," Lilah mutters.
"He made her cry. I don't have to be nice."
"I'm trying to fix it."
"How?" Jazz asks, still looking at me like she's trying to decide how best to make my life hell.
"I need a tux, for starters. And a ticket to the literacy gala tonight."
Jazz and Lilah stare at me and then look at each other.
"Should we help him?" Lilah finally asks Jazz.
"Depends." Jazz turns back to me. "You love her?"
"More than anything."
"Are you going to make her cry again?"
"Fucking probably," I groan, already hating the thought. "As we've already established, I'm an idiot."
"Well, at least you're smart enough to admit it," Jazz sniffs. "Are you ashamed of her?"
"Hell no," I growl. "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Maybe you aren't a complete idiot if you're smart enough to know that." Jazz cracks a tiny smile. "I don't care how famous you are. She is the best thing that ever happened to you. And if she decides to forgive you, it'll be more than you could ever possibly deserve."
"I know," I rasp. "Believe me, I know."
They exchange looks again.
"Fine," Jazz finally says. "I guess we'll help you. But just so you know, if she doesn't forgive you, I'm going to spend the rest of your life torturing you." Her lips curve into a diabolical smile. "And when you finally drop dead, with my help, of course, I'm going to dig up your bones and bury them in the backyard of her house so you have to spend eternity watching her be happy with someone who actually deserves her."
Jesus Christ. Loralei told me Jazz was a handful. She did not tell me that Jazz was legitimately terrifying. I'm honestly impressed.
"If she doesn't forgive me, you have my full permission to torture me to death," I say, meaning it. Frankly, if Loralei doesn't forgive me, I'm not going to fucking care what happens after that. My whole world is going to crumble because the one thing that matters—the only thing that matters—will be gone.
"I'll call Lincoln," Lilah says, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
"I'll call River," Jazz says.
I'm not entirely sure who either of those people are, but if they can help me get a tux and get into that gala to show Loralei that there's nothing I won't do for her, even if it means begging on my knees in front of half this town, then I'll gladly accept the help.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter Twelve
Loralei
Whoever scheduled this gala for a Monday is lame. No one is in a gala mood on a Monday. I'm certainly not when I walk through the doors of the ballroom of the hotel to find everyone who is anyone in town already inside, sipping champagne from crystal flutes, dressed in their best attire. A jazz band plays in the corner, soft strands of music floating through the room.
I brush my hands down the side of my dress and surge forward, looking for my table.
Lilah halts me before I make it that far, stepping in front of me.
"You look beautiful," she says, flinging her arms around me in a fierce hug.
"Thanks," I whisper, glancing her up and down. "So do you."
She grins at me, doing a half pirouette. Getting her into a dress usually takes an act of Congress. She'd live in jeans and t-shirts if she could. But her dress tonight is a floor-length black cocktail gown that hugs her curves. It looks incredible on her.
"Do you know where our table is?" I ask. "My feet are already killing me."