Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
But Mia seemed to know what was mine and what wasn’t. Her gaze skimmed over the brown leather sectional in my living area, but they locked on the plush cream bean bag. She didn’t give a second glance to the art on the wall, but she smiled a little at the coffee table — one made from an old World War II war ship door. And her eyes particularly dazzled at the Steinway in the corner of my main living area, the seat of which faced the Hillsborough River.
Could I ever tell her I bought that piano for her, just in case she ever came to see me, just in case she ever needed to play?
“Alright, he’s parking,” Isabella said, shooting off a text to whoever it was who’d let her know that about the jeweler. “Aleks, you ready?”
I saluted her, heading toward my door, but I paused next to Mia.
“Are you ready?”
She blinked, turning her tired eyes toward me. I couldn’t even imagine the whirlwind week she’d had. My summer break was coming to an end, the guys and I using time we’d rented at a local rink to get ready for training camp next month. But Mia had been flying back and forth across the country for interviews, events, and live performances — all while continuing to plan and train for her tour that would start in October.
I wondered if she ever stopped to consider just how damn impressive she was. If I had to guess, the answer was no. She’d always been oblivious to her natural talent and drive that so many people wished for.
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head as if coming out of a dream. “I was just asking myself what woman would come up here and actually sleep with you after seeing that a grown-ass man has a bean bag in his living room.”
“Hey, that thing is fucking comfy. Sit on it and you’ll see.”
“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. “I absolutely will not. I don’t want to know what you do on that comfy thing.”
I smirked. “Don’t worry — I haven’t fucked anyone on it. Yet.”
She let out a huff of a sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And this is the man I have to pretend to be engaged to.”
I kept my smirk fixed with her comment, despite how my stomach sank a bit with it.
It was all fun and games until I remembered that there was a bit of truth behind her jokes like that one, that there was always going to be an underlying truth beneath all this pretending.
She was in a different league than I was, one where pretty boys with well-adjusted families and positive PR reigned supreme.
And I was just the riffraff friend she had thanks to a decision her parents made when she was a kid.
“Alright, he’s downstairs. Cameras are clamoring at the door. Try to greet him close enough that they can get a shot through the glass.”
I was still staring at Mia as Isabella barked the order, but I saluted her again, and then I was out the door and in the elevator.
I did my best to shake out of my thoughts as I greeted the jeweler waiting for me in the lobby. He was a Black man, tall and stout with one of those smiles that you couldn’t help but return when he flashed it at you. He introduced himself as Mr. Lionel Bachman with a firm handshake and a booming voice that bragged about the impressive collection of rings he’d brought me. He tapped the briefcase in his other hand, and I nodded, thanking him for his time.
I made sure to drag out the exchange in the lobby, and I saw the shutterbugs behind the glass clicking away even though I pretended not to. Some fans had stopped as they were passing by, too, holding their cell phones up. I was sure they didn’t even know what they were capturing — not yet. But they’d wait to see what the headlines were and then post their videos to social media and brag that they were there.
Ever since Mia and I had started “dating,” I’d had more attention than ever around Tampa Bay. Tourists would take selfies in front of my condo building. Locals recognized me more now and weren’t shy when it came to asking for a picture or a signature. And suddenly, my fans weren’t mostly men or little kids. There was a healthy amount of young women now, ones who asked me how Mia was, when I’d see her again, if I loved her, if we were going to get married.
When I was sure they all had plenty of shots to get the rumors going like Isabella wanted, I led Mr. Bachman to the elevator and up to my floor.
Mia was seated on the edge of my sectional when we returned, and Isabella was in a tizzy, thanking Mr. Bachman profusely for his discretion and offering him a drink. I took a seat next to Mia, watching her watch the buzzing city of Tampa outside my floor-to-ceiling windows.