Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“By turning it into content?”
Ouch. Low blow.
“This is my life, Mav,” she says, voice quieter now but trembling. “And you might be used to people picking apart every decision you make—but I’m not. I didn’t sign up for this circus.”
“You did, actually,” I say, softer now. “The second I slipped that ring on your finger.”
I hate myself the second it leaves my mouth.
She stares at me like I’ve slapped her. She blinks once, then turns her back again. “I’m going out.”
“Annabelle—”
But the door is already swinging shut behind her.
And I’m left standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter, where she was just gripping the sink, wondering how the hell I let something so right spiral so far off track in ten minutes flat.
Chapter 29
Annabelle
The second I slipped that ring on your finger . . .
“Pfft. He doesn’t own me,” I grumble, stalking along the sidewalk toward . . . wherever it is I’m going.
The man at the door called me Mrs. McBride, which made me even more furious. Is There No Such Thing as Privacy? When I found out Lucy’s boyfriend was famous, did I fawn over him? No. Did I go online and do a deep dive? No. I used him in my lumberjack show because I needed warm-blooded bodies, like any normal event planner would do who was desperate. It didn’t matter to me who he was.
Mrs. McBride.
God, I could scream.
I twist the gold wedding band off my slim finger and stuff it into my sports bra; a nice boob prison. Serves it right.
Why does it even matter? It’s not real. He’s not real. Maverick isn’t even his real freaking Name, for the love of God!
“Calm down. You’re getting yourself all worked up.”
That’s what I tell myself as I stomp past palm trees in this suffocating high-end area, the heels of my shoes sticking to the blistering sidewalk like the Arizona sun wants me to suffer.
I’m one ray of sunshine away from a full-blown heatstroke. I am a rotisserie chicken under a heat lamp.
I round the corner and duck into the shade of a palm tree, pressing my back against the trunk like I’m in a spy movie and need cover. The bark scratches at my shoulder blades, but I don’t move.
I need a plan.
I need hydration.
I need a life reset and possibly a therapist.
Or maybe just a Diet Coke and a fan.
BLAH!
I peel myself off the palm tree and start walking again, slower this time, weaving through the rows of trendy boutiques, window after window of white linen dresses, artisanal candles, and overpriced bags. None of which can help me in my current crisis.
I stare at my reflection in the glass of a store called Cactus Rose Collective. My tank top is plastered to my back, my bra has a ring stashed in it like I’m a petty smuggler, and my face is slowly turning the color of a strawberry margarita.
Gross.
I need to call someone before I actually melt into the pavement, like a sad street pancake.
I dig my phone out of the tiny zipper pocket in my shorts and scroll to Lucy .
She answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath. “Tell me you’re not dead in a ditch.”
“I’m not. But I am spiraling. Does that count?”
There’s a pause, then rustling. “Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m window-shopping without a wallet in a town that sells cowboy hats and crystals that cost thousands of dollars.”
“So . . . you’re fine?”
“No, Lucy. I am not fine. I am sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. I got called Mrs. McBride by the doorman, my wedding band is in my bra, and I may have heatstroke. And also a broken heart.”
Lucy’s voice sharpens at that last one. “Did Maverick do something? Talk to me.”
“Yes. He . . .” I swallow hard, dragging my sweaty palm down my even sweatier cheek. “He wants to tell the world I exist. And I’m not ready.”
Lucy lets out a soft, knowing noise. “Ah.”
“Don’t you dare ‘ah’ me.”
“I’m just saying. That sounds like the kind of thing a guy says when he wants to be serious.”
I groan. “No. It’s the kind of thing a guy says when his publicist wants him to be serious. She’s pushing this whole redemption arc—like I’m some support wife here to fix his image.”
“Oh.” She pauses. “I didn’t realize his image needed fixing.”
“I thought all young football players needed fixing,” I mutter, shading my eyes as I squint up at one of the nearby high-rises. Sleek. Modern. Too many balconies.
Lucy’s quiet for a second, then asks carefully, “What does Maverick think about it?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That making a public statement isn’t about branding. That it’s about . . . me. Us controlling the narrative.”
“Uh-huh.” I can practically hear her nodding. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Harris and I did the same thing.”