Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 469(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“What offense do you think it would help?” I ask.
He grabs the edge of my seat and adjusts his crouching position. His knuckles brush against my thigh. I do my very best to ignore it as a flurry of goose bumps runs along my skin beneath my clothes.
“Let’s say we got into an argument over something small,” he says, “and the next day I want her to know that she’s on my mind and I care about her. Then, yeah, I think flowers help. Don’t you?”
“Oh, this isn’t about me,” I say, laughing.
He shrugs. “Sure, it is.”
“Trust me. We don’t have time for this to be about me.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t like flowers? Because I call bullshit.”
My jaw falls open, and I laugh again. “Well, it’s a good thing you’ll never have to apologize to me after a fight because I don’t like flowers. They remind me of dead people. You walk into a funeral home, and what’s the first thing that hits you? The smell of flowers. I love massive bouquets for the people who like them, but that person isn’t me.”
He grins. “Funny. I thought I distinctly smelled roses when I walked in here.”
He’s right, of course, but damn him for noticing. Does this man notice everything? Still, I’m not about to concede his point. That would be too easy.
“Drake, I think I know if I like flowers or not.”
“I think you’d love to get them. You don’t want to have to ask for them, and you don’t want them only sent when you’re pissed. That’s what I think.”
His blue eyes peer into mine as he casts a smug grin my way. This bastard.
“Don’t you have sportsball to talk about somewhere else?” I ask, knocking my shoulder gently against his. He’s a rock and doesn’t budge. “It’s baseball season, you know.”
He holds my gaze for a split second longer before turning to the camera. “If you agree with me, drop my name in the comments. If you agree with Gianna, drop hers. I’ll personally go through and count them tonight and see what the people think.”
I laugh as he stands, towering over me, and try to remain unaffected by the whiffs of his cologne as he moves. He turns to the door. Each step he takes sends another wave of comments begging him to stay.
“Thanks for the keys,” I call out.
He stops in the doorway. For a moment, I think he’s going to say something—probably an innuendo that won’t do either of us any good—but he leaves with a smirk instead.
I clear my throat and remember that I’m live. Shit. I grab my phone, palms sweaty, and smile. “Now that we’ve been rudely interrupted, let’s go back to me teasing about how amazing Friday’s show is going to be. Any guesses?”
As the names roll in mixed with a slew of inappropriate comments, I try to clear my head of all things Drake.
Because he has a way of throwing everything off its axis.
Including me, apparently.
CHAPTER
SIX
Gianna
“They’re still commenting?” I ask, pulling my blankets over my body with one hand. My other clutches my phone. “Holy shit.”
I scroll down the comment section of my video, but it’s all the same thing in various formations.
Drake
Drake
DRAKE
DRAKE I LOVE YOU
DRAKE
Drake of course
Every girl loves flowers—especially flowers from Drake Fucking Bennett.
Gianna. #girlgang
DRAKE
Drake
I’d take anything Drake is willing to give me.
Drake
DRAKE
Drake!!
Drake
Drake #GoLegends
Drake
DRAKE
Drake
Check your DMs, Drake!
“Traitors,” I say, switching off my screen. “All of them.”
I toss my phone to the other side of my bed, switch off the bedside lamp, and close my eyes. Sleep comes quickly … and a dazzling smirk, a set of chiseled abs, and a bouquet of beautiful flowers accompany it.
Even my subconscious is a backstabber.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Gianna
“And I thought I’ve seen some wild shit,” I say, flipping through Wildfire’s website as their music plays from my computer’s speakers. Page after page is filled with pictures from concerts and meet-and-greets spanning the globe. The energy captured in the snapshots, the smiles—and a lot of bare skin—is the visual definition of having the time of our lives.
I click on the document that I’ve been working on all evening.
“Women famously throw bras and panties at men on stage. What do guys throw at you?” I say as my fingers fly across the keys. “What’s the weirdest thing a fan has thrown on stage?”
That should instigate an interesting story time.
I’ve only completed two interviews on Gianna Knows Things and precisely zero before that. And the two interviewees were a jewelry designer with an interesting take on relationships, and a girl who went viral on Social by getting dumped on Valentine’s Day. She was so much better off without that fuckhead. Both were fun. I enjoyed the conversations. But neither of them was a famous drummer who wears Viking braids and has a chokehold on the music industry. The pressure not to screw this up grows a little heavier each day.