Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
At one point, someone at her table says something that makes her laugh, and I swear to God, I feel it in my chest. It’s not even the sound of it—it’s the way she leans back, exposing her throat. The way her hand moves instinctively to her necklace. The way her eyes catch mine in the aftermath, like she wants to know if I saw it too.
I did. Every second of it.
I want to go over there.
I want to say something…
Anything.
Then.
Another beautiful woman runs up to her, dragging her up, and enveloping her in a hug. Tugs her out onto the dance floor, wine glasses in hand. Her friend spins her in a sloppy circle with too much force and Nova stumbles in her high heels, nearly sloshing red wine all over her dress.
She doesn’t even care.
She throws her arms around the girl’s shoulders, mouthing some exaggerated apology through a fit of giggles.
God, this girl is magic...
Nova Montagalo.
Even her name sounds like trouble.
Nursing my drink, it occurs to me that I don’t have the courage to ask her to dance.
I am a coward.
A patient, needy fucking coward.
The gasp leaves my mouth and causes me to sit up in bed. When I glance around my room, Nugget raises his head, dog tail jingling in the dark.
I shift in bed, one arm thrown over my face, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much spiraling. Haven’t called. Haven’t bothered to look at my phone for missed calls.
The dream of her at the ESPYs—and the memory of her pretending I’m a nobody sits side-by-side in my chest like oil and water—never mixing.
Weighing me down.
Hope and humiliation.
If she wants to let me go, I won’t stop her.
31
nova
Of all the ways I pictured spending the night of the ESPY Awards—my first ever—I can’t say I imagine I would be playing emotional support to my brother while he mourns the end of his very public, very toxic relationship.
But here we are.
He is being such a buzzkill…
“She could’ve waited until after the awards,” Gio mutters to himself, straightening his already-straight collar in the mirror of his highly overpriced penthouse hotel room. “Congratulations on your nomination, babe,” his voice slides into a ridiculous, nasally imitation of Giselle’s French accent, “but I don’t see this going anywhere.”
I nod, fluffing my platinum blonde hair in the mirror adjacent, doing my best to outline my lips in the bold, fire-engine red pencil without drawing outside the lines.
“Her name was Giselle,” I remind him calmly, tracing the cupid’s bow of my upper lip. “What were you expecting?”
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Uh. Some loyalty?”
Loyalty? Ha! Yeah right.
I snort. “You met her at a sponsored tequila launch party—and she was there as someone else’s date. I think loyalty was a stretch.”
You lose them how you get them.
How soon they forget.
Gio groans and adjusts the lapels of his tux for the fifth time, muttering something about how ‘you never really know someone until they dump you right before the biggest night of your life.’
To be fair, the ESPYs are a big deal. His name is on the ballot for Best NHL Player. The empty suit bag from Tom Ford hangs on the closet door and a private car waits for us downstairs.
And he’s spending it wallowing over Giselle, who spent most of her time taking selfies and posting them on social media.
Personally? Couldn’t stand her.
I was relieved when she dumped him; I knew he was never going to break up with her. Gio is too nice of a guy. He worked too hard at his relationships—even the ones that were doomed to fail.
“God,” he mutters, pacing the carpet, waiting for me to finish pruning. “Wouldn’t it be ironic if she’s here tonight? My agent told me yesterday that Tony Rossi had contacted him for her number. If that prick brings her tonight…”
I’m half listening to him whine. “At least you manage to have partners. I’m still single and I didn’t get dumped. What’s my excuse?”
“You’re single by choice,” Gio mutters, pulling a lint roller from the bathroom and attacking invisible specks on his sleeves. “You have standards.” His eyes widen at his choice of words. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…shit. I don’t know what I meant.”
I grin, bending to strap on my red heels while he runs the lint roller over his jacket before sitting on the coffee table, elbows on knees, fingers raking through his freshly styled hair.
I should be irritated with him.
And I am, a little.
He’s supposed to be soaking in the moment; basking in it! Moments like this only come once in a lifetime and it’s being overshadowed by his gold-digging ex-girlfriend.
Ugh!
But…
Gio is my brother. My twin.
No matter how famous or irritating or emotionally constipated he gets, I will always be the one standing beside him while he spirals in his three-piece suit that costs more than a semester at university.