Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
That man had changed not one bit. Same messy blond hair that looked like he’d styled it by rolling out of bed and running his hands through the top without ever glancing in a mirror. Same confident, loose-limbed stride as if he’d never once felt unwelcome in a room.
The moment he saw me, his entire face smiled.
“Ah ha! So you’re the reason this place is crawling with security?”
I crinkled my nose. “Guilty.”
He sauntered toward me. “They insisted on a pat-down. I’m pretty sure the guard grabbed my ass, claiming it was a security measure. Which, honestly, is fair, but still. It’s so good to see you.”
Nope. Henry hadn’t changed at all.
“You too.” I laughed.
When he reached me, he caught my hand and twirled me in a circle. “Still absolutely gorgeous, I see.”
I poked his chest. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. How long’s it been?”
He squinted, tipping his head from side to side as he calculated. “Has to be seven, eight years at least. Wasn’t it at the Vanity Fair party? The one at the Sunset Tower where someone—I will not say who—drank an entire bottle of Patrón and tried to feel up the DJ.”
“That someone was you, Henry.”
“I said I will not say who.” He smirked, and even without the velvet voice, it was no surprise the man had sold millions of albums.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Ugh.” He scratched the back of his head, looking genuinely troubled. “Trying to catch some inspiration. I’m writing the theme song for this one, but what even is a futuristic dystopian thriller? That sounds like three genres fighting for their lives.”
I flashed him an eek face. “That’s… not entirely inaccurate.”
He nodded. “So, techno apocalypse with sad violins and a robot screaming in autotune. Got it.”
I let out a loud laugh. I’d always liked Henry. He was the rare kind of famous that could pull off the whole pretentious egomaniac thing with a charm and authenticity you couldn’t help but find endearing.
“I can hear it now—” I didn’t finish the sentence.
Because mid-word, Henry’s gaze traveled past my shoulder, his smile stretched, then crashed as his eyes flashed with surprise.
He scrambled away from me, hands flying up in front of him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He angled his body sideways like he was physically trying to make himself a smaller target. “Okay. Nobody do anything sudden. I’m kicking off a new tour in a few weeks and my face is load-bearing.” He dramatically waved a hand in front of his face. “Everything you see here is structural. Irreplaceable. Insured for an amount I’m not legally allowed to disclose.”
His hulking bodyguard materialized at his side so smoothly it was almost as if it had been choreographed. He planted himself beside Henry in what could not be mistaken for anything other than a silent gesture of intimidation, and locked his malevolent stare over my shoulder.
Following his gaze, I spun around.
There was no sign of anyone other than Devon behind me. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. His eyes shifted between Henry and his bodyguard with an expression I had never seen before.
“Do you two know each other?” I asked.
Henry lowered his hands incrementally, apparently satisfied that no immediate violence was forthcoming. “Know each other?” He tested the phrase. “Let’s just say my face knows Devon’s fist.”
My head snapped to Devon. “You punched him?”
Devon narrowed his eyes. “I was aiming for Sam. Henry threw his face into my fist.”
“I threw my… What?” Henry pressed his fingers to his jaw at the memory, then looked at the beast of a man at his side. “Carter, did you hear that shit? He seriously just said I threw my face into his fist.”
Carter’s glare never moved from Devon. “Not what happened.”
Thoroughly confused, I peered up at Devon. He was strong and fiercely protective. It wasn’t hard to imagine him coming to blows with another man. Though that man being Henry Alexander had me more than a little perplexed. “Wait…what happened? Who’s Sam?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Devon clipped. “It was a complicated night. Let’s leave it at that. We need to get going.”
He was indeed correct. We were late, and I had been excited all day to get back to the beach house and bask in all of Devon’s glorious colors as I got to know his coworkers, who he referred to as family. However, a bigger part of me really wanted to know what the hell was going on between him and Henry that had the unshakable Devon Grant completely off kilter.
“Who is Sam,” I repeated.
Henry flashed me a tight, knowing smile. “Sam is Levee’s husband.”
Levee. Okay. I knew her name. The whole world knew that name. Levee Williams was one of the biggest singer-songwriters alive. She and Henry had originally started off as a duo before branching out into solo careers. She’d been wildly successful before taking a step back to work on her mental health. She and her husband, Sam Rivers, had become the face of suicide prevention. Their relationship had been one of those stories the internet couldn’t get enough of.