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)
They did? “You did?”
“Yes. You were probably too busy with your own shit, but after that whole lumberjack stunt, the sports world went nuts. So when I flew to Arizona, they dug up photos of us at the lodge—that night he carried me out. Then pictures of the logrolling competition. Interviewed people from town, who were all too happy to spill the tea.”
I scowl at that. “Of course they were.”
“Right? So the team leaned in. We leaned in.”
As she talks, I walk slowly, dragging my hand along the stucco wall of a taco shop and mentally calculating how many hours of therapy I’m going to need to unpack my feelings.
Lucy goes on. “I’m not saying you owe Maverick anything. I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. Maybe you should stop running from it.”
“I’m not running. I’m walking.”
“Same thing.”
“Did you roll your eyes at me?”
Lucy laughs. “Yes.”
I sigh, lean my forehead against the glass. “I just want to keep pretending, you know? That this is our bubble with no one else in it. Just me and him and sex and the quiet. No press. No expectations.”
“I get it. But you can’t live in a bubble forever.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I wish we had a little more time in it.”
There’s another pause. Then Lucy’s voice softens. “You might still.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . if he’s worth it—really worth it—he won’t pop the bubble just because someone else tells him to.”
I chew on that for a second. “He makes it sound as if we have no choice.”
“Of course you have a choice. You also have to realize that . . . because he’s so popular . . . at some point, stories are going to start springing up that are so false—they hurt. To your core. Lies. For entertainment.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s going to happen anyway, but at least you can say your piece.”
I close my eyes for a beat, letting the heat wash over me like punishment. Or possibly a hot flash. Honestly, who the frick can tell in Arizona? “What if I say my piece and it doesn’t matter?”
“To who?”
“Him.”
“Girl, you already have pregnancy brain if you think the man doesn’t care how you feel.”
Pfft. I glance up to see a woman walking toward me with two fussy-looking dogs—greyhounds?—and she barely smiles as she passes.
“Fine. I’ll admit, I may have overreacted, but in my defense, I haven’t been myself the past few weeks.”
“No shit. Old Annabelle wouldn’t have stayed in a cabin with a strange man; she would have packed her shit and hightailed it out of there.”
I turn back the way I came. “She really would have and probably stolen some of his food before she left to spite him.”
“Hey, Annabelle?” Lucy says quietly on the other side of the line. “You’re in Arizona because you wanted to make this relationship work—not declare the entire thing one wild adventure you’re only going to look back fondly on. You are in this, girl.”
I am.
I am in this.
I nod, Maverick’s building already in sight. “You’re right. I guess I just panicked.”
“Not a good look for you.”
I snort. “No. Definitely not my best.”
“Your best is a woman who ran a fall festival with three working chainsaws, lumberjacks, food trucks, volunteers, and paid employees. You don’t panic—you plan. You adapt. You run shit.”
I am a doer.
I smile, the first real one in what feels like hours. “Yeah. I do do that.”
Lucy exhales. “Exactly. Hang up this phone and go tell him you’re in. Then maybe get married for real.”
Married for real.
I hang up the call. Press my palm to the warm glass door of Maverick’s building. Step inside. By the time the elevator dings and deposits me onto his floor, my heart is thumping like a marching band warming up for a parade.
I walk down the hallway, sandals scuffing quietly across the tile. The door is cracked a sliver—enough for his voice to carry out.
“I’m not selling her out,” he says, firm and sure. “There is not going to be a story yet.”
My breath hitches. I freeze outside the door, heart thudding like it knows something I don’t—like it’s already heard the words I’ve been too afraid to say out loud.
“Well, that’s too fucking bad. She didn’t sign up for this, and I’m not saying jack shit until she’s ready.”
That voice—the edge of it, the heat behind it—it wasn’t polished or professional or calculated. It was furious. Protective. Honest.
He’s fighting for me. Not just in private, but on calls with people who could ruin him. People who shape his career. His reputation.
And he chose me anyway.
No story yet.
Not until she’s ready.
God, how many times has that not been the case? How many times have I been pushed into things—into saying yes before I was ready, smiling before I meant it, agreeing so no one else had to feel uncomfortable?