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)
“You’re something, that is true,” I mutter, which gets another ripple of laughter.
This is bonkers. I thought I’d be eaten alive by this crowd, but it seems Maverick and I have an uncanny ability to tilt the atmosphere, to make it feel less like a firing squad and more like a dinner table where he’s holding court. I’m part of the act now . . .
One brave reporter calls out over the din, “Annabelle, how did our guy propose?”
Our guy . . .
I blink. “Oh. Um—he didn’t until our official wedding.”
Whispers.
Maverick throws his head back, laughing.
I swat his arm. “Why are you laughing? You’re the one who proposed at the altar!”
He leans toward the crowd, conspiratorial. “She basically proposed to me.”
“I did not!” But I also don’t want to blurt out: We Got Drunk and Woke up Married! I can’t say that. Can I?
Instead of giving them the dirty lack of details, I smile sweetly. “No, sorry to disappoint, there was no surprise hot-air balloon ride or fireworks or an arbor of flowers. It was simple. We were surrounded by friends and skipped straight to the good part.”
Maverick clasps his hands together. “Shocking, innit, given my flair for the dramatic?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s way more dramatic than I am.”
“Yeah?” someone asks. “In what way?”
Oh shit. Did I just walk onto a land mine?
I clear my throat. “Um. Let’s me just say . . . nobody cries harder at movies than this guy.” I point at him with my thumbs, giant grin on my face, and hope he doesn’t mind my teasing in a room full of media.
Maverick snaps his head toward me, wide eyed, and blurts, “That was one time!” into the microphone.
“Three times.” I hold up my fingers. “Especially the Pixar movie with the dog.” Whatever it’s called.
“Do not bring up the dog movie.” He winks. “That dog deserved better, am I right?”
More laughter. “When are you due?”
He leans forward. “Not for a while.”
Ah good—he’s not giving specific details. “We’re excited.”
“Do we know if it’s a girl or a boy?”
I shake my head. “Nope—not yet.”
“You planning on finding out?” one of the female reporters asks.
Beside me, Callum nods. “Damn right we are . . .” Then he stands, tugging me up with him. “All right, folks. That’s all for today. We’ve got lives to live and cribs to build.”
The reporters shout more questions, but the agent cuts it off, ushering us toward the side door. My heels click against the floor, Maverick’s hand warm at the small of my back as flashes pop behind us.
The second the door closes and the noise muffles, I sag against the wall, exhaling. “Holy crap.”
“You killed it.” He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin.
“I rambled.”
“Nope, they’re in love with you too.”
Chapter 34
Annabelle
Four months later . . .
The thing about long-distance marriage—yes, that’s a thing and we’re doing it—is that it’s doable when one of you has to take a plane to see the other on the weekends like we’re starring in a Nicholas Sparks movie. ’Cause obviously he can afford to pay for it.
But it’s not glamorous.
There’s jet lag and delayed flights and canceled flights and turbulence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve gotten nauseous and barfed in first class . . . and not-so-fun fact: They do not take your puke bag after you’ve ralphed in it.
News flash: It’s considered hazardous waste.
So yeah. Not glamorous.
Sometimes we FaceTime. Sometimes it’s me, on the bathroom floor in my dinky Star Lake apartment, because I feel bloated and gross and my boobs hurt, while Callum is stuck in traffic on his way to practice in Phoenix, yelling at Siri to play my prenatal playlist.
That’s another thing. His name.
I call him Callum now—full stop. No nicknames. Those are for strangers and fans and people who aren’t close to him.
We’re making it work for now, Callum and I. Considering I still had contracts with brides, there were obligations I couldn’t walk away from without feeling like a complete jackass. Work, man—it’ll getcha. Flight here, flight back. Flight here, flight back.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
I pack so often my suitcase and I are now on a first-name basis, even though I have a closet full of clothes at his place—we’re slowly phasing out mine. Even if we plan to call Washington our second home, it won’t be in my apartment—which is the size of his office. No joke.
Today?
Today, I’m in Arizona, in the penthouse, standing in front of a cake with way too much frosting. Gag.
It’s baby gender-reveal day.
A small gathering. Immediate family, close friends, and Lucy—who has somehow managed to turn this into a full-blown production with themed napkins and a confetti cannon that terrifies me on principle.
“You sure you don’t want to just open the envelope like normal people?” I eyeball Callum, who’s licking a knife that he’s already skimmed on the top to steal frosting.