Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“Social media doesn’t understand that,” I joke, but not really because it’s true. As an influencer I feel like I have to always be creating fresh new content. Live a life? Never. Not while creating content.
“We’ll make them understand.” And the way he says it makes me believe that anything is possible.
We roll through the wet city. Riggs hands still on me like I’m precious cargo.
Back at the hotel, Riggs rides the elevator with a palm warm at my lower back. My heartbeat kicks up a notch, and I’d do anything for him to push me against the elevator doors and have his wicked way with me.
But that’s not going to happen. He’s too good at his job.
At our floor, he does the sweep, the wedge, the routine that has threaded itself into the spine of my day. Inside the room, I hang the garment bag on the wardrobe handle and catch my own anticipation in the mirror. His eyes meet mine in the reflection. For a second, the rain quiets to nearly nothing.
“Thank you,” I say, not really sure what I'm thanking him for, just knowing I need to say it.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
7
Riggs
Seattle wakes up gray and glassy. I wake up to Vanessa curled into my side like we were poured that way. For one second I let it hold. Her knee is hooked over my thigh, her hand open against my ribs, the rain keeping time on the window. I picture a dog at the foot of a bed, a coffee mug with a chip she refuses to throw out, her shoes kicked under a bench and not a flight case. It’s a clean, bright picture.
Then the second ends. Mission.
I ease away without breaking whatever thread lets her sleep hard for the first time in days. Sweep: wedge still in, slider locked, chair bracing the latch, alarm armed. I thumb updates.
Rae: Sponsor rep Caleb met with venue coordinator post-wrap. Shared a ride. Pulled plates.
Jaxson: Denver venue router is trash. I’ll drop a box ahead of you.
Hayes: Note paper from yesterday is big-box craft. Glue cheap. Store on Pine—cameras pulled.
Good.
By the time I've finished my first cup of coffee, she’s awake, sheet tangled at her waist, hair a dark mess she’ll make look intentional in five minutes. She blinks at me like the world landing makes sense because I’m standing there.
“You watching me sleep?” she rasps.
“Counting seconds between breaths,” I say.
Her smile is small and private. “Okay, that’s weird.”
“Protective,” I correct, because if I don’t keep up the line, it blurs. “Wheels-up in ninety. Side elevator, loading dock, service lane. We hold hands through the lobby.”
She stretches, cat-slow, and I look away on purpose. “Cover,” she says.
“Cover,” I echo, and it tastes like a lot of other things.
Lobby is a hive. Word got out like it always does. A crowd pools near the rotating doors. Paparazzi hang back like carrion birds, long glass pointed at the desk. A fan in a varsity jacket is already crying quietly into a phone. The moment we clear the elevator, every head swivels like we tripped a switch.
I take her hand. It’s small and warm and fits like it’s been here awhile. “Eyes up,” I say. “Walk like you belong.”
“With my boyfriend,” she says, mouth curving into the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen.
I build us a lane with shoulders and silence. Rae threads in my ear: “Three cameras at eleven o’clock. One guy on your six with a messenger bag—watch the hands.” I angle us so messenger has no angle. People press in, smell like hairspray and coffee and want. A girl shoves a phone at Vanessa and sputters, “I love you—is he—?”
“Lucky,” Vanessa says with a little wink. I snort before I can stop it. The girl squeals and drops her phone. I catch it one-handed, hand it back, and don’t break stride. The crowd thinks it’s grace, I know it’s training.
The SUV doors close on adrenaline. I don’t let go of her hand until we’re rolling. When I do, I miss it like a piece of kit I left behind on a bad day.
“You’re getting good at this,” she says, studying me as if there’s a quiz later.
“At not getting trampled?” I check mirrors. “Practice.”
“At being my boyfriend,” she says. Heat curls low in me. I look back to the glass.
“It’s definitely easier than I thought it’d be.”
“You’ve thought about being my boyfriend?”
I smile like she’s just solved all my secrets in one shot. “Maybe,” I whisper.
She leans into her seat and looks at our hands like she can still feel it. “Maybe sounds like a yes.”
I give her a half-smile. “Maybe once or twice I’ve thought about what it would be like to be yours.”
Her breath catches, and her cheeks tinge pink. “Oh,” she says all sorts of breathless. “Maybe I’ve thought about it too.”