Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
I can only begin to wonder what confidential sources shared about me yesterday. I imagine it’s the wildest of the wild, yet I bet I’ll still be surprised. They never cease to amaze me with their storytelling abilities. But the thing is … I grin. I don’t care. I don’t want to feed the flames or engage with the stories, but I don’t feel a burgeoning responsibility to get ahead of it.
“This feels amazing,” I say, bouncing with energy. “This feels like … me.”
I can breathe this morning. There isn’t a pebble between my breasts waiting for an opportunity to turn into a stone. My stomach isn’t churning, and the acid pit that usually resides there has drained. I’m not waiting for another shoe to drop.
Is this what it feels like to be alive?
I take a sip of my coffee and revel in the morning sun. It never occurred to me how much I worried about publicity and fretted over my public persona because of Tom.
Before our relationship, I didn’t worry too much about the media. Stories came out and were fabricated to fit a narrative, but they never really mattered. Chatter would come and go—usually about an untrue budding relationship—but my fans never took any of it seriously. And none of it bothered me.
Until I started dating him.
Tom’s obsession with his reputation was off the charts. I had to watch what I said in interviews and be careful being photographed in public. He hired his publicist to work with me to master handling questions involving him—and painting him in a good light. They were masterful in their setup, presenting their arguments as good for our relationship. As good for me. They sold it so well. But our tandem effort undoubtedly made his stock go up while, in retrospect, it took away my personality and the quirks that make me relatable.
My concern for Tom’s reputation stifled mine. It’s a pattern I increasingly recognize as I think about it. Tom’s wins for the sake of my losses.
I gaze out the kitchen window. The barn doors are open, and Luke’s truck is backed up to the front of it. It’s still so early—for me, anyway—and the man is already working hard.
“Why is that so sexy?” I ask before taking another sip of my coffee.
There’s something hot about a man working with his hands. Those types of men are strong and capable and can manhandle you in all the right ways. I take another drink, and Luke emerges from the barn and throws something into the back of his truck. He disappears back inside the barn.
I wonder what manhandling capabilities he has these days.
Heat ripples through my body. The urge to be close to Luke burns through me like a hot match.
My first instinct is to fight it—to turn away and distract myself elsewhere. But then I remember I’m no longer attached to Tom. And I never felt this around him.
I recall how exciting it was early in our relationship to be with the Hollywood heartthrob. He was so handsome and could be utterly charming. As time wore on, that side of him became less visible privately until the end, when it was mostly nonexistent. Even at the peak of attraction, I never looked at him and felt like this.
“I forgot what this even felt like,” I say, opening the door and stepping out onto the porch.
Birds sing from the trees overhead, and their melodies float through the breeze like a cheerful soundtrack from nature. I walk along the driveway, through the cool, damp lawn, and to the barn. Luke comes into view as I grow close. He stops, shoving his hands in his front pockets, and leans against his truck.
My God.
A baseball hat sits backward on his head. It’s blue, bringing out the blue in his flannel. The denim encasing his muscular thighs is dark. And his boots? Damn.
“Morning,” he says, smiling. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a log.”
He laughs. “I heard you snoring from the couch.”
“You did not.” I jab him with my elbow and try not to recoil from the contact. “Did you really sleep on the couch?”
“Yeah. You didn’t find me in bed with you, did you?”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. No, I didn’t. I thought maybe he got up before I did even though it didn’t appear anyone had slept beside me. If he didn’t … why?
“You should’ve woken me up and made me go to the couch,” I say.
“If you stay much longer, I might do that. My back hurts like hell today.”
I frown.
“I’m kidding,” he says, grinning. “My back does hurt, but I don’t know if I could make you sleep on the couch. It feels rude.”
“It would be rude.”
He shakes his head.
“You know what else is rude?” I tease.
“What’s that?”
“I woke up, and there was no breakfast ready.”