Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Harlow is in front of the mirror, cell phone on the countertop.
I almost audibly sigh with relief. “I thought maybe you climbed out the window to escape me,” I tease, eyes scanning the bathroom for an open gap in the window. The coast is clear. “Or fell in the tub or something. Or hit your head.”
“Ha. No.” When she moves, it’s to open the door all the way, inviting me to step inside the room. She doesn’t look me in the eye; instead, she wraps her arms around me in a hug.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask the top of her head, giving her hair a sniff for good measure.
“Did you see it?” Her voice is muffled, buried in my chest.
“See what?”
“The picture of us at that stupid restaurant—right before we started holding hands across the table.” She feigns a gagging sound that I could take offense at.
I mean, if people were taking photographs and posting them on the internet, that’s nothing new. Happens all the time. I can’t take a shit or wear a bad outfit without it being uploaded to social media so everyone can give their opinion on my travel bag or the pants I wear on the team bus.
They comment if I’m not friendly enough. Or in a bad mood. Or if I don’t tip the bartender enough when I’m out. Servers have the damn nerve to post receipts on social media.
It’s a strange, fucked-up world, and now she’s about to be wrapped up in it.
“It doesn’t surprise me at all that someone posted about us. Does that bother you?”
Harlow’s shoulders move up and down in a noncommittal shrug.
“It does and it doesn’t. Mostly I’m shocked. I know people care what you’re doing, but I didn’t think anyone would care what I was doing.” Her sigh is heavy. “I’ve been getting random texts from people I haven’t spoken to in months or years.”
I nod empathetically. “That tracks.”
Sounds typical. I had family come out of the woodwork when my contract started paying the big bucks; cousins I never knew I had suddenly wanted to be best friends.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “That’s what happens when . . . you know. You’re in the spotlight.”
“I’m not in the spotlight,” she argues against my chest, cheek now pressed into the cotton of my T-shirt.
Well, you’re about to be, I want to tell her, but now is not the time. I mean, if she already has randos from her past hitting her up, she’s about to have more.
The train has left the station and is already in motion.
People get curious—even those who are in my circle of trust. Take my mom, for example; she was one of the first people to call when that photo emerged to make sure I was doing okay.
And of course Dex texted me to tell me the mustache looks stupid and to say: Hey, dipshit, saw your ugly face all over the news. Can’t believe you Actually went to Applebee’s? I thought that was a fucking joke.
What a gem.
I make a mental note to text him back but not just yet; not when I have Harlow pressed against me with something bothering her, namely that she’s suddenly a household name and more importantly? She discovered the identity of my ex-girlfriend.
It hadn’t occurred to me that Paisley’s career could be an issue in my new relationship.
This is what you get for eavesdropping, you asshole.
Critics are harsh, and I have no doubt Harlow is going to be broken down and chewed up—keyboard warriors and sports fans are ruthless. Then again, she’s “the girl next door,” and I have a feeling that a small-town girl will fare better against public scrutiny than the Paisleys of the world do.
“America is going to love you” is the only thing I can think to say in the moment, mumbling into her hair, pulling her in closer.
Harlow groans miserably. “No, they won’t.”
“Are you moaning?”
“No.”
“Liar.” I smile at the top of her head.
I pull back to get a look at her face, raising her chin with my fingers. “Hey. Let’s talk about this.”
Harlow shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”
“Well.” I’m at a loss for words and don’t know what to say, except, “You’re kind of gonna have to.”
I’m usually too chickenshit to make demands of her, because I don’t want to push her away, but the reality is, this new problem, that she is going to have less privacy, isn’t going anywhere. In fact, it’ll only get worse.
“But.” Her eyes are wide. “This is your fault.”
“How is this my fault?” I sound affronted because I am.
“Um, for one—you showed up unannounced. For two—I had no idea who you were, I thought you were just your average guy. And you drop this huge bomb.” She hesitates for dramatic effect. “It’s literally an atomic bomb.”