Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“Yes, fate brought me Dylan.”
“See?”
“I do see.” I nod in agreement. “Fate brought me here to remind me that I’ve been making the man I love pay for your sins. For me to finally wash you out of my life.”
She lets out a small gasp. I stand. “I’m ready to leave if you are.”
“The paparazzi are still outside,” Cloudy says as he shoots a glare at my mother that could kill.
“I don’t care. She’ll get her next five minutes of fame, but I don’t think she’ll enjoy it as much when the truth comes to light about who Audrey Carter truly is.”
With that, I leave the woman who gave birth to me in shock. This time, it’s me that gets to leave her behind. When the doors open for us to make our exit, the cameras start to go off as the questions start to fly. One after another. Dylan never answers them. I always stay quiet. Except one catches his attention as Cloudy opens the back SUV door for us.
“Do you guys plan to get married?!”
“As soon as I can talk her into it,” he responds before giving my ass a pat to get into the SUV. I scramble inside. As soon as the door closes, Dylan pulls me into his lap. His mouth claiming mine in a deep, hard kiss.
“You love me?” he says when he finally breaks it.
“Of course, I love you, Dylan.” I press a kiss to his lips this time. “But I don’t recall you ever asking me to marry you.”
“We’ll get married. Like I said, I’ve just got to get you to agree.”
“It might be easier than you think.” I give him a coy smile.
“Marry me,” he orders.
“That doesn’t sound like a question.” I laugh. “But yes. I’ll marry you.”
“That was easy. I thought I was going to have to wait until I knocked you up.”
“Dylan.” I smack his chest, my face warming. I don’t know why I’m blushing.
“You could be already.” His hand goes to my stomach.
“Whatever fate gives us, I’ll take, as long as I have you.”
“You’ll never get rid of me. I can promise you that. You’re mine, Irish.” And he is all mine.
EPILOGUE
DYLAN
We start to hear the cheers about a quarter mile away. Next to me, Irish tenses. Even after half a decade, two world tours, and multiple public appearances, she’s still not used to the fame and all the attention that comes with it.
“Your fans have turned out.” Seated in the leather bench seat across from us, Chris looks smug. “And I’m talking about the Pretties, not your fans, Dylan.” He adjusts his bow tie and winks at Irish.
I clear my throat. After five years, you’d think I’d be immune to Chris’ casual flirtations with my wife, but I’m not. It’s still as annoying as ever.
Chris grins wider. “It’s funny making you jealous.”
“Now, Chris,” Irish interjects. “You don’t want him to be in a bad mood for the red carpet.”
“It’s okay. The glowering overprotective attitude plays well to your fandom.”
The Pretties. That’s what Irish’s fans call themselves. Someone made a comment on social media about how she was prettier than me, and from there, it just took off. Our ship name is D-rish which sounds like “dish” if you say it fast enough. There are worse names. Chris Martin said that his fans call him and Dakota Johnson, “Dartins”.
“Are you nervous?” Irish leans into me.
“No. After you had Petra, I don’t think I’ll ever be nervous again.”
Irish giggles. “I thought the nurse was going to have to sedate you.”
“I wish she had.” According to the hospital staff, Irish’s three-hour labor was categorized as easy. I was a mess from the minute her water broke until Petra cried for the first time. Nothing will ever faze me after that.
“How you going to handle this one?” Chris wonders, tilting his head toward Irish’s burgeoning belly.
I stretch my arms out. “I’m a pro now.”
“We’re going to sedate him this time,” Irish says.
“I’m going to get some drugs, yes.”
When the limo comes to a stop, everyone is laughing, including Irish. Chris and I gently push her out of the back seat before she fully registers that there are a hundred cameras pointed in her direction. The crowd noise pauses and then swells as they take in her round stomach. “She’s pregnant!” I hear someone shout.
A fan close to us waves a picket with our faces on them. “Clover! Clover! Over here! Are you expecting?”
Irish nods, and the screams grow louder.
“I think they approve,” I whisper into her hair.
“I don’t understand why I have a fandom,” she mutters through her smile.
“Because you’re beautiful, authentic, and charming, which is ninety-nine percent better than most of the celebs.” I wave to her fans.
The first year out was a rocky one. There were a surprisingly large number of fans who thought that they had a chance with me. Or maybe they just enjoyed thinking I was celibate? Or that I was with that rapper from so long ago? I’m not sure. Perhaps they thought Irish was just a passing fad, but as time went on, she became a fixture in their lives as well as mine, to the point that sometimes I would have a schedule by myself, and the fans would ask me where she was. Most of the time, we’re together, whether I’m on the road touring, at an awards show like tonight, or chilling in Loveland at Get Lucky. She put a stage in there, and sometimes, toward closing time, I’ll play the piano and sing a few songs. The locals like it. There are fans who make the trek from Las Vegas, but they’re pretty respectful. James would kick them out if they weren’t.