Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
I run over to the DJ, take a microphone, and tell him to crank up the music—a remix of an old recording my parents kept, one that features yours truly in a marching band. (Hey, it’s my show, and I do what I want to.) As I hoped, the sounds of the sousaphone muffle the squeaking, and for all I know, that may be what it was invented for.
Returning to the stage, I stand next to Ashton and examine the crowd.
Anyone who is anyone has come to see the VersaWear 2.0 show—and not just because of how popular the original VersaWear is. No, as usual, I can thank my fitness mogul boyfriend. He’s clearly pulled some strings. Also, and surprisingly, some of the people from the fashion world are here at Tierre’s behest. As soon as VersaWear became a hit, Mr. Former Boss started telling anyone who would listen that I was always his protégée, so is it any wonder I’m as good as I am?
“This part is a little surprise,” Ashton whispers. “One that I helped with.”
Uh-oh. I’m not sure I want any more surprises.
Too late. The more muscular of the models does a backflip—not ripping her outfit in the process, which is a win that I’ll take. The problem is, she loses her balance and falls onto the woman behind her, who dominoes into the one behind her, and so on until there’s an orgy of windmilling models in a heap on the runway.
To my shock, the audience claps, enthusiastically.
I guess they thought it was all carefully choreographed. I mean, such a clusterfuck couldn’t happen by accident, right?
I make sure my mic is on mute before I hiss at Ashton, “Any more surprises I should know of?”
As if to answer, one of the models gets back on her feet, pulls out a jump rope, and hops down the runway over said rope like a demented bunny.
Again, the crowd applauds.
“I didn’t know about that one,” Ashton whispers.
Another model starts doing pushups, and the one next to her, burpees—a word that should have no place in the world of high fashion.
“I didn’t know about that either,” Ashton says before the crowd applauds yet again.
By the time the models leave the runway, I sprout at least a couple of gray hairs, but luckily, given everyone’s reactions thus far, it’s a success.
Now for the dramatic finish… I clutch the microphone tightly and get on the runway, where I face the crowd and give a thank-you speech.
“And last but not least,” I say toward the end. “I want to thank the love of my life, Ashton Vancroft.” I gesture to where he’s standing and do a come-hither gesture. “Please, come join me.”
Ashton looks confused—and it serves him right.
When he’s standing next to me, I whisper, “Not so fun when you’re the subject of a surprise, is it?”
The confusion is replaced with a cocky grin. “Bring it on.”
Okay. He asked for it.
“To end the festivities, there’s something that I wanted to do in front of everyone.” I stick my hand into my pocket and clutch a small box. Bending my knee, I look up at Ashton—whose eyes are now the size of quarters—and solemnly say, “So far, you’ve done all the firsts. You were the first to realize we were serious. The first to ask me to move in together, and the first to say, ‘I love you.’ Today, I wanted to be the first at something. So, Ashton Vancroft, will you make me the happiest woman in the world by marrying me?”
The people around us seem to collectively hold their breath.
Ashton’s eyes gleam. “Yes. But can you do me a favor first?”
“Name it.”
“Stand up for a second.”
I do as he says.
To my shock, he pulls out a ring box from his pocket and gets on one knee. “I’ve been carrying this around, looking for a great opportunity to propose to you. It’s been difficult to come up with something so special that it is worthy of how I feel about you. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart for setting up this. Now, considering I said yes, will you marry me?” He takes his ring out and slides it on my trembling finger.
“Yes,” I gasp into the microphone.
The clapping that ensues is deafening—as is the joyous beating of my heart.
He said yes.
And I did too.
I’m going to marry Ashton Vancroft, the man who’s become my everything.
Our wedding will be fucking epic, but not as epic as our life together that will follow. Seventy years from now, when we’re old and gray, our great-grandchildren may ask how they, too, can meet their soulmate. And I’ll tell them what I know:
Fly off a treadmill and then hold on tight.
The right person will always be there to catch you.